The God Project Read online

  Steve sat silently, wondering what to do. There was no damage where there should have been damage. Even Jason said he’d been hurt in the fight. But what had happened to the wounds?

  And then he remembered the fudge and the muriatic acid. Both times it had been Sally who claimed to have seen the damage, and both times he’d thought she was overreacting. But what about now? This time Joey, and Jason himself, had seen the damage. Were they lying? But there was no reason for them to. He reached for the phone again, glancing at the numbers that were scrawled all over the cover of the directory. A moment later he was talking to Eastbury Community Hospital.

  “This is Steve Montgomery. Is Dr. Malone in?”

  “No, he isn’t, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Can he be reached somewhere else?”

  “One moment” He was put on hold for what seemed an interminable length of time, but at last the operator came back on the line. Dr. Malone was not at home, nor had he informed his service where he was. Could another doctor help?

  “Dr. Wiseman,” Steve said. “Can you put me in touch with Dr. Wiseman?”

  “Of course, Mr. Montgomery.” He was put back on hold, and then, seconds later, a new connection was made.

  Arthur Wiseman listened quietly while Steve tried to explain what had happened. When he was finished, there was a short silence. Then Wiseman spoke, his voice low and calm.

  “Bring the boy down to the hospital, Steve. It doesn’t sound like there’s anything to worry about, but it won’t hurt to have a look at him.” He paused, then he added, “Heard anything from Sally yet?”

  “No.”

  Wiseman’s voice turned grim. “We can talk about that too.”

  Randy Corliss waited until the Academy was silent, then waited some more. The minutes crept by. After what seemed like hours, he slipped out of bed and began dressing. Finally he opened his door a crack and peeped out into the hall. At the far end there was a dim light and a desk. At the moment, no one was sitting at the desk.

  Randy edged out into the hall and began moving as quietly as he could toward the narrow set of stairs that led from the rear of the second floor up into the attic. He had almost reached the stairs when he heard footsteps behind him. Someone was coming up from the main floor. He dashed the last few feet, scuttled up to the top of the stairs, and waited. He heard a scraping sound and decided that whoever had come up was now sitting at the desk. Gingerly, he tried the door to the attic.

  It was unlocked.

  He slipped inside, eased the door closed behind himself, and felt around for a light switch. But even as his hands found one, he changed his mind. What if someone were outside and saw lights in the attic? He’d never even make it out of the house.

  He’d have to do it in the dark.

  He started across the floor, but his footsteps seemed to echo loudly. He stopped again and took off his sneakers, tied the shoelaces together, then hung the shoes themselves around his neck. Once more he began creeping across the attic floor, testing each step before he put his weight on his foot. He moved slowly, his eyes straining to penetrate the near-total blackness, but after what seemed an eternity he found himself under what he believed to be a skylight.

  He stared upward.

  It was a skylight, but in the dimness he could just make out a folding ladder and a latch. From the ladder, a cord dangled just out of his reach. He stretched upward, and his fingers barely brushed its frayed end.

  Should he try to find something to stand on? But how? He could grope around in the dark all night and never find anything.

  He decided to risk a jump. He flexed his legs a couple of times, judging the distance carefully, then lofted himself off the floor.

  His right hand grasped the rope, and as he dropped back to the attic floor with a soft thump, the ladder creaked and moved down six inches. The thump and the creak made Randy freeze, listening.

  On the floor below, Louise Bowen looked up from the report she was working on. Was it her imagination, or had she heard a faint sound? Frowning, she rose from her chair and began making her way down the hall, checking on each of the boys.

  Hearing nothing, Randy slowly pulled the ladder down. Its ancient springs groaned in low protest, but to Randy the sound was like blaring trumpets. At last, the ladder touched the floor and he scurried up it. It took him a moment to figure out how the latch worked, but then with a scatter of flaking rust, it came free. He pushed the skylight upward and crept out onto the roof.

