STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT 3 страница

Casey and Margaret stared at their father in surprise. Margaret was the first to speak. “You mean you’re taking cells from an animal and putting them into a plant?”

He nodded. “I really don’t want to say more. You two understand why this must be kept secret.” He turned his eyes on Margaret, then Casey, studying their reactions.

“How do you do it?” Margaret asked, thinking hard about everything he had just told them. “How do you get these cells from the animals to the plant?”

“I’m trying to do it by breaking them down electronically,” he answered. “I have two glass booths connected by a powerful electron generator. You may have seen them when you were snooping around down there.” He made a sour face.

“Yeah. They look like phone booths,” Casey said.

“One booth is a sender, and one is a receiver,” he explained. “I’m trying to send the right DNA, the right building blocks, from one booth to the other. It’s very delicate work.”

“And have you done it?” Margaret asked.

“I’ve come very close,” Dr. Brewer said, a pleased smile crossing his face. The smile lasted only a few seconds. Then, his expression thoughtful, he abruptly climbed to his feet. “Got to get back to work,” he said quietly. “See you two later.” He started walking across the lawn, taking long strides.

“But, Dad,” Margaret called after him. She and Casey climbed to their feet, too. “Your head. The leaves. You didn’t explain it,” she said as she and her brother hurried to catch up to him.

Dr. Brewer shrugged. “Nothing to explain,” he said curtly. “Just a side effect.” He adjusted his Dodgers cap. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only temporary. Just a side effect.”

Then he hurried into the house.

Casey seemed really pleased by their dad’s explanation of what was going on in the basement. “Dad’s doing really important work,” he said, with unusual seriousness.

But, as Margaret made her way into the house, she found herself troubled by what her dad had said. And even more troubled by what he hadn’t said.

Margaret closed the door to her room and lay down on the bed to think about things. Her father hadn’t really explained the leaves growing on his head. “Just a side effect” didn’t explain much at all.

A side effect from what? What actually caused it? What made his hair fall out? When will his hair grow back?

It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted to discuss it with them. He had certainly hurried back to his basement after telling them it was just a side effect.

A side effect.

It made Margaret feel sick every time she thought about it.

What must it feel like? Green leaves pushing up from your pores, uncurling against your head.

Yuck. Thinking about it made her itch all over. She knew she’d have hideous dreams tonight.

She grabbed her pillow and hugged it over her stomach, wrapping her arms tightly around it.

There were lots of other questions Casey and I should have asked, she decided. Like, why were the plants moaning down there? Why did some of them sound like they were breathing? Why did that plant grab Casey? What animal was Dad using?

Lots of questions.

Not to mention the one Margaret wanted to ask most of all: Why were you gulping down that disgusting plant food?

But she couldn’t ask that one. She couldn’t let her dad know she’d been spying on him.

She and Casey hadn’t really asked any of the questions they’d wanted answered. They were just so pleased that their father had decided to sit down and talk with them, even for a few minutes.

His explanation was really interesting, as far as it went, Margaret decided. And it was good to know that he was close to doing something truly amazing, something that would make him really famous.

But what about the rest of it?

A frightening thought entered her mind: Could he have been lying to them?

No, she quickly decided. No. Dad wouldn’t lie to us.

There are just some questions he hasn’t answered yet.

She was still thinking about all of these questions late that night—after dinner, after talking to Diane on the phone for an hour, after homework, after watching a little TV, after going to bed. And she was still puzzling over them.

When she heard her father’s soft footsteps coming up the carpeted stairs, she sat up in bed. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains across the room. She listened to her father’s footsteps pass her room, heard him go into the bathroom, heard the water begin to run into the sink.

I’ve got to ask him, she decided.

Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was two-thirty in the morning.

But she realized she was wide awake.

I’ve got to ask him about the plant food.

Otherwise, it will drive me crazy. I’ll think about it and think about it and think about it. Every time I see him, I’ll picture him standing over the sink, shoving handful after handful into his mouth.

There’s got to be a simple explanation, she told herself, climbing out of bed. There’s got to be a logical explanation.

And I have to know it.

