"These horses… They were all I…"
Slaughter stalked toward the gully. "I heard three of them up in those bushes, two more by the barn. I'd like to-"
"Wait a second, Chief." Rettig grabbed his shoulder.
Slaughter pulled his hand away. "These god-damned-"
"Wait a minute. We don't even know what we'll be up against. You say that there were five of them?"
"That's right. Like a bobcat."
"Five of them?"
"I know it doesn't make much sense, but-"
"I don't care about that. Sure, bobcats don't hunt in packs, but anything can happen. What I mean is, we need help to do this. We need better light."
"You want the sun to come up? Damn it, they'll be long gone when that happens."
"You can find a tracker."
"Who, for Christ sake? I already thought of that. These cowboys maybe think they're expert trackers, but I never saw one yet that knew enough to be able to trail a sick man to the outhouse. If we don't go now, we'll never find whatever did this."
"I'm sorry, Chief, but I'm not going."
Slaughter scowled at Rettig, then turned to Hammel. "What about you?"
Hammel shrugged.
"You don't have a lot to say since we saw Clifford's body."
"Well, I figure I'll just watch and learn," Hammel said.
"Yeah, I bet you will."
Slaughter spun to face the gully. Even with his flashlight and the moon, he couldn't see much in the bushes, and his anger became fear again.
"Okay, you're right. It's stupid to go in there. Looking at these horses, I just-"
"Don't you worry. We'll be sure to get whatever did this," Rettig said. "But not right now."
Slaughter's anger changed to grief. He had to get away from here.
"But what about your horses?" Rettig asked.
"Leave them. Hell, what difference does it make?"
Slaughter heard his men walking behind him as he climbed the fence, and when he stepped down, from the house he heard the phone again. Whoever kept on calling, he was thinking, livid. He would make sure that they stopped it. He was running, cursing, toward the house, but when he burst in, grabbing for the phone, he heard a voice this time, and as he listened, he mentally started running again. It seemed as if the last few days he'd never stopped.
SIX
He charged along the corridor, the nurses staring at him. Rettig and Hammel were on guard back at his house, and he was thinking of his mangled horses, hoping that the two men would be safe as he pushed through the door marked morgue and rushed across the anteroom to push against the second door. The morgue looked like a shambles. There was blood and broken glass and scattered instruments. The medical examiner was leaning against a table. He had blood across his gown, his face mask hanging around his neck. His face was pale in contrast with the blood. He looked as if he'd been sick, although he might have seemed that way because the neon lights reflecting off the green tiles tinted everything a sickly pallor. The medical examiner was shaking, and the man beside him, wearing street clothes, didn't look much better. Owens. Slaughter recognized him as a veterinary whom he had come across from time to time and had last seen on Friday morning when they'd looked at old Doc Markle on the floor beside the mangled steer.
The two men turned to him, and Slaughter kept glancing all around. The smell of chemicals, of sick-sweet clotting blood. He didn't understand it. He inhaled, drawing breath to ask them, but the medical examiner interrupted. "I just killed him."
Slaughter stared at him and then at Owens. He was puzzled, walking toward them. "Look, you'd better take it easy. When you called, you sounded like you'd had a breakdown."
"But I killed him."
"Yes, I know. You told me on the phone. You said that at the mansion. But you had no way of knowing that the sedative would kill him. What's this blood here? I don't understand what's happened."
"Christ Almighty, listen while I tell you. I just killed him."
Slaughter spun toward Owens. "What's the matter with him?"
"Over there. You'd better take a look."
Owens had trouble speaking. He pointed toward the far end of the room, beyond the final table where a smear of blood was trickling down the wall, and Slaughter felt apprehensive again. He started forward, although a part of him was holding back. He peered down past the corner of the table, and he saw the tiny feet on the floor. Then he leaned a little closer, and he saw the boy, his belly sliced wide open. "Christ, you mutilated him!"
"No! I told you, I killed him!"
Slaughter swung and glared. "You said that he was dead back at the mansion!"
"I was certain that he was. I would have bet my reputation."
"Bet your reputation?"
"Never mind that. I did every standard test, and he was dead."
"Well, then he-"
"Seemed to come back from the dead and tried to grab me."
Slaughter felt as if he'd heard some unknown language. The words made no sense. They didn't have a meaning. Then he understood what he'd been told, and he stepped back from the medical examiner. "My God, you've really had a breakdown. You've gone crazy."
"No, just listen. I don't mean that the way it sounds."
"I hope to God you don't."
"I mean the paralytic stage of the disease must have been aggravated by the sedative."
Slaughter shook his head in confusion.
"He was so unconscious that his life signs couldn't be detected."
"What the hell is this now?" Slaughter asked him. "Edgar Allan Poe?"
"No, please. I listened for his heartbeat. I checked his breathing. I even took his temperature when I got back here. Everything was negative."
"You did a brain scan?"
"I did everything, I told you. He was dead as far as I could tell. I started working with him on the table, and he looked up, and he grabbed for my throat. I-"
"Take this slowly. One thing at a time. You're saying he was catatonic. That's it? That's your story?"