  The pitch looked much steeper than it had from below, and the slate of the roof felt slippery under Randy’s bare feet. Quickly, he put his sneakers back on, laced them tightly, then stood up and tested the footing. The rubber soles seemed to grip the slate firmly, but he wasn’t too sure of his balance. Finally, he spread himself out, until he was almost lying flat against the incline, and began crabbing sideways across the roof.

  There was only one more room to check, and Louise Bowen hesitated before opening its door. What if Randy was not inside?

  But he had to be. Surely, if he were planning to run tonight, he would wait until much later.

  Or would he?

  She turned the knob of his door and pushed it open.

  “Randy?”

  There was no answer. She switched the light on. Randy’s bed was empty.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Louise started toward the main stairs. She would have to report that Randy Corliss was gone.

  * * *

  Randy could see the treetop looming twenty feet in front of him. All he had to do was ease himself down to the eave, then climb onto the large branch he had spotted this afternoon. But going down the steep angle of the roof was not as easy as scooting across it. He had to place each foot carefully, bracing himself with both hands as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  And then it happened. His right foot hit a patch of moss and he slipped. He began sliding down the roof, his hands scrabbling for a grip on the worn slate. He felt himself begin to go over the edge and made a desperate grab at the gutter that rimmed the eave. It screeched at the sudden strain, and pulled away from its supports, but it held. Randy swung in the air for a moment, searching wildly for his branch.

  It was only a foot away, and with the strength born of fear, Randy worked his way over and swung onto it. Pausing only a moment to catch his breath, he began scrambling down the tree. In a few seconds he was on the ground, sprinting across the lawn toward the woods. Only when he reached them did he stop to look back.

  All over the house lights were coming on.

  He turned and plunged into the forest, relying on his memory to guide him to the stream and the culvert that would take him under the fence. A faint glow from the moon lighted his way, and he was able to keep moving at a dead run, dodging this way and that, moving steadily away from the house. His breath was getting short, and he was beginning to think he’d taken a wrong turn, when suddenly he heard the sound of running water. And then he was at the top of the bank, the stream just below him.

  From behind, he heard the barking of dogs.

  He slid down the bank and waded into the water, ignoring its chill. He started upstream and came to the end of the culvert. Without considering the possible consequences, hearing only the baying of the dogs as they searched for his scent, he dove into the narrow pipe.

  It was tight, and his shoulders rubbed against both sides as he crept through the rushing water. But then, as his hands and feet began to grow numb from the cold, he saw a faint glow ahead.

  He was almost out.

  Urging his small body onward, he squirmed the last few feet.

  With his goal only inches away, he discovered his mistake.

  Firmly imbedded in the end of the culvert was a wire-mesh grate, its heavy screening blocking the passage of anything but the rushing stream.

  Hopelessness flooded over Randy for a moment, then receded. Determinedly, he began backing out of the culvert. It seemed to take forever, but at last he was free of the confining pipe, s
tanding in the water, his body charged with a combination of fear and exhilaration.

  The dogs were coming closer now. Randy scrambled back up the bank, his mind whirling, searching for a solution.

  The fence.

  He would have to climb the fence.

  He could see one of the dogs now, a huge shadow charging toward him out of the dimness. Turning, he hurled himself toward the fence, but he was too late.

  The doberman was on him, snarling, its jaws clamping onto Randy’s left ankle. The dog planted its feet firmly in the ground and began shaking its head. Randy tripped, collapsed, then tried to kick out at the dos. His right foot connected with the animal’s head, and it let go for a moment Randy scrambled to his feet, the fence a foot behind him. The dog hesitated, snarled, then leaped toward him. Randy twisted aside, grabbed the dog in mid-leap, and shoved hard.

  With a high-pitched scream, the dog died as the voltage of the fence surged through it. Randy, his hand still clutching the animal’s skin, stared at it for a moment.

