Page 6 of Creature
“I’m glad you think so.”Townsend smiled. “But there’s nobody you’d be tempted to dig out oftheir grave? No beloved family members, for instance?”
“I don’t even get alongwith the ones that are still alive.”
“That’s right. You’realone in the world, metaphorically speaking. Many of our bestagents come to us like that.” He stubbed out the second cigaretteand seemed to consider lighting a third. But instead he heavedhimself out of the chair and walked around the desk.
As he drew near, Harry braced himself anddidn’t back away.
“There’s a man up inPortland,” Townsend began, “whoisinterested in bringing the dead back to life. Orso our sources tell us. He’s apparently been unearthing freshcorpses, stitching the best pieces together, and trying to make theresulting mess human again.”
“Like… Frankenstein?” Whenhe was a kid, he’d sometimes been able to earn enough to go to thepictures, and he’d seen the monster played by both Chaney andLugosi. Those hadn’t been his favorite movies, though; he’dpreferred Bogart and Grant.
Townsend clapped Harry’s shoulder. “You gotit, kid.”
“Frankenstein isreal?”
“This guy’s name is Swan,but yeah. He’s real.”
“And you want me to dowhat?”
“Nothing much, really.Gather more information. Because so far all we have are hints andrumors, and we need to know if Swan’s really onto something. Wedon’t give a damn if he’s just going around digging up some stiffs.That’s the Portland Police Bureau’s problem, and we’re not gettingourselves tangled up in some kind of jurisdictional cockfight. Butif those stiffs ain’t so stiff by the time Swan’s through with ’em,that’sourproblem.”
This made some sense but was only a partialexplanation. “So I go up there and ask him if he’s got a madscientist lab or something?”
“A little more subtle thanthat. Swan isn’t going to want to advertise what he’s up to. But wehear he’s got a taste for pretty boys, so maybe he’ll let you getclose enough to see what’s what.”
Harry’s mouth tasted of ashes. “You want meto seduce him?”
“Something likethat.”
He shook his head. “I’m no whore.”
“Didn’t say you were, boy.But a Bureau agent has to be willing to play whatever role anassignment requires. And this one requires a pretty boy.” Heclapped Harry’s shoulder again, harder this time. “You don’t haveto fuck him—just play nice enough that you can get close to him.Can you manage that?” Townsend’s expression had gone serious andhard.
Could he? The idea turned Harry’s stomach.But was it really any worse than whatever dim future remained forhim if he turned Townsend down? Hell, a couple of men in the parkhad offered Harry money to suck their dicks, and while Harry hadindignantly said no, he’d thought more than once about those offersas his cash ran low.
“I can do it.” His voicewas hardly above a whisper.
Smiling broadly, Townsend patted him again.“Excellent! Now let me show you the bait we’re gonna add to thehook.” He marched to the smaller door. The lock squealed as heopened it.
Harry had steeled himself to see somethingterrifying, although he had no idea what that something might be.But when Townsend switched on the light, Harry saw nothing but adingy room not much larger than a closet. Only after he andTownsend entered—and the door slammed closed—did Harry notice thepair of iron manacles hanging from the ceiling and the brownishstains splattered on the concrete floor. The small space reeked ofpiss, sweat, and something that might have been pure fear.
Harry backed against the closed door, thehandle digging into his lower back. “I don’t—”
“Hang on. This locksticks.” With a cheerful little smile, Townsend put a key into yetanother door. It protested loudly when he pulled it open. “Here wego!”
Curiosity—and a sense ofinevitability—overcame Harry’s sense of self-preservation. Hepeeled himself away from the wall and crowded next to Townsend infront of the open doorway. It took Harry a moment to understandwhat he was seeing inside the bare, dirty cell, but whencomprehension hit, he had to clutch the doorframe for support.
“Fuck!”
Chapter Four
John basked in his little patch of sunlightand thought about grass. He couldn’t recall ever seeing grass, buthe knew what it was, and he could picture the precise fresh greenof newly sprouted blades. He conjured the smell—vegetative andalmost sweet—and the tickly sensation of grass tips against skin.The only surfaces he’d experienced were hard and unforgiving:stone, tile, and steel. Yet he knew that if he lay back in a fieldof grass, it would be soft and springy beneath him, like a livingmattress, and small insects would buzz around him as he gazed up atthe limitless sky.
Sky. No—that was something to think abouttomorrow. He allowed himself only one such musing per day.Yesterday he’d meditated on coffee, and today was grass. He’d savesky for tomorrow. And then the day after that….
Despair sliced into him like knives, and thehopelessness of his existence suddenly overwhelmed him, as itsometimes did. If he was being punished for something, shouldn’t heat least know how he’d transgressed? Weren’t even the worstcriminals granted small mercies? He had so very little, and hedidn’t understand why.
Vague notions about grassdid nothing to chase away his anguish, so he comforted himself asbest as he could. “John,” he whispered. “My name is John. Iam.” He repeated ituntil the agony faded to its usual dull ache.
