It's Alive! (22 page)

Buck Clayton stared out over the lights of Beverly Hills. It had been a very bad day.

Today old man Marcus canceled the account.

Not for the reason that his toy business had turned sour overnight—which it had. Nobody would touch a Marcus toy. It was those pictures that did that. Goddam pictures on KBOP-TV. Taken right in the school. Pictures of the toys that vampire kid had been messing with. Identified as Marcus toys.

How in hell’d the TV people find out about that? How in hell’d they get in there to photograph them? Those pictures knocked the bottom right out of the Marcus toy business.

But that wasn’t why old man Marcus pulled out.

He pulled out, he said, because Frank Davis was no longer on the account. If Davis had been around to manage things, the old man said, those pictures never would have happened. So Buck Clayton stared out the huge window at the lights and wondered what he’d done to get himself in such a pickle.

There were a million Frank Davises.

Why in hell’d
his
Frank Davis have to go and father a freak kid?

They stood on the spillway outside the end of an enormous pipe, one of those that form the vast subterranean storm-drain tunnel system that underlies Los Angeles. A police car sat with its nose in the pipe, and still there was room for men to pass in on either side. After a heavy rain, a torrent of water would flush out of this pipe and flood the spillway. Tonight it was nearly dry.

The portable floodlights arrayed by police caused Frank to squint as he approached the tunnel entrance with Detective Perkins.

Frank peered into the blackness within the tunnel of huge pipe.

“No guarantee we’ll find it in there quick,” said Perkins. “We got men coming in from other directions. But the drains branch off every which way. It won’t get out. But it may take us a while. We ain’t gonna be comfortable in there. Sure you want to come along?”

Frank nodded.

“All right. Now, we’ll take a car in there a ways, far as it can go, so we’ll have lights from that for a while. Then all we got’s our flashlights. Don’t get lost.”

Frank shook his head.

“Let’s go.”

The band of hunters dressed in blue police uniforms marched into the tunnel, followed by the car, which spread its light beams over them and beyond.

The floodlit entrance quickly vanished as they moved around a bend. It was cold and dank. Water gurgled over their shoes. Sounds of their walking and breathing echoed along the pipe.

Another group of men appeared, coming toward them from a branch tunnel to the left. “Clear, lieutenant, all the way out this one.”

The band took the branch to the right, leaving the patrol car and its lights behind. Their flashlights flickered off the water and the dark stone walls.

More branches. Detective Perkins split the men into smaller squads and sent them off into each new branch they passed. The sounds of their splashing through the water, their giving and answering commands, their grunting, wheezing, coughing, and panting bounced off the damp stone and echoed down the tunnels. It was impossible to tell where each sound was coming from.

They had been in the tunnel for more than an hour, Frank guessed. They had doubled back through countless branches, meeting men emerging from some, sending other men off in new ones. Detective Perkins seemed to know just where they were. To Frank it was a total mystery. He had no sense of direction at all. For all he knew, they could be under Pasadena by now.

He began to lag behind. He stopped and sagged against the wall, watching the others go on, their lights waving around ahead of them.

The past days of exhaustion gripped him, weighted him down. He could barely keep his eyes open. And he was cold. Chilled beyond all recollection of warmth. He pulled his jacket tight across his chest and buried his chin in the collar.

His light was dimming, and he snapped it off to save the batteries.

He slumped against the wall in the dark, the unreasonable cold numbing him. Nothing seemed important except to get warm and to sleep. He closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. When he opened them, it was as if he could suddenly see what he only heard.

Silence.

The police were gone. He was alone in the tunnel.

He turned on his flashlight and moved forward, along the route where he had seen the police advancing. His feet were numb, down in the rivulet of water.

He should call out. But the notion of that sound erupting in echoes around him chilled him more.

He slogged along staring ahead into the gloom beyond the dimming beam of his flashlight. Passing black holes that would be entrances to other branches of the maze, he stayed in the main channel. Eventually he would find the police officers, if he kept on in this direction. But he didn’t. He gazed blankly at the entrance to yet another pipe and decided to go in that way for a while.

He hadn’t gone far when he heard the sound. A low, weak, human moan.

Where?

The sound seemed to come from everywhere. Each way he turned, the frail sound bounced off the stone. But since he hadn’t heard it before, it must be ahead.

He stuck his hand into his jacket pocket and felt the icy metal of his .38. He took it out. He should have it ready.

