Creature

Neither Chuck nor Jeff would discuss it with her.

And that, Charlotte now realized, was what bothered her the most. Her husband and her son had clearly put the terrible incident out of their minds as though nothing at all had happened. But she herself had been unable to escape the image of the Fairfield player lying hurt on the field, and had awakened this morning determined to go to the hospital to see how he was doing.

But why did she feel so guilty about it? What on earth could possibly be wrong with visiting an injured boy?

She could almost see Chuck gazing at her with that look of his, the look that told her he couldn't fathom her thought processes, and that, therefore, there must be something wrong with them. And she could hear him, too, his voice taking on what she thought of as his "logical tone."

"But don't you see? If you go to the hospital, it's as much as admitting that Jeff was somehow responsible for what happened. And even if he were responsible-which he's not-it would still be a mistake. The lawyers could make hay with something like that."

Or was it Chuck's voice she was hearing? Was that really what he'd say, or was it how she herself felt, deep inside?

It didn't matter. Right or wrong, she was going.

Thirty minutes later, forcing herself not to glance around to see who might be watching, she pushed through the doors into the lobby of the small county hospital and stepped up to the counter. From behind the glass Anne Carson smiled at her, then rolled her eyes and pointed meaningfully at the phone she was cradling against her ear. Several times, as Charlotte watched, Anne opened her mouth to say something then closed it again as the person at the other end apparently went right on talking. Finally, though, Anne wearily put the phone back on the hook and slid open the glass panel that separated the waiting room from the office.

"Charlotte! What brings you down here?" Concern spread over her face. "You're not sick, are you?"

Charlotte shook her head. "I… well, I wanted to find out how the Ramirez boy is. From Fairfield?"

"Not good, I'm afraid," she said, then forced a small smile. "He's in room three, down the hall." She hesitated, then understanding Charlotte's distress, said, "It's against the rules, but you can look in on him if you want to."

Charlotte's step slowed as she moved down the corridor, and she came to a complete stop in front of the half-open door to the boy's room. At last, steeling herself, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. There were two beds in the room, but only one of them was occupied. Covered only with a light blanket, his head held rigid in a metal brace, his eyes closed, Rick Ramirez had a strange stillness about him that told Charlotte instantly that he was not merely asleep. She stepped forward and stood beside the boy, gazing down into his face. A lock of curly black hair lay over one eye, and Charlotte instinctively reached out to brush it back.

"Don't touch him," a soft but urgent voice said behind her. Gasping with surprise, Charlotte turned to see a pretty young woman, no more than thirty, coming out of the bathroom that connected this room and the next. "Please," the woman went on. "I can do it." She moved to the bed, and Charlotte stepped aside. Gently, her hand barely caressing the boy's cheek, the woman carefully moved the lock of hair. Then she looked up, her dark eyes meeting Charlotte's. "Who are you?" she asked.

"CharlotteLaConner," Charlotte replied. "I-my son is JeffLaConner. He was in the game-"

Instantly the other woman's eyes flashed with anger. "I know who he is," she said. "He's the boy who hurt my son. I am Maria Ramirez," she added, the words sounding to Charlotte almost like a challenge.

Charlotte swallowed, struggling to control her emotions. "I-I just came to see how your son is." She spoke softly, her voice little more than a whisper. "Is he going to be all right?"

Maria Ramirez's eyes glistened with tears, but when she spoke, her voice was perfectly controlled. "No," she said. "He's not going to be all right. He may never walk again." Though she saw Charlotte recoil from her words, Maria went relentlessly on. "He might not even live, Mrs.LaConner. Your son might very well have killed my boy."

Charlotte closed her eyes, as if the gesture might shut away the reality of Maria Ramirez's words. But when she opened them, the slim Chicano woman was still staring at her. "Is-Is there anything I can do?" Charlotte whispered. "Anything at all?"

Maria Ramirez shook her head. Charlotte moved forward then and reached out as if to touch the woman, but Maria shrank away from her. Silently, Charlotte turned to go. But when she was at the door, Maria spoke once more.

"Make him stop, Mrs.LaConner. Make your son stop playing that game. If he doesn't, he'll hurt someone else."

Charlotte turned back and nodded. "I will, Mrs. Ramirez. You can be very certain of that. Jeff has played his last game."

But as she walked out of the hospital and into the bright glare of the high, noonday sun, Charlotte wondered whether or not she would be able to back up her words. In the twenty years she'd been married to Chuck, she had yet to win a major argument. Inevitably his logic won out over her own emotionalism.

Blake Tanner had spent the morning touring theTarrenTech facility with Jerry Harris. At almost every turn his amazement had increased.

When he'd arrived that morning, he'd been surprised at the apparent lack of security in the building, but Jerry had quickly disabused him of that notion.

"The television cameras have been tracking you since you came within a quarter of a mile of the shop, he explained. "A description of your car and its plate number is already in the memories, and it also did a match to a photograph of you. In addition, we have a whole series of perimeter alarms buried in the ground around the building, and backup systems in case anyone is smart enough to get around the main system. Not that we've ever had a problem," he added, a note of smugness coming into his voice. "In all the years we've been here, there hasn't been so much as a single attempt to breach our defenses."

Jerry Harris spoke as thoughTarrenTech were a fortress and he its commanding officer. And as they began their tour of the building, Blake saw that the comparison was apt. Deceptively small when viewed from the outside, the building extended four floors below ground level. "No point alerting anyone as to how much we're doing here," Jerry had pointed out, chuckling softly.

They'd gone first to the software section, where a group of top programmers, all of them casually dressed, were working at computer terminals or whispering quickly to each other in the strange programming language that Blake had never been able to comprehend. "We have an Artificial Intelligence unit working here," Jerry said in reply to Blake's inquisitive glance. "We're far ahead of the guys in Palo Alto and Berkeley, but of course they don't know it. In fact, as far as they know, we're only working on a new operating system to compete with Microsoft."

Blake nodded. He'd heard the rumors himself and had already begun working on marketing strategies.

"Except," Jerry went on, smiling broadly, "it's a bunch of bullshit."

Blake gaped at him, and his boss laughed out loud.

"Do you think Ted Thornton's dumb enough to go up against Microsoft on their own turf? We started the rumor ourselves, and managed to get it going really well by sending a few guys to Berkeley and Palo Alto." His eyes fairly glittered with pride and amusement as he told the story. "The reason they wanted out ofTarrenTech, supposedly, was that they were bored with operating systems and wanted to get into A.I. So we now have our men in both places, and no one has caught on yet."