  Dimly, he was aware of an odd sensation in his arm. It was an inner tingling and a slight burning sensation. The last time he had touched the fence, he had been knocked out. Suddenly he remembered the test Dr. Hamlin had given him, and now he knew what it had meant The electricity hadn’t killed him the first time, and now it couldn’t hurt him at all.

  Very close by, he heard the other dogs. Letting go of the dead animal at his feet, Randy reached out and grasped the fence.

  Again, there was the strange tickle, and the sensation of warmth, but nothing more.

  So everything he had been told while he was growing up was wrong.

  Electricity didn’t hurt you at all. In fact, it felt kind of good.

  A moment later he dropped to the ground on the other side.

  Chapter 23

  DARKNESS SHROUDED the parking lot of Eastbury Community Hospital, but still Mark Malone drove around to the back entrance and switched his lights off before he pulled in and parked his car next to his office.

  “No sense alerting everyone that we’re here,” he commented. Sally nodded her agreement as she got out of the car and waited for Malone to unlock his office door. Only when they were inside, with both doors securely bolted and the lights turned on, did Sally speak.

  “I feel as though I’m doing something illegal.”

  “You’re not,” Malone assured her. “Although you were when you broke the codes to the medical records the first time. But this time, it’s perfectly legal If anyone ever asks any questions, I hired you as a computer operator to compile some statistics for me. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Sally set her purse on Malone’s desk and switched on the computer terminal. Moments later she began tapping in the proper codes. “First things first,” she murmured. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, finally coming to rest on the key marked ENTER. Sighing slightly, she leaned back in her chair and smiled wanly at Malone. “It’ll take a couple of minutes.”

  Malone shrugged. “How’d you know what to tell it?”

  “It’s all one computer,” Sally explained. “Even though I spend most of my time with the college records, the instructions are pretty much the same for anything. Right now it’s putting together a list of the names and birth dates of every child ever born in this area that CHILD is studying or has ever studied.”

  Even as she spoke, the screen was filled with a list of names. Sally pressed the cursor key that would allow her to scroll down the cathode ray tube until the entire list had been exposed.

  “My God,” she breathed. She glanced up at the information line at the top of the screen. The list stopped at line 153, and there were five names on each line. She glanced at the printer that sat a few feet away. Three lights, one red, one amber, and one white, glowed softly, indicating that the machine was ready for use.

  Seeing her intent, Malone moved to the printer and rolled a sheet of paper into its platen. “Okay.”

  Once again Sally’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and a second later the printer began chattering. “It’ll take three pages,” she said. Malone nodded silently, wishing he’d bought the automatic paper feeder he’d seen last year.

  While the printer worked, Sally studied the screen. “I wonder if they’re all part of the same study? But they can’t be,” she went on. “CHILD does all kinds of surveys, doesn’t it?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Once again, Sally’s fingers moved over the keyboard. “I’m having the computer analyze the code numbers CHILD uses and see if it can find any relationships,” she said.

  The printer suddenly stopped for the last time, and Malone pulled the final sheet from the platen. “The name Carl Bronski gave us is here,” he said. “Adam Rogers.” He stapled the three pages together. “What shall we do with these?”

  “Keep them,” Sally replied. “They may be all we get.” But then the screen suddenly came alive again, this time filled with four blocks of numbers.

  Malone frowned at the screen. “What’s that mean?”

  “Apparently CHILD is doing four studies, and they’ve assigned the code numbers by multiples of certain other numbers.” She pointed to the block of numbers in the upper left-hand quadrant of the screen. “Those are all multiples of 13. The others are multiples of 17, 19, and 21.”

  “I’m not sure I get it,” Malone said.

  Sally’s voice became grim. “It means that Dr. Wiseman is lying. According to him, CHILD uses random numbers to decide whom to survey. But these numbers aren’t random—they only appear to be when they’re all mixed together. What CHILD is really doing is studying selected children and keeping them grouped together by means of the code numbers. Let’s try something else.”

