Hulk (19 page)

Bruce simply stared at it, inscrutable. He could see what Ross was up to. Some people, when faced with an awkward situation accompanied by silence, would blather out explanations and, in doing so, make things worse for themselves. Ross clearly was hoping that Bruce would try to come up with some way of explaining why parts of his clothing had been found back in the laboratory. Three or four explanations immediately occurred to Bruce that would seem nice, reasonable, “normal” rationalizations of this odd happenstance, but none of them would be the truth, since he wasn’t entirely certain what the truth was. Furthermore, it would just give Ross an excuse to start hammering away at everything Bruce was saying, and that would be of no benefit to Bruce at all. So, instead, he kept his silence.

Several long moments passed, and then annoyance flickered over Ross’s face. “Keep him under observation,” he snapped at the MPs. “I’ll be back.”

Ross turned and walked out of the room. Banner looked mildly at the MPs, whose faces were so serious that they could have been etched out of marble.

“I’m sure he’s very sweet once you get to know him,” Bruce deadpanned.

Their expressions suggested otherwise.

When Betty Ross was a little girl, she’d always felt as if her father could read her mind, that no matter what she was thinking, somehow those eyes of his could just bore straight into her head and pick out whatever bits of information he wanted. So as Betty approached her car, the little girl within her jumped when she heard her father call to her from behind. Her adult mind assured her that there was absolutely no way her father could discern what she was thinking at the moment—that she possessed information to which he had no access.

Nevertheless she did freeze for a moment, with the knowledge of what she was going to do and whom she was going to seek out uppermost in her mind, and she worried, however unreasonably, that he was going to be able to tell.

You’re an adult. Act like one
, she thought as Ross came up behind her. She drew in a deep breath and turned to face him.

“What?” she asked.

“Stop and listen,” he said. He started to reach out to take her by the shoulders, but her body language made it clear that such a touch would be unwelcome. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, his hands extended, and then he lowered them. But his voice was fervent as he said, “I need you, even just for a few days, to trust me. I’m going to do everything I can to sort this out. And I promise . . . your friend in there, no matter what kind of a mess he’s in, I’ll make sure he’s cared for.”

The assurance almost made her want to laugh. Thunderbolt Ross hadn’t particularly cared about his own daughter for years, but the milk of human kindness was going to be spilling over for his daughter’s erstwhile boyfriend? She wasn’t exactly convinced.

Her father continued, even more firmly, “But as of right now he’s incommunicado. And for the next few days, at least, you’re going to stay away from here.”

The urge to laugh grew exponentially. Who the hell was he to think that—?

Then she saw the MPs all around, armed to the teeth. And she realized that nothing short of obtaining a lawyer for Bruce was going to get her anywhere near him again. And that was what she was going to have to do, as soon as she attended to another problem. A problem that, if solved, might provide answers to many questions about Bruce Krenzler, or Bruce Banner . . .

She shrugged, not giving her father so much as the benefit of a reply, and then climbed into her car and sped away.

Her plan was formulating in her head when her cell phone rang. She picked it up absently, knowing it wasn’t going to be Bruce and not caring all that much who else it might be if not him.

“Yes?” she said.

“Pull over,” came a sharp voice.

“Who . . . ?” And then she recognized it, and she was angling the car over to curb even before her mind fully processed the information. “Is . . . is this . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“How did . . . ?” She glanced around quickly, looking for some sign of him, suddenly nervous that he might be looking over her shoulder or standing near a tree with one or more of those bizarre dogs that Bruce had described. “Are you . . . watching me?”

“No, Dr. Ross, my spy satellite is unfortunately on the fritz,” he informed her with dry sarcasm.

“How did you get my cell phone number?”

“You called the lab last night. Caller ID is a wonderful invention, don’t you think?”

“You were there last night when Bruce . . . ?” She stopped, suddenly worried about giving something away.

“Yes,” he said silkily. “I was there. Quite a show. And you want to know all about it, I’ll wager. As a matter of fact, you were about to seek me out. You were going to drive over to the lab, check personnel records, that sort of thing. And please don’t bother to deny it.”

