The Reality Conspiracy (12 page)

Even in the darkened room Ed could clearly see how his daughter's face began to contort. Grotesquely rippling, flattening, stretching, and pulling into the frightful mask he had seen far too many times before: it was Splitfoot.

Randy moved aside as Lucy approached, but he never took the sharp chisel away from Ed's chest. The hideously smiling girl stepped up to her paralyzed father, dropped to her knees between his dead legs. She tugged his belt away from his stomach and unbuckled it.

Then, leering at him, the tip of her pink tongue tucked into the corner of her lips, she undid his zipper. "Come on, Daddy," she said in Splitfoot's voice, "haven't you been thinking about this? Haven't you been wanting it?"

She parted the fly of his boxer shorts, reached inside.

Somewhere in the midst of Ed's terror and humiliation, there was still a shrinking oasis of rational thought. Before it too surrendered to hysteria, Ed discovered that he was erect.

"I wouldn't want my daddy to die without making his most secret birthday wish come true."

She bent forward, holding his member in both cold hands. She kissed it with icy lips, then took it into her mouth.

In a moment she stopped, looked up at him, an offended pout on her lips. "Oh, but you're not moving, Daddy. Don't you like it?"

Ed felt the sweat streaming down his face, trickling over his ribs beneath his arms. He felt the icy edge of Randy's chisel pressed tightly against his chest. Its broad metal tooth ready, but it wasn't biting yet.

He thought of Lucy's wire braces as she leered up at him.

"You know what might be fun, Daddy? Wouldn't it be fun to see if you can keep from moving all on your own? Let's try it, can we? See if you can hold perfectly still, okay?"

"NO!" he roared. The word exploded from his mouth and he knew he was in control again.

The actions that followed came more from pent-up panic than rational thought. He rolled to the side, away from Randy and the chisel's shiny blade, pushing Lucy back with his legs.

And he sprang to his feet.

Winnie was right behind him. She snapped the hairy whip around his throat and pulled it tight. God she was strong! She was lifting him off his feet.

This time he could scream. The blade of the carpenter's chisel found the skin of his arm. Its bite felt like a fiery razor. It seemed to cut and burn at the same time.

Somehow he was able to shift his weight to the left. That pulled Winnie slightly off balance, just enough so they both staggered. Ed smashed her hand with his own and she let go of her braid. Enraged, Winnie screamed like a demon. She kicked at him savagely, but missed his genitals.

Now he had his balance. He raced toward the front door.

It wouldn't open.

Desperately he turned the key on the deadbolt, first left, then right, all the time shaking the heavy door. By the time he realized it was useless, they were all over him.

He felt the blade of the chisel slice into his shoulder, heard it shred the back of his shirt. Whirling, Ed caught the glazed expressions on his attackers. Mindlessly, he bolted toward the hall, screaming as he went.

Winnie's hair caught him slightly, stinging like an electric fence. He didn't slow down.

It was a short dash along the hallway and into the spare bedroom. There! No more than five paces in front of him: his gun rack on the wall between the two windows.

Something relaxed when he touched the blue metal of the shotgun barrel. It was a familiar sensation. It was sanity and order.

As he lifted down his twelve-gauge, he groped in the drawer for shells. "Please God, let them be here."

Winnie appeared in the doorway, teeth bare, growling like an animal.

Ed pushed the fourth shell into the magazine.

Advancing, she held the end of her braid as if it were a pistol. Ed lifted the shotgun.

Winnie took a step forward just as Randy tore around the door frame and into the room. He didn't stop. He didn't look around. He just lunged at his father, swiping at him with the bloody chisel. The boy's body was a wild and mindless beast. He growled and snarled.

Ed stepped to the side. Randy's swift attack with the blade missed the target. The boy lost his balance, almost tumbled.

"Yes! Yes!" Winnie screamed.

Ed pulled the trigger.

The fiery roar was deafening in the small room. Scores of invisible pellets smacked the child against the carpeted floor. Warm blood splattered Ed's face. His son lay still, one chubby hand twitched and flexed.

"Yes, Edmund, yes. Calm down now." Winnie inched toward him.

Somehow, in that minuscule reserve of sanity, Ed realized it was his panic that was protecting him. The thing that had been his wife could not control him when he couldn't control himself.

But his rational thinking had gone on far too long; it had a deadly calming effect. She continued to speak soothingly as he felt the joints of his elbows begin to freeze up like rusty hinges. "Yes, Edmund, we need the deaths. Yessssss."

The shotgun was suddenly immensely heavy.

Winnie smiled almost prettily; she knew she was getting to him again. "Yes, that's right, you know what we need . . ."

Ed concentrated, willed his fingers to move.

"I won't calm down," he screamed.

And he fired.

Andover, Massachusetts

Saturday, June 18

H
erbert Gold woke up at six o'clock, just as he did every morning. He showered, shaved, and vigorously brushed his close crop of wiry copper hair. All the time he grinned at himself in the bathroom mirror. Then he dressed and walked downstairs to the kitchen. His wife, Dora, moved silently from refrigerator to counter. She wore a floor-length, pink terry-cloth robe with long full sleeves. When she had first worn the robe, more than a year ago. Herbert had said she looked like a pink ghost. This morning he said nothing at all.

Dora put on water for instant coffee, put bread into the toaster oven, and set out the NutriGrain Wheat & Raisins beside a half gallon of one percent milk.

Herbert sat down and grunted a reluctant good morning.

"We got no juice," she told him. "Wish just once you'd think to stop and pick up juice."

"I can do without it," Herbert said.

"Well I can't," she told him. "You know how I like my juice in the morning."