She padded softly down the hall, a sliver of light escaping through the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. Water still ran into the sink.

She heard him cough, then heard him adjust the water.

I have to know the answer, she thought.

I’ll just ask him point-blank.

She stepped into the narrow triangle of light and peered into the bathroom.

He was standing at the sink, leaning over it, his chest bare, his shirt tossed behind him on the floor. He had put the baseball cap on the closed toilet lid, and the leaves covering his head shone brightly under the bathroom light.

Margaret held her breath.

The leaves were so geeen, so thick.

He didn’t notice her. He was concentrating on the bandage on his hand. Using a small scissors, he cut the bandage, then pulled it off.

The hand was still bleeding, Margaret saw.

Or was it?

What was that dripping from the cut on her father’s hand?

Still holding her breath, she watched him wash it off carefully under the hot water. Then he examined it, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

After washing, the cut continued to bleed.

Margaret stared hard, trying to better focus her eyes.

It couldn’t be blood—could it?

It couldn’t be blood dripping into the sink.

It was bright green!

She gasped and started to run back to her room. The floor creaked under her footsteps.

“Who’s there?” Dr. Brewer cried. “Margaret? Casey?”

He poked his head into the hallway as Margaret disappeared back into her room.

He saw me, she realized, leaping into bed.

He saw me—and now he’s coming after me.

Margaret pulled the covers up to her chin. She realized she was trembling, her whole body shaking and chilled.

She held her breath and listened.

She could still hear water splashing into the bathroom sink.

But no footsteps.

He isn’t coming after me, she told herself, letting out a long, silent sigh.

How could I have thought that? How could I have been so terrified—of my own father?

Terrified.

It was the first time the word had crossed her mind.

But sitting there in bed, trembling so violently, holding onto the covers so hard, listening for his approaching footsteps, Margaret realized that she was terrified.

Of her own father.

If only Mom were home, she thought.

Without thinking, she reached for the phone. She had the idea in her head to call her mother, wake her up, tell her to come home as fast as she could. Tell her something terrible was happening to Dad. That he was changing. That he was acting so weird….

She glanced at the clock. Two-forty-three.

No. She couldn’t do that. Her poor mother was having such a terrible time in Tucson trying to care for her sister. Margaret couldn’t frighten her like that.

Besides, what could she say? How could she explain to her mother how she had become terrified of her own father?

Mrs. Brewer would just tell her to calm down. That her father still loved her. That he would never harm her. That he was just caught up in his work.

Caught up….

He had leaves growing out of his head, he was eating dirt, and his blood was green.

Caught up….

She heard the water in the sink shut off. She heard the bathroom light being clicked off. Then she heard her father pad slowly to his room at the end of the hall.

Margaret relaxed a little, slid down in the bed, loosened her grip on the blankets. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.

She tried counting sheep.

That never worked. She tried counting to one thousand. At 375, she sat up. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was as dry as cotton.

She decided to go downstairs and get a drink of cold water from the refrigerator.

I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow, she thought, making her way silently through the hall and down the stairs.

It is tomorrow.

What am I going to do? I’ve got to get to sleep.

The kitchen floor creaked beneath her bare feet. The refrigerator motor clicked on noisily, startling her.

Be cool, she told herself. You’ve got to be cool.

She had opened the refrigerator and was reaching for the water bottle when a hand grabbed her shoulder.

“Aii!” She cried out and dropped the open bottle onto the floor. Ice-cold water puddled around her feet. She leapt back, but her feet were soaked.

“Casey—you scared me!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing up?”

“What are you doing up?” he replied, half asleep, his blond hair matted against his forehead.

“I couldn’t sleep. Help me mop up this water.”

“I didn’t spill it,” he said, backing away. “You mop it up.”

“You made me spill it!” Margaret declared shrilly. She grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter and handed him a wad of them. “Come on. Hurry.”

They both got down on their knees and, by the light from the refrigerator, began mopping up the cold water.

“I just keep thinking about things,” Casey said, tossing a soaking wad of paper towel onto the counter. “That’s why I can’t sleep.”