He stepped up the pace on his aching legs, his revolver clacking against the stone wall as he steadied himself with that hand and held his light with the other. The sound was a bit louder now, a moan of sickness or sadness or pain. A pleading baby’s haunting whine.

“Must not be in here, lieutenant. I think we been everywhere.”

“It’s here. Where’s Davis?”

“Davis? He was right behind us.”

“Well, he ain’t now. Find a manhole, go topside, use your radio, find out if Davis surfaced anywhere.”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay, all you men. Let’s double back. Davis is probably back there somewhere.”

The men turned and began retracing the tunnel.

“You think he went out, lieutenant?” a patrolman asked.

“Nope.”

“He shoulda stuck with us. He don’t know his way around in here.”

“Any
other
news for me, patrolman?”

“No sir. One good thing . . .”

“What’s that?”

“At least he’s got his .38 with him. Sorry, but I saw you give it back to him.”

“You think I’m a fool? It ain’t loaded. And he don’t have no shells on him—I know ’cause I patted him down while you guys were looking around the yard.”

“You didn’t want him armed?”

“Course not. I value both my job and my life. He ain’t trained with that. He felt better with it on him, that’s all. Take a left up here, you four men,” he called behind him. “We’re only about a quarter-mile from where we left the car.”

“What if we don’t find him, lieutenant?”

“What if! What if! Goddam it, patrolman, will you watch where you’re going and quit stepping on my feet!”

A man ran toward them. “Davis didn’t come out! Nobody’s seen him!”

“Okay. I’m taking two men down this way here to the right. Rest of you go on ahead. When you get out, mobilize some cars upstairs. This is the last section. At least we’ll find Davis and get him the hell out of here. If we don’t find the other thing we’re after, get everybody right back down in here, in this section. We’ll start all over. GO!”

The rest of the men scampered on ahead. Perkins and his two officers veered off to the right, into a branch he wasn’t entirely sure they had searched before.

Frank’s footsteps echoed in the tunnel as he moved slowly toward the continuous whimpering sound. He held his flashlight and his gun out in front of him. His eyes burned from his incessant peering into the bleak mist.

He passed another branch tunnel and continued. The sound faded. He backtracked to the opening.

It had to be in there.

He went in. The sound was closer, more distinct. He could hear the soft hiccuping now between sobs.

It was in front of him. He shined his light straight ahead. The tunnel faded into empty blackness. But it was right in front of him. Slowly he lowered his light, toward the floor.

There, on a slab of stone slightly elevated above the water, it sat.

A small, shivering thing of pale, smooth, almost translucent skin. Veins pulsed visibly in the temples of the large, bulbous head which seemed to rest directly on its narrow shoulders. Its legs and clawed feet were folded in front of its belly, which undulated with its breathing. Its short, thin arms and clawed fingers waggled spasmodically in front of its chest.

It sat there just like a baby.

It cried softly and sniffled as it looked at him with its huge, round, black eyes.

Frank extended his arm and raised the gun evenly until he could sight down the barrel at a spot between its eyes.

It made no move, just whimpered and looked at him, its prominent pointed teeth appearing now and then as it curled its lips in sobs. Tears from the black eyes rolled down its face and body. The eyes blinked, and Frank blinked back.

He saw the blood. He lowered the gun. Blood oozed down under one arm, down the side, onto the stone. It formed a pool amid the small pile of rags on which the thing sat.

It moaned more loudly and blinked and reached one clawed hand around to feel where the blood was coursing down its side.

“Sssh.” Frank dropped the gun, it clattered on the stone. “I know it hurts, but it’s going to be all right.”

It closed its eyes, weeping silently.

Frank knelt in front of it and slid forward on his knees. “I hurt you. I’m sorry. I was scared, like you were. But don’t cry. Don’t cry any more. They’ll hear you. They’ll come and . . . You know I won’t hurt you again.”

It opened its eyes and they looked at each other, blinking. It shivered.

“I won’t hurt you again.”

“Davis!”

He stiffened.

“Davis! You in there? Wherever you are, stay there! We’ll find you!”

The thing began to moan.

“No, no, it’s okay. Don’t cry any more. I’ll take care of you. You’re cold.”

He peeled off his jacket, stood up, and stepped forward, holding the jacket carefully in front of him. “I’ll take care of you. This will make you warm. Don’t cry. This will make you warm.” Gently he lowered the jacket over it, wrapped it snugly, and picked it up, cradling it in his arms.