"On occasion, it can happen. Rarely. There are cases where a patient has been certified as dead, and he wakes up on a slab at the morgue."
Slaughter looked at Owens. "This is true?"
"I'm not a doctor, but I've heard of things like that. It's rare, just as he said, but it can happen."
"But Jesus, a brain scan."
"Look," the medical examiner said. "Once we thought that no sign of a heartbeat proved that someone had died. Then we found out that a person's heart could beat so weakly that our instruments couldn't detect it. So we made up other tests. For body heat. For electrical impulses in the brain. The fact is, we don't know exactly when a person dies. A patient goes to surgery. He's doing fine when suddenly his heart and brain fail.
We try everything we can to resuscitate him. No success. He's dead. Then all of a sudden, on its own, his heart starts beating again. So tell me how that happened. You explain it. I can't."
Slaughter looked at them, more disturbed. "All right, let's assume your argument's correct. The sedative wore off along with the paralysis."
"He grabbed for me. We fought. I knew I couldn't let him bite me, scratch me. Never mind how small he was. I couldn't let him touch me. He kept coming at me. I was kicking, yelling for help, but those two doors muffled the sound. We dodged around the table. I got cornered. I was scared and lashed out with the scalpel I was holding, and I killed him."
They were silent, staring at each other.
"Oh, my God." The medical examiner pounded a fist on the table.
Slaughter walked close. "Take it easy."
"But I-"
"Take it easy. Everything is going to be all right."
The medical examiner trembled.
"Something else. The mice died," Owens told them.
"What are you talking about?"
"We have mice down at the lab for doing tests on viruses," Owens said. "The mice were born and raised in sterile conditions, as the parents were, and those before them, so we know they're not contaminated. We can study any symptoms they develop from injections we give them and be certain that the injections caused the symptom. It's a way of isolating what we're dealing with and finding what will cure it. Anyhow, a standard test for rabies is to inject infected tissue into mice. If they live, then we're not dealing with the virus we suspected. If they die, then we have perfect samples of the virus to examine. Well, our first tests on this virus weren't conclusive. Oh, we knew that it was deadly, but the slides we studied looked a little different than they should have, so I did more tests. Instead of looking at the dog's brain, I injected several mice."
"And now they're dead?"
Owens nodded.
"Well, that isn't news. You said that it was deadly."
"But the mice don't normally develop symptoms for at least a week. These mice died in less than four hours. It was like a spedup version of the rabies symptoms. First, a subtle difference in behavior, then hostility, lack of coordination, finally paralysis and death. The hostility was quite pronounced, although they didn't snap at one another, only at the glass enclosures. But the point is that instead of surviving for seven days, they barely lasted four hours."
Slaughter's mind raced, making jumps in logic. "Show me."
Owens frowned at him.
"I want to see them. Show me where they are," Slaughter insisted.
"I didn't have the instruments I needed. An electron microscope for one thing, so I came up here to-"
"Never mind. Just show me."
"Over there. I brought them with me."
Slaughter pivoted toward a metal case and reached to lift its clasp. "It's all right if I open this?"
Owens nodded. "Everything is sterile. You won't be infected."
Slaughter pushed the lid up, staring at the specimens in sealed glass containers. He saw the white fur of mice, and something else that he had dreaded but expected, lifting one container, showing it. The medical examiner had turned now, he and Owens staring, and the mouse in there was snarling at them. Slaughter felt the scrape of its claws through the glass.
"But they were dead, I tell you!" Owens insisted. He crossed to Slaughter, pulling out the other glass containers. In them, every mouse was frantic.
"You're certain?" Slaughter asked him.
"Don't you think I know when something's dead?"
The medical examiner added, "As certain as I was when I examined that boy."
They continued staring at the frantic mice.
"Then I believe you." Slaughter grimaced. "I didn't, but I do now. I don't know what's going on, but I do know that it's happening." He frowned at the farthest table. "What about the boy? The mother and the father won't believe us when they see him. I can't think of any way to tell them."
"Then we won't." The medical examiner braced his shoulders, coming toward them, color in his face now. "I'll continue with the autopsy. I'd have to do it anyway, to learn how the virus works. I'll fix that slash across his stomach so it looks like it was part of the autopsy, and the three of us will be the only ones who know."
Suddenly they looked at one another, understanding the significance of their conspiracy, ever after their dependence on each other.
They were silent. Slaughter nodded, Owens with him.
"Owens, did you bring the samples for the microscope?"
"I've got them with the mice."
"Okay then, let's get started. Slaughter, if you go up to my office, you'll find a stack of books beside my desk. Search through the master index and read everything that you can find on rabies. That's not what we're dealing with. It's close enough, though, and we can't waste time from now on, telling you what we'll be doing."
Slaughter studied him. "How long till you know?"
"At least a couple of hours."
Slaughter glanced at his watch and saw that it was three a.m. "I don't look forward to the morning."
"For a lot of reasons."
"They'll be coming to me with their questions."
"Well, let's see if we can find the answers."
Slaughter nodded. Trying to smile in encouragement but failing, he started toward the doorway.