“Me, too,” Margaret said, frowning.

She started to say something else, but a sound from the hallway stopped her. It was a plaintive cry, a moan filled with sadness.

Margaret gasped and stopped dabbing at the water. “What was that?”

Casey’s eyes filled with fear.

They heard it again, such a sad sound, like a plea, a mournful plea.

“It—it’s coming from the basement,” Margaret said.

“Do you think it’s a plant?” Casey asked very quietly. “Do you think it’s one of Dad’s plants?”

Margaret didn’t answer. She crouched on her knees, not moving, just listening.

Another moan, softer this time but just as mournful.

“I don’t think Dad told us the truth,” she told Casey, staring into his eyes. He looked pale and frightened in the dim refrigerator light. “I don’t think a tomato plant would make a sound like that.”

Margaret climbed to her feet, collected the wet clumps of paper towel, and deposited them in the trash can under the sink. Then she closed the refrigerator door, covering the room in darkness.

Her hand on Casey’s shoulder, she guided him out of the kitchen and through the hall. They stopped at the basement door, and listened.

Silence now.

Casey tried the door. It was locked.

Another low moan, sounding very nearby now.

“It’s so human,” Casey whispered.

Margaret shuddered. What was going on down in the basement? What was really going on?

She led the way up the stairs and waited at her doorway until Casey was safely in his room. He gave her a wave, yawning silently, and closed the door behind him.

A few seconds later, Margaret was back in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin despite the warmth of the night. Her mouth was still achingly dry, she realized. She had never managed to get a drink.

Somehow she drifted into a restless sleep.

Her alarm went off at seven-thirty. She sat up and thought about school. Then she remembered there was no school for the next two days because of some kind of teachers’ conference.

She turned off the clock radio, slumped back onto her pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. But she was awake now, thoughts of the night before pouring back into her mind, flooding her with the fear she had felt just a few hours earlier.

She stood up and stretched, and decided to go talk to her father, to confront him first thing, to ask all the questions she wanted to ask.

If I don’t, he’ll disappear down to the basement, and I’ll sit around thinking these frightening thoughts all day, she told herself.

I don’t want to be terrified of my own father.

I don’t.

She pulled a light cotton robe over her pajamas, found her slippers in the cluttered closet, and stepped out into the hallway. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, almost suffocating. Pale, morning light filtered down from the skylight overhead.

She stopped in front of Casey’s room, wondering if she should wake him so that he could ask their father questions, too.

No, she decided. The poor guy was up half the night. I’ll let him sleep.

Taking a deep breath, she walked the rest of the hall and stopped at her parents’ bedroom. The door was open.

“Dad?”

No reply.

“Dad? Are you up?”

She stepped into the room. “Dad?”

He didn’t seem to be there.

The air in here was heavy and smelled strangely sour. The curtains were drawn. The bedclothes were rumpled and tossed down at the foot of the bed. Margaret took a few more steps toward the bed.

“Dad?”

No. She had missed him. He was probably already locked in his basement workroom, she realized unhappily.

He must have gotten up very early and—

What was that in the bed?

Margaret clicked on a dresser lamp and stepped up beside the bed.

“Oh, no!” she cried, raising her hands to her face in horror.

The bedsheet was covered with a thick layer of dirt. Clumps of dirt.

Margaret stared down at it, not breathing, not moving.

The dirt was black and appeared to be moist.

And the dirt was moving.

Moving?

It can’t be, Margaret thought. That’s impossible.

She leaned down to take a closer look at the layer of dirt.

No. The dirt wasn’t moving.

The dirt was filled with dozens of moving insects. And long, brown earthworms. All crawling through the wet, black clumps that lined her father’s bed.

Casey didn’t come downstairs until ten-thirty. Before his arrival, Margaret had made herself breakfast, managed to pull on jeans and a T-shirt, had talked to Diane on the phone for half an hour, and had spent the rest of the time pacing back and forth in the living room, trying to decide what to do.

Desperate to talk to her dad, she had banged a few times on the basement door, timidly at first and then loudly. But he either couldn’t hear her or chose not to. He didn’t respond.