  For the third time, her hands manipulated the keyboard, and once more the screen went blank for a few seconds. As before, the screen began to fill with numbers, but Ulis time there were names attached to them. As Sally stared at the names, her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I told it to find Julie’s case number, then list all the names and numbers of the rest of that group,” she explained.

  All the names were on the list.

  Randy Corliss.

  Adam Rogers.

  Julie Montgomery.

  Eden Ransom.

  Jason Montgomery.

  In all, there were forty-six names. Sally Montgomery and Mark Malone stared at the list for several seconds, each deep in his own thoughts.

  “We’d better print it out,” Malone said at last.

  Sally nodded silently, and her fingers once more began moving over the keyboard, but slowly this time, as if by committing the list to paper she would somehow seal whatever fates awaited the children whose names appeared on it.

  Fifty feet away, Arthur Wiseman sat in his office listening quietly while Steve Montgomery once again described Jason’s misadventures.

  “And that’s it?” he asked when Steve had finished his recital.

  “That’s it.”

  Wiseman turned to Jason.

  “And what about you, son? Did it happen the way your father told it?”

  “I—I guess so,” Jason faltered. “I mean, the fight happened, and I was bleeding.”

  “Well, why don’t we just have a look at you and see what we can find, all right?”

  Jason frowned. He hated it when Dr. Malone poked and prodded at him, and stuck the ice cream stick in his mouth and made him say aaahhh. It wasn’t as if he was ever sick, or anything was wrong with him. “I’m okay,” he said.

  “And who said you weren’t?” Wiseman countered with mock severity. “All I want to do is take a peek. I haven’t seen you since the day you were born, and it seems to me it’s only fair if you let me admire my work.”

  “Were you the doctor who delivered me?” Jason asked. He’d always thought it was Dr. Malone.

  “Sure was. Popped you a good one on the bottom, then handed you over to Ehr. Malone. You were a scrappy little critter, as I recall. Nearly tore the roof off this
place with the screaming and yelling.”

  Still talking, Wiseman led Jason into the examining room and boosted him up onto the table.

  “What are those?” the little boy asked, staring curiously at the stirrups that rose from one end of the table.

  “Just something I use now and then. Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

  Obediently, Jason stripped to the waist, then waited to see what would happen. A moment later he felt the cold chill of the stethoscope as the doctor listened to his heartbeat and his breathing. Then he looked from side to side while Dr. Wiseman carefully watched his eyes.

  “Which one got the fist?”

  “This one” Jason replied, holding his hand up to his right eye.

  Wiseman compared the boy’s eyes carefully, and saw no evidence of a bruise. “Couldn’t have been much of a punch.”

  “I guess it wasn’t,” Jason admitted. “It only hurt for a second.”

  “And what about the other day, when you spilled the fudge on your arm. Did that hurt?”

  “Not much,” Jason said, scratching his head while he tried to remember. “I guess it did at first, but not very long. Like the day I cut my finger.”

  “Your finger?” Wiseman asked.

  Jason nodded. “I was making a fort and I cut myself.”

  “Badly?”

  “Nah. It bled for a minute, and I was going to put a Band-Aid on it, but then it healed up.”

  Now it was Wiseman who scratched his head. “Healed up? Before you put a Band-Aid on it?”

  “Sure.”

  Wiseman thought for a moment, then spoke again. “How would you like to have your blood tested?” he asked.

  “What for?”

  “Just to find out something,” Wiseman replied.

  “Okay.”

  A moment later, while Jason watched, Wiseman plunged a needle into the boy’s arm and drew out five cc’s of blood. With a single practiced motion, he drew out the needle, placed an alcohol-soaked wad of cotton on the point where the needle had pierced Jason’s skin, then folded the boy’s arm so that the cotton was held in place. “Just hold your arm like that for a few minutes,” he said. Taking the blood sample with him, he returned to his office and picked up the phone. He issued a series of orders, then, putting the receiver bade on the hook, he turned to Steve Montgomery.