The Reality Conspiracy (38 page)

Something heavy hit a branch. Jeff tensed, looked up. A red squirrel vanished into a shadow. Somewhere beyond, a woodpecker tapped Morse code on a hollow limb.

Movement caught Jeff's eye! A flash of white darted among columns of dark tree trunks. Was it an animal?

There it was again! A good fifty yards away. An animal, yes. Moving on all fours. Whitish. Fleshy colored. The overall impression was of a starving pig with something—a snake?—in its mouth?

He took a step toward it, but it was gone.

"You all right up there, Jeffrey?"

He turned to see Alton approaching slowly.

"Y-yes. I'm fine. A bit perplexed, but fine."

The older man was close enough for Jeff to see his eyes darting around. Alton's face was slick with sweat. "You 'bout through? What say we head on down? I've had about enough of this mountain climbin'."

"Okay, fine by me." No point in prolonging this.

"You still want to stop in, talk to Daisy Dubois?"

"Sure, why not?"

Burlington, Vermont

W
eird
, Karen thought, gazing at the bay from her office window,
really weird
.

The arrival of Jeff Chandler and Casey had turned her life upside-down. Now her whole sense of reality seemed to be warping beneath the added weight of her surprise house guests. Suddenly, right out of the blue, she was forced to consider such way-out notions as unidentified flying objects, holes in the sky, murder by computer, and all sorts of new-age science fiction nonsense that could scare her silly if she thought about it enough.

What's happening
, she thought.

Last night's scene at the condo had made sleep difficult. And, good as it felt, she had lain awake far too long in Jeffrey's arms.

Today she was paying the price: she felt drained, listless. And goodness, she had so much catching up to do! Where did all this work come from? Where should she start?

Karen stiffened her spine, forcing herself to concentrate on business. She looked at her appointment calendar. Ah, no one scheduled after lunch. She'd use the time to tackle some dictation. But for now, she'd work her way through the pile of notes and phone messages.

She picked up her short stack of pink "While You Were Out" slips. Right on top was a message from Officer Chaput of the St. Albans Police Department. Oh, Jeez, she still hadn't called him back! She read, "Called again. Wants you to phone and set up an appointment to discuss Lucy Washburn's disappearance." Laura had underlined the message in red ink.

The second message reminded her of another call she still hadn't made. It was from Dr. Gudhausen's secretary, giving her the name of the therapist Dr. Gudhausen had wanted to consult about Lucy's MPD.

A priest
, Karen thought.
Why a priest?

The words "St. Mark's College, Utica, NY" were clear and easy to read, but she had to squint to make out the name.

Father Wm. Sullivan—Psych. Dept.

Funny. That name sure looked familiar. Maybe she'd read one of his papers in a journal or something.

She picked up the telephone, determined to satisfy her curiosity about the priest before talking to Officer Chaput.

She began to press the buttons.

Hobston, Vermont

E
ven in the bright midday sun the house looked dark.

Jeff and Alton cut across lots, wading through a field of hip-length timothy dappled with buttercups. As they walked, Jeff studied the old place. The clapboarding had weathered dull brown, rust blemished the tin roof, and the porch sagged like the spine of a dying beast. Odd not to see power lines running to the structure. It was like a scene from another age.

Much of the barn roof had collapsed. Huge hand-hewn beams were visible through a hole, its edges scaled with rectangles of slate. Glassless windows looked in on darkness.

The whole dying farmyard seemed like a monument to a way of life that had all but passed.

"It doesn't look like anybody's home," Jeff said. "The place looks deserted."

"Naw," Alton assured him. "Daisy's there. She's probably got an eye on us right now, wonderin' who we are and what we're up to. Pretty quick, soon as she knows it's me, you'll see her out on the porch waving. You wait an' see what I tell you."

But she didn't appear as the men moved closer.

"That's funny," said Alton as he stopped and stared at the barn.

"What?" Jeff stopped, too.

"Lookit that, looks like there's a car in the barn."

"So?"

"Daisy and Stu never had no car."

The back end of what appeared to be a station wagon was vaguely visible beyond the open barn door.

"Maybe she has company," Jeff said.

They detoured a bit to investigate. When they moved close enough, Alton remarked, "Massachusetts plates, ain't that right?"

Jeff nodded, recognizing the familiar design. "Maybe we shouldn't intrude. She may not appreciate the kinds of questions I want to ask. Not in front of guests."

"Prob'ly won't appreciate 'em anytime."

Smiling, Jeff collected his thoughts, reviewed the things he wanted to ask the old woman. Had she seen or heard anything strange on that day back in—

"Alton?"

"Yessir."

"Tell me again when it happened. What was the date that you and Mr. Dubois were up here, do you remember?"

"Remember, hell, I'll never forget. It was huntin' season. First day of huntin' season, jest last year."

"But the date . . ."

"It was on a Thursday. November twelfth. Why?"

"Just trying to get the facts straight."

Something about that date stuck in Jeff's mind. It seemed to click over and over as if it were a record skipping on a turntable. He just couldn't recall, but something about it—Thursday, November twelfth, last year—made him uncomfortable. Yes, that was it—uncomfortable. Somehow, he seemed to associate that date with discomfort, pain. His mind was spinning. His subconscious wrestled with a memory that he couldn't bring into focus.

"What's the matter, Jeffrey?"

Jeff realized he had stopped walking. He was staring at the ground as if he were in a trance. "There's something about that date . . . something I can almost remember. . . ."