When Casey finally emerged, she poured him a tall glass of orange juice and led him out to the backyard to talk. It was a hazy day, the sky mostly yellow, the air already stifling hot even though the sun was still hovering low over the hills.

Walking toward the block of green shade cast by the hedges, she told her brother about their dad’s green blood and about the insect-filled dirt in his bed.

Casey stood open-mouthed, holding the glass of orange juice in front of him, untouched. He stared at Margaret, and didn’t say anything for a very long time.

Finally, he set the orange juice down on the lawn and said, “What should we do?” in a voice just above a whisper.

Margaret shrugged. “I wish Mom would call.”

“Would you tell her everything?” Casey asked, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his baggy shorts.

“I guess,” Margaret said. “I don’t know if she’d believe it, but—”

“It’s so scary,” Casey said. “I mean, he’s our dad. We’ve known him our whole lives. I mean—”

“I know,” Margaret said. “But he’s not the same. He’s—”

“Maybe he can explain it all,” Casey said thoughtfully. “Maybe there’s a good reason for everything. You know. Like the leaves on his head.”

“We asked him about that,” Margaret reminded her brother. “He just said it was a side effect. Not much of an explanation.”

Casey nodded, but didn’t reply.

“I told some of it to Diane,” Margaret admitted.

Casey looked up at her in surprise.

“Well, I had to tell somebody,” she snapped edgily. “Diane thought I should call the police.”

“Huh?” Casey shook his head. “Dad hasn’t done anything wrong—has he? What would the police do?”

“I know,” Margaret replied. “That’s what I told Diane. But she said there’s got to be some kind of law against being a mad scientist.”

“Dad isn’t a mad scientist,” Casey said angrily. “That’s stupid. He’s just—He’s just—”

Just what? Margaret thought. What is he?

A few hours later, they were still in the backyard, trying to figure out what to do, when the kitchen door opened and their father called them to come in.

Margaret looked at Casey in surprise. “I don’t believe it. He came upstairs.”

“Maybe we can talk to him,” Casey said.

They both raced into the kitchen. Dr. Brewer, his Dodgers cap in place, flashed them a smile as he set two soup bowls down on the table. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Lunchtime.”

“Huh? You made lunch?” Casey exclaimed, unable to conceal his astonishment.

“Dad, we’ve got to talk,” Margaret said seriously.

“Afraid I don’t have much time,” he said, avoiding her stare. “Sit down. Try this new dish. I want to see if you like it.”

Margaret and Casey obediently took their places at the table. “What is this stuff?” Casey cried.

The two bowls were filled with a green, pulpy substance. “It looks like green mashed potatoes,” Casey said, making a face.

“It’s something different,” Dr. Brewer said mysteriously, standing over them at the head of the table. “Go ahead. Taste it. I’ll bet you’ll be surprised.”

“Dad—you’ve never made lunch for us before,” Margaret said, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

“I just wanted you to try this,” he said, his smile fading. “You’re my guinea pigs.”

“We have some things we want to ask you,” Margaret said, lifting her spoon, but not eating the green mess.

“Your mother called this morning,” their father said.

“When?” Margaret asked eagerly.

“Just a short while ago. I guess you were outside and didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“What did she say?” Casey asked, staring down at the bowl in front of him.

“Aunt Eleanor’s doing better. She’s been moved out of intensive care. Your mom may be able to come home soon.”

“Great!” Margaret and Casey cried in unison.

“Eat,” Dr. Brewer instructed, pointing to the bowls.

“Uh… aren’t you going to have some?” Casey asked, rolling his spoon around in his fingers.

“No,” their father replied quickly. “I already ate.” He leaned with both hands against the tabletop. Margaret saw that his cut hand was freshly bandaged.

“Dad, last night—” she started.

But he cut her off. “Eat, will you? Try it.”

“But what is it?” Casey demanded, whining. “It doesn’t smell too good.”

“I think you’ll like the taste,” Dr. Brewer insisted impatiently. “It should taste very sweet.”

He stared at them, urging them to eat the green stuff.

