He couldn't wait for police, couldn't go to a hospital, couldn't make himself visible or vulnerable again. They had anticipated this move, he suddenly realized, holding a hand across his chest, sweating and trembling.
He groaned as he turned a corner, and knew he'd be caught if police spotted the car because he wasn't in condition to out-drive anyone. He had to ditch it, but he was too injured to steal another one. His mind raced, searching for…
He saw a familiar street sign and hung a sharp left, praying that nothing was coming, but he had to move fast because he could feel something coming on, something that would put him out. He knew he was only awake because of shock and fear and adrenaline, but that would wear off quickly enough and he would crash hard. He had to reach a safe house, a place where he could hide.
Fighting fiercely to stay conscious, he drove toward Brick's.
Gina Gilbert, hair stringy and plastered with sweat from working nonstop for the last forty-eight hours, stared at the electron microscope monitor. The screen was littered with the strands of the DNA sample that she was working her way through.
As she identified even the most basic characteristics, like eye color or pigmentation, she would move on, searching for something unusual. She knew, in general, what she was searching for, but it was difficult to discern.
What she sensed was that this seemingly endless DNA strand contained something that would reveal the secret of this creature's identity. She didn't know what it would be, but she was certain she would recognize it when she saw it. She turned a large black dial and the screen flickered, revealing another molecule.
Empty boxes of Chinese and Italian food — take-outs — littered the table behind her. She folded her arms across her chest and watched, studying the movement, counting the electrons and calculating their molecular weight.
It was something unknown — part of the alien DNA. She leaned forward again and studied the strands, and saw that it had enhanced transmitters, or reflectors, that sped the production of proteins.
She smiled.
"So," she whispered, "now I got you."
It took another hour to analyze the proteins. She compared them to those from a gorilla, a tiger, and finally from Homo sapiens. But she found no corresponding genetic formation. Then she went back to the readout and repeated the entire procedure step by step, counting the molecules, verifying the enhancers that connected the molecule to the more familiar human DNA. And again, the results were the same.
There was an unknown protein — some kind of powerful mind-influencing chemical — generated from the strand segment. She knew it would take hours and hours to discover what protein or enzyme was being generated, what effect it had upon the creature, and what secrets it might provide to the beast's identity. But that didn't bother her. She had all night. She felt a wave of sadness at the thought, remembering…
Rebecca had no time at all.
"God Almighty!" Brick shouted as Chaney, bloodied and sweating, collapsed through the back door.
Brick, who had answered the door eating a meatloaf sandwich, pulled Chaney into the kitchen and rolled him over. Even before he examined Chaney to determine his injury, Brick tore the Sig from Chaney's hip holster and leveled it at the open door. Enraged, the big ex-marshal searched left and right, gun leading and all the slack taken from the trigger, but he saw nothing.
Turning on the floodlights, he shut the door hard, threw the deadbolt, and bent, feeling over Chaney's chest.
Groaning, Chaney coughed, spoke with difficulty. "They… after the search… they were waiting."
Brick muttered a stream of obscenities, lifting Chaney by the arm. He held the Sig in his free hand as they stumbled across the kitchen. "Good thing Edna's out of town this weekend," he muttered. "She'd be going nuts seeing you like this. Come on, let's get you down into the basement. Don't you worry 'bout nothin', kid. I got ya and I got what ya need. Yeah, of Brick's gonna fix his boy up."
Together they stumbled down the stairs and Brick laid him on a cot. Then he unfolded a large green Special Forces emergency surgical kit. He tore open a packet with his teeth, gave Chaney two blue pills and water, then felt his chest.
"You got some hematoma there in the ribs, boy," he grunted. "Somebody whacked you good with a bat, or pipe. Can't tell. Doesn't matter. You're hurt."
"A pipe. Two of them. They're dead."
"I ain't sheddin' no tears," Brick said as he helped Chaney out of his coat and shirt.
Chaney sank back and Brick gently felt the ribs. "Man, you got some swelling here, kinda high. Probably just cracked 'cause I don't feel no break. Hurts bad enough, though. Cracked hurts as bad as broke, no lie." Quickly he felt Chaney's neck and shoulder. "You got some bleeding, here," he added. "I'll fix that up."
"You got the house locked up?"
"Always."
In short order, Brick cleaned and bandaged Chaney's shoulder and face. It was an efficient, professional job and Brick's hands moved with surprising tenderness. Finally Chaney felt the painkillers kicking in, the pain fading so softly he could barely feel it diminishing. But it was leaving, and it made him feel stronger. Still, he knew it was a deception; he wasn't stronger, so he didn't move.
His breath was regular, measured, and he tried to replay the scene in his mind, cursing himself for his carelessness. He had been so distracted by his theories and discovery that he had failed to remember the elemental rule of a hitter: they almost always waited for you to come to them, and he had walked right into it.
"Stupid," he muttered to himself.
"Did you recognize either of them?"
"No."
"Sure you got 'em?"
"Yeah." Chaney rubbed his bandaged face. "I got 'em."
"Good," Brick muttered, removing a syringe from his case. He inserted the needle into a small vial of Lidocaine. Then he removed it and inserted the needle under Chaney's arm. With the painkillers, Chaney hardly felt the sting. Closing his eyes, he floated on the drugs and the fatigue from the fight.
He felt like his mind was returning from panic and stress overload.
"A little something to kill your side while I sew up this gash." Brick removed a curved needle with black thread dangling from it. In his other hand he held forceps. Then, deftly and without hesitation, he began an efficient, circular movement with the forceps as he inserted the needle in Chaney's side and withdrew it, tying a quick knot every two seconds. In less than thirty seconds it was over and Brick snipped off the thread, laying the instruments to the side.
Brick nudged him until he opened his eyes. "You're gonna be all right, kid. You got a couple burst blood vessels in the skin, some bruised or cracked ribs, and a three-inch cut in your side that I stitched up. But you came out pretty good, considering."
Chaney didn't say anything, closing his eyes again, as Brick rose and^ walked swiftly to the vault. In seconds he had opened the gigantic steel door and walked inside.
He heard Brick moving equipment, shuffling, then the familiar sound of a rifle chambered. Almost instantly Brick emerged carrying an AK-47, a large thirty-round clip inserted in the port. Three more full magazines were in his hand, and a Colt 1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol was stuck in his belt, pressing against his gut. He came straight to Chaney and bent.
"You're safe down here," he grunted, a bit breathless. "Ain't but one way in or out. I'll be upstairs watching for 'em. Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning."
Chaney attempted to rise. "My gun…"
"Right beside you." Brick gestured. "Right here. But don't reach for it unless you hear shooting upstairs. Those are morphine tablets I gave you. Pretty strong ones, too. I don't want you holding that Sig while you're high unless you have to. But if things get that bad, if they get past me, then there ain't no wrong you can do. Just shoot whatever comes down the stairs and keep shooting 'til you're empty. You still got the clips on your belt. Understand what I'm saying? If they get past me, it's Dodge City as far as I'm concerned."