“I’m not denying it,” said Betty firmly. “Although I am interested in how you figured that out.” She was perturbed to find that she was clutching her phone far too tightly, practically jamming it against her ear.

“Because I’m brilliant, Dr. Ross. As brilliant as Bruce is, I’m more so.”

“And modest.”

“It’s a curse I live with,” he said sadly, and then chuckled. How charming to know that he amused himself to such a degree. “Doctor, I’m going to save both of us some time, particularly since you’ll never find the information you seek in the manner that you’re seeking it. Believe me when I tell you that the personnel records would be less than helpful. I’ve been far too thorough in that regard. But we can be of service to each other, because we both care very much about Bruce—it’s just that each of us does so in his or her own way. If we are of one accord, however, one mind, then all can benefit. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Yes.”

“Then write down the following address.”

She did so. It was an address on Jones Street over in Oakland. She knew the area of town; it wasn’t a particularly good one. She’d once gotten a flat tire there, and the fifteen minutes she’d taken to change it had been among the longest in her life. So she wasn’t entirely sanguine about the prospect of heading out there again voluntarily. But she didn’t see that she had any choice.

“I shall see you when you arrive,” came the voice. “And Dr. Ross—”

“Yes.”

“You’re an explorer. This will be a voyage of discovery. So . . . smile.”

The line went dead.

She hoped she wouldn’t be next.

crossing purposes

The area was exactly as unpleasant as she’d remembered it.
You’re insane; you’re going to die; get the hell out of here,
her common sense kept warning her, even as she turned off the ignition and got ready to step out of the car. Just to play it safe, she placed a lock on the steering wheel for additional security. Even as she clicked the bar into place, she decided that locking up the car was morbidly amusing. Her body could be lying in shreds in the backyard of this horrible house for weeks, picked clean by ravenous pooches and chortled over by a psychotic old man, but, hey, at least her car would still be here, impervious to robbers. Yes, wonderful. It’d probably be stripped as clean as her bones.

She’d briefly considered bringing someone with her, but couldn’t figure out who to ask. Her father? One of the MPs? Not bloody likely. The police? On what grounds? No one was accusing this man, even if he truly was Bruce’s father, of any crime. The police had nothing to question him about, and there was no way she was going to be able to explain it all to them.

What she needed was some big burly private detective, like the one the heroine was always able to find in mystery novels. The kind who was a sucker for a damsel in distress. But Betty wasn’t exactly inclined to think of herself in those terms, nor did she have time to start flipping through the Yellow Pages to try to locate someone who filled the fictional bill. Too much was happening too quickly, and Bruce’s future, his very life, might be hanging in the balance. So with that uncomfortable, if slightly overwrought thought festering within her, she walked slowly up to the front door.

She paused, took a deep breath, and was about to rap on the door when it swung open before she could knock.

Sure enough, there he was, the janitor who had brusquely informed her that Benny had passed away.
I wonder if he killed Benny
, she thought, and then banished the notion from her mind as simply being too paranoid.

She was startled to see that he had a genuinely nice smile. Betty would have thought there was a bit of Bruce in him, except Bruce rarely ever smiled, so it was difficult to find a basis for comparison. He bowed slightly, as if she were a duchess, and said in a quiet, almost gentle voice, “Dr. Ross. Please.” He gestured for her to step through, and for a moment she could hear a Transylvanian voice utter those famous words, “Enter freely and of your own will.” But the man known as Banner simply smiled once more and again indicated that she should cross the threshold.

She did so, and glanced around, but the light was dim and her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted. Dispensing with small talk, she said, “So. You are . . . his father.”

“He told you.” It was hard to tell whether he was pleased by the revelation or upset.

“He . . . mentioned you’d talked to him,” said Betty, deciding it would be best for the moment to provide Banner with as little information as possible. She still had no idea whether to trust the man, and her instincts were leaning toward the negative. “And I was interested, because I’ve always thought, if he could reconnect to the past, to himself . . .”

“. . . he would be a more suitable partner for you,” said the father.