Staring into the bowl at the mysterious substance, Margaret was suddenly frozen with fear. He’s too eager for us to eat this, she thought, glancing up at her brother.

He’s too desperate.

He’s never made lunch before. Why did he make this?

And why won’t he tell us what it is?

What’s going on here? she wondered. And Casey’s expression revealed that he was wondering the same thing.

Is Dad trying to do something to us? Is this green stuff going to change us, or hurt us… or make us grow leaves, too?

What crazy thoughts, Margaret realized.

But she also realized that she was terrified of whatever this stuff was he was trying to feed them.

“What’s the matter with you two?” their father cried impatiently. He raised his hand in an eating gesture. “Pick up your spoons. Come on. What are you waiting for?”

Margaret and Casey raised their spoons and dropped them into the soft, green substance. But they didn’t raise the spoons to their mouths.

They couldn’t.

“Eat! Eat!” Dr. Brewer screamed, pounding the table with his good hand. “What are you waiting for? Eat your lunch. Go ahead. Eat it!”

He’s giving us no choice, Margaret thought.

Her hand was trembling as she reluctantly raised the spoon to her mouth.

“Go ahead. You’ll like it,” Dr. Brewer insisted, leaning over the table.

Casey watched as Margaret raised the spoon to her lips.

The doorbell rang.

“Who could that be?” Dr. Brewer asked, very annoyed at the interruption. “I’ll be right back, kids.” He lumbered out to the front hall.

“Saved by the bell,” Margaret said, dropping the spoon back into the bowl with a sickening plop.

“This stuff is disgusting,” Casey whispered. “It’s some kind of plant food or something. Yuck!”

“Quick—” Margaret said, jumping up and grabbing the two bowls. “Help me.”

They rushed to the sink, pulled out the waste-basket, and scooped the contents of both bowls into the garbage. Then they carried both bowls back to the table and set them down beside the spoons.

“Let’s go see who’s at the door,” Casey said.

They crept into the hall in time to see a man carrying a black briefcase step into the front entranceway and greet their father with a short handshake. The man had a tanned bald head and was wearing large, blue-lensed sunglasses. He had a brown mustache and was wearing a navy blue suit with a red-and-white striped tie.

“Mr. Martinez!” their father exclaimed. “What a… surprise.”

“That’s Dad’s old boss from PolyTech,” Margaret whispered to Casey.

“I know,” Casey replied peevishly.

“I said weeks ago I’d come check up on how your work is coming along,” Martinez said, sniffing the air for some reason. “Wellington gave me a lift. My car is in the garage—for a change.”

“Well, I’m not really ready,” Dr. Brewer stammered, looking very uncomfortable even from Margaret’s vantage point behind him. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I mean… I don’t think this is a good time.”

“No problem. I’ll just have a quick look,” Martinez said, putting a hand on Dr. Brewer’s shoulder as if to calm him. “I’ve always been so interested in your work. You know that. And you know that it wasn’t my idea to let you go. The board forced me. They gave me no choice. But I’m not giving up on you. I promise you that. Come on. Let’s see what kind of progress you’re making.”

“Well…” Dr. Brewer couldn’t hide his displeasure at Mr. Martinez’s surprise appearance. He scowled and tried to block the path to the basement steps.

At least, it seemed that way to Margaret, who watched silently beside her brother.

Mr. Martinez stepped past Dr. Brewer and pulled open the basement door. “Hi, guys.” Mr. Martinez gave the two kids a wave, hoisting his briefcase as if it weighed two tons.

Their father looked surprised to see them there. “Did you kids finish your lunch?”

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” Casey lied.

The answer seemed to please Dr. Brewer. Adjusting the brim of his Dodgers cap, he followed Mr. Martinez into the basement, carefully closing and locking the door behind him.

“Maybe he’ll give Dad his job back,” Casey said, walking back into the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator to look for something for lunch.

“Don’t be stupid,” Margaret said, reaching over him to pull out a container of egg salad. “If Dad really is growing plants that are part animal, he’ll be famous. He won’t need a job.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Casey said thoughtfully. “Is that all there is? Just egg salad?”