Her breakfast responsibility completed. Dora left him alone in the kitchen and went back upstairs. Herbert knew she would crawl back into bed and stay there, watching television until he had left for work. On weekdays, her habit was to stay in bed at least until the end of the Donahue Show. But this was a Saturday. What would she do up there on a Saturday? Watch cartoons?

After a while she'd shower for about thirty minutes, steaming up the bathroom. And then? God knows what.

One thing for sure—even if she went grocery shopping, she wouldn't buy any juice. That had become his job now, even if Dora had to do without it for a month.

The moment his wife was out of sight, Herbert dumped his cereal and coffee into the garbage disposal, rinsed the dirty dishes, grabbed his lunch pail, and left the house.

His station wagon was at the curb.

Herbert crossed the lawn and got in, just like every morning. Then he drove to the stop sign at the end of the street.

This morning, however, instead of making his usual right turn and heading north to work, Herbert turned left.

Going south.

Toward Boston.

Boston, Massachusetts

A
fter finishing an expensive room-service breakfast, Karen began to pack her suitcase for the drive back to Vermont.

It was almost a quarter to eleven, and Dr. Gudhausen still hadn't phoned. Yesterday he had agreed to do a little research, maybe call a colleague or two, then get back to her with whatever insight he could offer about treating Lucy Washburn. Their plan had been to meet, maybe have lunch, before Karen left for home.

So why hadn't he called? Had she failed to impress on him that she had to check out of her hotel room by eleven?

Or had he been humoring her from the start, politely feigning professional interest in the strange coincidence she had discovered?

Of course not! That was her insecurity talking; Dr. Gudhausen had not been faking interest. He had been concerned, even, it seemed, a little nervous. The whole bizarre situation clearly had started his mental wheels turning, she was sure of it'. "If I were a superstitious man," Dr. Gudhausen had said, "I'd be pretty spooked right now. I've seen a lot of these MPD situations, but never anything quite like this. It's . . . well, frankly, Karen, it's uncanny. The only conclusion I can jump to right now is that Lucy Washburn and Herbert Gold have somehow stored separate sets of identical memories, assimilated independently, but apparently from the same source. Highly unlikely, I admit. It would have to be something they've both experienced, but experienced distinctly separate from one another: a movie, perhaps, or something on television? Possibly a book? Maybe even a magazine article? Who can say?" He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Lame, I admit, but beyond that, I'm stumped."

Karen glanced at her watch. Ten to eleven. Okay, she'd wait exactly ten more minutes, then go to the lobby, check out, and call Dr. Gudhausen from a pay phone. Still, it irritated her: his time was no more valuable than her own. Alter she'd traveled all this way, could he really expect her to hang around a hotel room waiting for his call?

Karen had to bare down with all her weight to close her suitcase.
Jeez
, she laughed to herself,
I come to Boston for two days and I bring clothes enough for a week!
It was a good thing, though, because she'd had a pretty dress to wear at dinner last night with Jeff.

She picked up the bulging suitcase and put it by the door. Then she leaned her attaché case against it and looked around the room for things forgotten.

Yes, by gosh, it
had
been a pleasant evening, in spite of her initial reservations. Jeff was bright and entertaining—
rather silly actually
, she thought, then quickly added—in an endearing sort of way. In retrospect, she was pleased with herself for not running away before he had arrived at the restaurant. If she had, true to her entrenched patterns of behavior, she'd have spent the entire evening cursing herself for her cowardice. Oh, she had blown similar situations before. Over and over she kept learning the same lesson: sometimes it's good to be a little adventurous; sometimes a bit of courage pays off.

The bottom line, of course, was that she'd had a great evening. She wanted to see Jeff again. She just hoped he felt the same way. Did he?

Well, she'd find out soon enough. A good indication would be whether he would follow through on that trip to Burlington they had talked about.

The phone rang.

Karen jumped a little, having all but given up on Dr. Gudhausen. She stepped quickly around the unmade bed and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Dr. Bradley?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, good; glad I caught you. Stan Gudhausen here. Look, I'm sorry about cutting this so close to the wire, but I've been trying to track down an old friend of mine. Haven't accomplished much of anything except running up my Sprint bill. Anyway, the guy's a priest. A Jesuit psychologist. Crackerjack clinician. Listen, Doctor, if I may, I'd like to invite myself up to Vermont for a day or two. I think I'd like to examine that little Washburn girl in person, if that would be all right with you?"

"Oh yes, yes of course. It would be a great privilege—"

"Privilege nothing. I think, Doctor, that we may be on to something rather disturbing here. Look, I wonder If I can talk you into delaying your return trip to Burlington for an hour or so. I'd like to get some things together and ride up with you, that is if you don't mind a hitchhiker. We'll have plenty of time to talk in the car. Then I can catch a flight back."

"Yes, certainly, of course."

"I'll need an hour and a half, max. That'll give me time to make some arrangements and get a few things cleared up before I leave."

"Okay, sure."

"Can you pick me up at my office?"

"Just tell me when."

"Shall we make it one o'clock?"

"One o'clock it is. Thanks for calling. Oh, Dr. Gudhausen—"

But he had already hung up.

Montreal, Quebec

T
he brasserie on Maisonneuve was quiet and dark at midday. As they entered, the two priests attracted surprised glances and pleasant greetings. "Hello, Father," the bartender said directly to Sullivan.

"How do they know to speak to me in English?"

LeClair smiled mysteriously. "We can just tell."

They sat down at a table and gave their orders to a buxom young waitress in a white peasant blouse.

Father Sullivan had polished off three Molson ales before he finished his thick smoked meat sandwich. LeClair drank sparkling cider and picked at his
poutine
, a platter of french fries swimming in brown gravy and melted cheese. Little swirls of steam rose from the potatoes.