There was something electric in the air, a palpable hostility that hovered there for a heartbeat, and then it was gone as she turned to look at Banner. He was maintaining his gentle, even-tempered gaze.

“Well, maybe, yes,” she admitted.

His tone was singsong and slightly wheedling—very likely it was what Satan sounded like while trying to convince a sucker that a soul was a burden that was useless in the long run. “Yes, but first you want to know what’s wrong with him; you want to fix him, cure him. Change him.”

“I . . .” She paused, not wanting to be pulled into a discussion of trying to remold Bruce into something other than what he was. It was an internal struggle she had fought many a time before, every time she’d felt a bout of guilt for wanting Bruce to be more open, more emotional. Opting to avoid that tar baby altogether, she said, “I want to help him.”

“And so you’ve brought your father down on his head.” There was bitterness and contempt in his voice, and Betty couldn’t entirely blame him, because she felt it herself. She had to admit that he was absolutely right. Her interest in Bruce, her work with him, had led to her father’s—and Talbot’s—interest in Bruce, and look where matters now stood. She wasn’t blaming herself entirely. She had a sense that there were far greater forces at work. Nevertheless, she did indeed feel some degree of culpability, and Banner was just clever enough to play upon that.

“How little you understand, Miss Ross. And how dangerous your ignorance has become.”

She blinked, lost in the train of logic. “I’m sorry?”

He gestured for her to sit. She did so. The chair wasn’t the most comfortable, and her eyes were beginning to adapt to the dimness. She was able to make out what appeared to be some sort of workstation, and there were pictures, pictures of Bruce. There was also a smell in the air that caused her to wrinkle her nose. It was definitely canine in nature. She didn’t hear any growling, didn’t feel that dogs were advancing on her, but the aroma of the animals was indisputable, and simply verified for her that Bruce’s descriptions of the man were more or less accurate. The air was hot, even oppressive, and Betty removed her coat and the light scarf that was draped around it, laying them back on the chair.

The old man didn’t sit opposite her, since there was no other chair. Instead he crouched, and in doing so bore a striking resemblance to a gargoyle. His eyes narrowed, and now they didn’t look remotely gentle or benevolent. Instead, there was something . . . frightening there. Something hidden.

“My son is . . . unique,” he said, lowering his voice as if someone might be listening just outside. He sounded concerned and even paranoid. His tone was not dissimilar to the slightly desperate air that Bruce had displayed earlier when he’d first told Betty of his encounters and experiences of the previous nights.

She wanted to ask Banner about what had occurred last night, what sort of . . . of bizarre change could have seized hold of Bruce, endowed him with power enough to become a one-man tornado. But she said nothing, spellbound as she was by the increasing fervor of the man’s words.

“And because he is unique, the world will not tolerate his existence. I’m afraid we’re both too late to help him. There’s nothing I can do for him, or for you. And besides, he’s made it clear he wants nothing to do with me. His choice.” He rose, his knees creaking. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Ross, I have some work to do.”

That was
it
? That was why he wanted to see her? To tell her that Bruce was effectively doomed? It seemed so insane. . . .

And then she saw the look in his eyes, and it occurred to Betty that insanity wasn’t only the name of the game, it was the only game in town. For half a moment, he had let slip what truly lay behind his eyes, and it was every nightmare, every collection of disgusting bugs that had ever been seen squirming around under a rock. It was right then that Betty abruptly realized that if she didn’t get the hell out of there, she wouldn’t be going anywhere, possibly ever.

“Of course,” she said, and rose quickly, grabbing up her coat. She did it so fast that she didn’t notice the scarf fluttering off the coat and landing on the floor. She was about to say something pointless such as “Good-bye” or “Have a nice evening,” but the inane social niceties froze in her throat and instead she just headed out the door as quickly as she could.

She heard a soft chuckle as she swung the door shut behind her, and fully expected someone or something to leap out at her as she sprinted for the curb, but nothing came. Betty hopped into her car and counted herself lucky as she gunned the engine and drove away. She had waltzed with the devil and survived for another dance, utterly unaware that the devil had her dance card.