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Margaret offered.

“I’m not really hungry,” Casey replied. “That green stuff made me sick. Why do you think he wanted us to eat it?”

“I don’t know,” Margaret said. She put a hand on Casey’s slender shoulder. “I’m really scared, Casey. I wish Mom were home.”

“Me, too,” he said quietly.

Margaret put the egg salad back into the refrigerator. She closed the door, then leaned her hot forehead against it. “Casey—”

“What?”

“Do you think Dad is telling us the truth?”

“About what?”

“About anything?”

“I don’t know,” Casey said, shaking his head. Then his expression suddenly changed. “There’s one way to find out,” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Huh? What do you mean?” Margaret pushed herself away from the refrigerator.

“The first chance we get, the first time Dad is away,” Casey whispered, “let’s go back down in the basement and see for ourselves what Dad is doing.”

They got their chance the next afternoon when their father emerged from the basement, red metal toolchest in hand. “I promised Mr. Henry next door I’d help him install a new sink in his bathroom,” he explained, adjusting his Dodgers cap with his free hand.

“When are you coming back?” Casey asked, glancing at Margaret.

Not very subtle, Casey, Margaret thought, rolling her eyes.

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours,” Dr. Brewer said. He disappeared out the kitchen door.

They watched him cut through the hedges in the backyard and head to Mr. Henry’s back door. “It’s now or never,” Margaret said, glancing doubtfully at Casey. “Think we can do this?” She tried the door. Locked, as usual.

“No problem,” Casey said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Go get a paper clip. I’ll show you what my friend Kevin taught me last week.”

Margaret obediently found a paper clip on her desk and brought it to him. Casey straightened the clip out, then poked it into the lock. In a few seconds, he hummed a triumphant fanfare and pulled the door open.

“Now you’re an expert lock picker, huh? Your friend Kevin is a good guy to know,” Margaret said, shaking her head.

Casey grinned and motioned for Margaret to go first.

“Okay. Let’s not think about it. Let’s just do it,” Margaret said, summoning her courage and stepping onto the landing.

A few seconds later, they were in the basement.

Knowing a little of what to expect down here didn’t make it any less frightening. They were hit immediately by a blast of steamy, hot air. The air, Margaret realized, was so wet, so thick, that droplets immediately clung to her skin.

Squinting against the sudden bright light, they stopped in the doorway to the plant room. The plants seemed taller, thicker, more plentiful than the first time they had ventured down here.

Long, sinewy tendrils drooped from thick yellow stalks. Broad green and yellow leaves bobbed and trembled, shimmering under the white light. Leaves slapped against each other, making a soft, wet sound. A fat tomato plopped to the ground.

Everything seemed to shimmer. The plants all seemed to quiver expectantly. They weren’t standing still. They seemed to be reaching up, reaching out, quaking with energy as they grew.

Long brown tendrils snaked along the dirt, wrapping themselves around other plants, around each other. A bushy fern had grown to the ceiling, curved, and started its way back down again.

“Wow!” Casey cried, impressed with this trembling, glistening jungle. “Are all these plants really brand-new?”

“I guess so,” Margaret said softly. “They look prehistoric!”

They heard breathing sounds, loud sighing, a low moan coming from the direction of the supply closet against the wall.

A tendril suddenly swung out from a long stalk. Margaret pulled Casey back. “Look out. Don’t get too close,” she warned.

“I know,” he said sharply, moving away from her. “Don’t grab me like that. You scared me.”

The tendril slid harmlessly to the dirt.

“Sorry,” she said, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “It’s just… well, you remember last time.”

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

Margaret shuddered.

She heard breathing. Steady, quiet breathing.

These plants are definitely not normal, she thought. She took a step back, letting her eyes roam over the amazing jungle of slithering, sighing plants.

She was still staring at them when she heard Casey’s terrified scream.

“Help! It’s got me! It’s got me!”

Margaret uttered a shriek of terror and spun away from the plants to find her brother.

“Help!” Casey cried.

Gripped with fear, Margaret took a few steps toward Casey, then saw the small, gray creature scampering across the floor.

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