WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

for my age. Mentally and emotionally mature, I mean. But if I start telling wild

stories about . . . about monsters, they’re going to think I’m not so mature

after all, and maybe they’ll figure I’m not responsible enough to take care of

the horses, and so maybe they’ll slow down the breeding plans. I won’t risk

that, Mr. Johnson. No, sir. So as far as I’m concerned, it was a loco coyote.

But . .

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me . . . is there any chance it’ll come back?”

“I don’t think so. But it would be wise, for a while, not to go out to the

stable at night. All right?”

“All right,” she said. Judging by her haunted expression, she would remain

indoors after dusk for weeks to come.

They left the room, thanked Dr. Selbok for his cooperation, and went down to the

hospital’s parking garage. Dawn had not yet arrived, and the cavernous concrete

structure was empty, desolate. Their footsteps echoed hollowly off the wails.

Their cars were on the same floor, and Walt accompanied Lem to the green,

unmarked NSA sedan. As Lem put the key in the door to unlock it, Walt looked

around to be sure they were alone, then said, “Tell me.”

‘‘Can’t.”

‘‘I’ll find out.”

“You’re off the case.”

“So take me to court. Get a bench warrant.”

“I might.”

“For endangering the national security.”

“It would be a fair charge.”

“Throw my ass in jail.”

“I might,” Lem said, though he knew he would not.

Curiously, though Walt’s doggedness was frustrating and more than a little

irritating, it was also pleasing to Lem. He had few friends, of which Walt was

the most important, and he liked to think the reason he had few friends was

because he was selective, with high standards. If Walt had backed off entirely,

if he had been completely cowed by federal authority, if he’d been able to turn

off his Curiosity as easily as turning off a light switch, he would have been

slightly tarnished and diminished in Lein’s eyes.

“What reminds you of a dog and an ape and has yellow eyes?” Walt asked. “Aside

from your mama, that is.”

“You leave my mama out of this, honky,” Lem said. Smiling in spite of himself,

he got into the car.

Walt held the door open and leaned down to look in at him. “What in the name of

God escaped from Banodyne?”

“I told you this has nothing to do with Banodyne.”

“And the fire they had at the labs the next day . . . did they set it themselves

to destroy the evidence of what they’d been up to?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lem said wearily, thrusting the key into the ignition.

“Evidence could be destroyed in a more efficient and less drastic manner. if

there was evidence to destroy. Which there isn’t. Because Banodyne has nothing

to do with this.”

Lem started the car, but Walt would not give up. He held the door open and

leaned in even closer to be heard above the rumble of the engine: “Genetic

engineering. That’s what they’re involved with at Banodyne. Tinkering with

bacteria and virus to make new bugs that do good deeds like manufacture insulin

or eat oil slicks. And they tinker with the genes of plants as well, I guess, to

produce corn that grows in acidic soil or wheat that thrives with half the usual

water. We always think of gene tinkering as being done on a small scale—plants

and germs. But could they screw around with an animal’s genes so it produced

bizarre offspring, a whole new species? Is that what they’ve done, and is that

what’s escaped from Banodyne?”

Lem shook his head exasperatedly. “Walt, I’m not an expert on recombinant DNA,

but I don’t think the science is nearly sophisticated enough to work with any

degree of confidence on that sort of thing. And what would be the point, anyway?

Okay, just supposing they could make a weird new animal by fiddling with the

genetic structure of an existing species—what use would there be for it? I mean,

aside from exhibition in a carnival freak show?”

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