Weed

  Chapter 8

  The morning papers carried the story on page fourteen; not violent or sexy enough for the front page.

  Last Saturday, the police located the body of local industrialist Hans von Oerschott, owner and director of Oerschott Paper & Plastics and Oerschott Medicals. He had been missing for a week and homicide is conjectured. On Tuesday, his secretary, Josephine Cowley, was taken into custody as a principle suspect and released on bail. Today, the Times-Gazette has learned that Miss Cowley is now missing.

  Charles had set the paper at the breakfast table, opened to page fourteen, and I was now reading the article, sipping black coffee and ignoring the mushroom omelet.

  "Miss Fleetsmith, the immigration authorities called again, yesterday," Charles said.

  "Mmm."

  "They insist that we bring Penny in by the end of the week, for deportation."

  "Mmm."

  "She can no longer remain in the country as an illegal alien. They admit that the border official made an error in admitting her in the first place—even temporarily."

  "Mmm." I held out my cup and Charles filled it. I was only vaguely aware of what Charles was saying, but I do remember fluttering my baby-blues at the border official.

  Charles sat opposite, pouring himself a coffee. "I feel that her life is in danger, should she return to the Chokli. That would justify her entry as a refugee, escaping from social injustice and—"

  I looked up. "Charles. Do what you think is best. I know you'd like to keep her around, teach her a few things. How're the lessons going, by the way?"

  "Splendid," he said. "She learns quite rapidly."

  "I'm sure." I folded the paper, tossed it on the table. I'd spend the day at the lab, removing Dermafix skin from several mice and one small dog named Poo, a reflection of his penchant for filling the cage with fecal matter.

  Charles reached across the table pulled my plate to his side, and finished my omelet. With that appetite how did he remain so slim? Slim, did I say? Downright skinny. And me, I seemed to have mastered the art of accumulating mass in the ass.

  It was late when I finally collapsed into the overstuffed chair in the lab. As usual the room was dark except for the lights above my work bench. Earlier in the week I had removed the hair from rats and Poo, inflicted a small wound and rubbed the skin with Dermafix. In every case but one, the wound healed nicely. A scab had formed within hours of inflicting the wound. Upon application of the Dermafix, the scab had been slowly assimilated by either the salve or the skin itself. It wasn't clear which. Perhaps the organic makeup of the scab had been modified. Perhaps it had been absorbed by the skin. In any case, within twenty four hours the area was smooth, without any sign of the scar. After discovering that the smooth surface was just a covering, I had removed the Dermafix skin from some mice to find the remains of the wound. In others I had waited several days before removing the membrane and found that the wound had almost vanished.

  The one case was the dog, Poo. He had died, but in a most peculiar manner. The Dermafix skin had grown to encase his body. With hairless body, wrapped in a membrane, the dog had apparently suffocated. The entire process of encasement had taken place in less than twenty four hours!

  Shit! It didn't make sense. It shouldn’t have happened that way! I was being stupid, unprofessional, an idiot scientist, careless … besides, I had become attached to that little mutt. I buried him in the garden which surrounded the lab. Dermafix, random ... unpredictable. Mice okay. Poo dead. Shit! I sat with elbows on the bench, holding my head in my hands, hearing only the sound of my breathing.

  There was a noise at the window, a tapping noise, at the end of the lab.

  I reached over to the switch on the wall and flooded the room with fluorescent light. The tapping stopped. I walked slowly to the window. It had been raining lightly all evening and there was neither moon nor stars in the black sky. I peered out the barred window and saw it backing away, across the lawn. A white shape, glowing briefly, then vanishing.

  "What the hell?" I said aloud. I wasn't sure I was asking a question.

