Hulk Peter David (best motivational novels txt) 📖

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