Then it was there, like a vision illuminated behind his eyes. The date came into focus like a picture on a TV screen.

The tape! The videotape he had stolen from the Academy. The recording of the execution victim had been made on November twelfth of last year!

"Holy shit," Jeff said to no one. "Holy fucking shit!"

"Somethin' wrong, Jeffrey?"

"No . . . ah, nothing wrong, exactly." He was in motion again, striding toward the house. "Come on, Mr. Barnes. Let's go have a talk with Mrs. Dubois."

Jeff studied the house as he approached it. He could swear nobody was home. Even on this warm afternoon the windows and the side door were closed. No motion was obvious beyond the dark glass. It was as if nighttime filled the place.

Their pace slowed as they crossed the dooryard.

"I . . . ah . . . I got kind of a funny feelin' . . ." Alton said.

"Yeah," Jeff agreed, before he could rationalize the sensation away.

"Yeah, me, too."

Alton touched Jeff's arm. "Somethin' ain't jest right."

They stopped their approach.

"Daisy!" Alton called. He cleared his throat and tried it again, "Daisy!"

They waited. Jeff thought he saw motion inside, but it was only the reflection of an airborne bird in an upstairs windowpane. The men looked at each other.

"Cats," Alton said.

"What?"

"Daisy's cats. I don't see her cats. They oughtta be climbin' all over us by now."

"Come on," Jeff said, leading the way to the porch step.

A car horn blared. Rapid staccato blasts caused both men to look at the road. A black Nissan was speeding toward them, leaving a cloud of dust thick as jet exhaust.

"That's Karen's car," Jeff said, turning in the driveway to meet her.

Before the Nissan had ground to a halt, Karen was opening the door.

"Jeff, oh God—"

He ran to her. "Karen, what is it? What's wrong?"

She was panting as if she had been running. Her eyes were wide with something very like fear. Jeff watched as she struggled to control herself.

"Jeff . . . it may not be anything, but—"

"But what, Karen? What's the matter?"

"Jeff, it's Casey—"

"What's wrong with her? Has something happened?"

"I . . . I don't know."

He grabbed her by the biceps. "What about Casey?"

Karen took a deep breath. "I . . . phoned her at lunchtime. Just wanted to say hi. I thought she might be lonely or something. She didn't answer the phone. I figured maybe she'd just gone outside. But the more I thought about it, the more worried I got. She still didn't answer when I tried her again, so I drove home. She was gone, Jeff. The house was locked and she was gone. I looked all over for her."

"Well . . . well . . ." Jeff shook his head. "Maybe she just . . . just. Oh Christ, where could she go?'

Karen stared at him.

"We'd better get back there," he said. "I'll ride with you. Alton's got his own car."

After a hurried good-bye, Jeff and Karen were in the Nissan, racing down the hill.

Alton stood alone in the dooryard. He looked one last time at the house, then at his car where it waited down the road at a turnoff.

Before he could make a move he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. The side door to the house was opening.

A bent figure stood in the deep interior shadow.

"D-Daisy?"

"Alton Barnes, is that you?" It was Daisy Dubois's voice.

"Yes, ma'am, it is."

"Why, I thought that was you out there. Come in quickly, can you? I need your help with something."

Waterville, Vermont

H
is breathing eased. His thoughts slowed. The anger passed.

He could see it perfectly now: there'd been no real reason to get so angry. He had let Winston the orderly get under his skin. And he'd lost his temper again. For the first time in weeks.

Now he was flat on his back and shot full of Thorazine. And nothing, nothing in the whole world seemed important enough to get angry about.

All he had wanted to do was use the phone, to call that priest—Father Sullivan—over to Hobston, and to tell him the rest of the stuff about the bad thing in the church.

Clement Barry should have known this would happen. Every time he talked about the thing in the church, people thought he was crazy. And this time, wow, he had really lost it. God, he'd definitely blown it this time, but good.

"Why do you want to use the phone, Clem?" Winston had demanded. Winston's eyes were always half-closed and he always looked as if he were squinting down his nose at you.

"I . . . that priest, Father Sullivan, he asked me to call if I remembered anything else."

"Anything else about what, Clem?"

"About the church. You know, the church in Hobston. I used to be an altar boy there."

"Hobston's a long-distance call. You got any money, Clem?"

"No, I . . . I thought maybe I could use the phone in Dr. Ramsland's office."

"What's the matter with the pay phone?"

"I t-t-told you. I don't have no . . . any money."

"Maybe one of the nurses will let you use the phone at the nurses' station. You could ask, you know."

By then Clem was grinding the fist of his right hand into the palm of his left. "N-no . . . be-be-cause I need to speak in private. I need to speak to the priest. It's im-im-important."

"What could be so important that you can't tell me about it?"

"He . . . he's at that church. And something . . . you know . . . bad happened at that church."

When he realized Winston had tricked him into talking about it, the passion had come like a flame igniting at the base of his skull. His face heated as if sunburned. His fists clenched at his sides.

He pushed Winston out of the way and ran down the tiled hallway toward Dr. Ramsland's office.

When he slammed his shoulder against the wooden door it burst open, surprising Ramsland who was talking with a patient. The patient looked up in horror and started to scream.

Clem had tried to say that he needed to use the phone, but before he could explain, Rarnsland was screeching for the orderly.

"The priest. I gotta talk to the priest," Clem shouted. He turned and bolted from the office, but failed to see Winston's foot.

Sprawling on the floor, Clem felt Winston sitting on his back. Then he felt the prick of the needle as it penetrated his shoulder.