  Then I saw it. Something was attached to the outside of the window. A note. It was attached to the window but I couldn’t read it. I ran to the lab door, slammed it behind me and heard the lock click into place. Down the hall I went, out into the damp night. The grass was wet and slippery and I skidded to the window by the lab, fell and landed on my ass. Well-padded, maybe, but it still hurt. The basement lab had a row of small windows barely above ground level, behind metal bars, and one window waved a small note, attached to the window with what looked like chewing gum. I slithered up to the window, still on my ass, and pulled the note from the window.

  Fran: I didn't do it. Please help me. Something terrible has happened. Josey

  Josey? That white shape I saw backing away from the window? Hans' secretary, Josey?

  I jumped up, ran back to the front of the building, quickly locked the massive door to the lab, then headed for the parking lot. I had left the top down on my Porsche and the seats were soaked. "Shit!" I slid into the puddle of rain on the seat and started the car. Did I know where Josey lived? No. It started to rain again. I could only grunt. The roof hadn't been working for some time. It would remain open. "Shit." Slowly, I drove down the driveway to the road. Josey would probably have a key to Hans' apartment. Would she be there? Not likely. The police were looking for her. She'd be home, wherever that was. But would she? Maybe not. The police would have her apartment building under surveillance.

  I stopped at the end of the drive, hesitated, then turned right. Had I remembered to lock the lab? Yes. Did I know where I was going? No.

  I glanced through the rearview mirror. The road was dark and deserted. Then I saw the reflection, a ghostlike figure in the rearview mirror. There was somebody in the back seat!

  I jammed on the emergency brakes, opened the door and slid out of the Porsche, falling onto the road. The car swerved sharply to the right, hit the curb and stopped abruptly. I watched the pale figure in the back seat fall forward and lean motionless against the front seats. I waited, sitting on the wet road, but there was no sign of movement from within the car. Slowly I pushed myself to my feet, walked cautiously to the back door, pulled it open. A body fell out, covered in wisps of cream colored fluff, a pale cocoon. I gasped. What the Christ was it? I stepped back as the figure rolled over and raised a white and silken hand.

  "Fran, is that you?" The head turned, Josey's eyes glowing through a chalky web. "Lordy, lordy, what's happening to me?"

  Charles had heard my car enter the garage and had already poured a martini when we arrived. He knew I'd want a short drink, sitting before the fire. I'd normally spend a half hour describing my successes and failures in the lab—mostly failures— then I'd go to bed. Charles would put my glass on the coffee table, throw another log on the fire ... but, not tonight. This wasn't your usual return-from-work.

  "Charles! Give me a hand!"

  He wasn't prepared for what he saw. I half-dragged the large white object into the kitchen, seating it at the table.

  "Get a knife. Better still, get some scissors."

  When Charles returned with the large shearing scissors, I was tearing the fluffy membrane away from the body. It wasn't smooth; it was fuzzy. That rang a bell. I had seen it before. Something fluffy. Somewhere, but where?

  "Fran ... can't hardly breath," the body said.

  "Is that Miss Josey?" Charles asked. "Is that Dermafix?"

  I began cutting the thin coating away from Josey's face, starting about the mouth. Josey was gagging.

  "Breath deeply," I demanded. "Through your mouth. It's almost clear." I turned to Charles. "Chuck, don't just stand there. Get another scissors and help. We've got to get this stuff off ... it's expanding. I'll keep the mouth and nose clear. You start on the other end, her feet, so she can walk, her hands so she can help."

  Charles ran out, returning with a small scissors. He began at
once to cut away the membrane about Josey's hands, bound to her sides by a satin web. The smooth film seemed to fall away in strands, then froth, the cream-colored foam turning immediately to a pale fluff which clung to her skin, bubbling and expanding. The scissors were useless in removing the froth. I couldn't believe how rapidly the stuff grew to encase the body. It was Poo all over again. Shit!

  "Charles, carry her to the shower. Maybe we can wash it off as it turns to foam. I'll cut the Dermafix skin and you can wash away the fluff as it forms. Hurry!"

  Charles didn't notice, but I did. The native girl, Penny the Pelvis, was standing at the top of the stairs. She was smiling.