The Reality Conspiracy (40 page)

He caught her staring. "And don't look at me like that, God damn it. I'm not paranoid, no matter what you're thinking."

She walked over to him, took both his hands in hers, looked directly into his eyes. Then, softly, "I know you're not paranoid, Jeff. I never thought that. And even if I had suspected it once, I wouldn't believe it now, not after getting to know you, not after spending so much time together. Not after what's happened. I think I understand what you're feeling: you're angry as can be and you're worried sick about your daughter. And you have every reason to be. But there are people who know how to deal with situations like this. You and I don't. Let's face it."

He couldn't hold her gaze. Eyes cast down, he almost toppled forward. Moving in slow motion he wrapped his arms around her. Then he began to cry, burying his face in her long hair.

"Oh God, Karen, she must be so scared, so . . . terrified. . . ."

She held him tightly, and then her own tears came. When she felt the strength in his arms relax a little, she said, "Here, let me get us a couple of drinks."

"Yeah," said Jeff, sniffing, trying to smile. "Yeah, good idea. Thanks."

She continued to talk to him as she crossed to the kitchen for a bottle and glasses. "We're bound to hear from them," she said. "Maybe any minute. If the Academy's security is as tight as you say, then they've already done a complete psychological workup on you. They'll gamble you won't go to the police. Look, they know you're out on a limb, otherwise they wouldn't have risked a stunt like this." Karen pulled an ice cube tray from the freezer.

"And that forces me to admit the other possibility," she went on, "the possibility that you're completely right about this. About everything. That the police are in on it. At least to the degree that they'll believe some government official's story before they'll believe ours. But either way, what can we do? We can't go out looking for her. Where would we start, for heaven's sake? Like it or not, it looks like the next move has to be theirs."

She handed Jeff a glass containing two shots of Canadian Club, one ice cube, and a splash of water. She'd made one just like it for herself. They sat side by side on the sofa. Jeff tapped the upholstered arm soundlessly.

"God, Karen. I'm awfully frightened for her." Jeff's voice was quiet, hoarse from shouting. "No matter what I told her, Casey could never realize the extent of what's going on here. I never prepared her for something like this. And she's always so trusting. . . . Of everybody. . . ."

"I bet you prepared her much better than you think. It may be easier for me to see that than it is for you."

"Yeah. Sure. But she's in over her head. And so am I." He pounded the arm of the couch. "Jesus, I should never have done it. If I hadn't played hero like this, if I hadn't been the hotshot whistle-blower, wanting to expose the Academy, I'd . . . I'd . . ."

"We need heroes, Jeff."

"What?"

"I said we need heroes."

His eyes locked on Karen. After a moment his gaze drifted away and fixed on his empty glass. "Some hero." He took a deep breath, then continued talking in a quiet monotone. "Since her mother died, I've felt responsible. Overprotective. Sure, I admit it. Maybe you read about it in the newspapers. It was one of those random, senseless things that leaves everybody feeling like God has packed up, taken the afternoon off to go fishing.
The Globe
called it 'The Trolley Terror'; it got a fair amount of television time, too. Even made the tabloids.

"Casey and Jessica had gone into the city to see a show. I stayed home. I'd been away on assignment and I was tired and cranky. Hardly fit to be with at all. I should have gone with them. Least I could've done was drive them in. See, Jess hated to drive in the city; she was always scared she couldn't find a parking place or that the car might get broken into or ripped off. God, the stuff she worried about seemed so trivial.

"Anyway, there's gangs in Boston. Maybe you've heard about them: kids, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, carrying switchblades and guns. Believe it or not, Karen, they identify themselves by the sneakers they wear. That's their uniform. What could be more appropriate for a kid, right?

"Three of these kids—I don't know how old they were, but they were just kids—they were chasing some rival gang member through the cars. Some guy, a retired fireman named Thomsen, told them to knock it off and he tripped one of them with his cane. The other two stopped what they were doing, turned around, and blew the old man away. Just like that. They took out a couple others in the process. Jessica was hit in the face, killed instantly, so they tell me. When Casey got up to help they shot her in the spine.

"What a conspiracy of circumstances, eh? I mean if I'd just been decent enough to drive them, you know? And now I wonder.

"Oh, Jeff . . ." Karen bit her lower lip and blinked away the threat of tears. She took his hand; it felt limp in hers. "I don't have any comforting platitudes for you. Certainly I can understand how you feel about Casey. But the rest of it, it's history now. It's over. None of it was your fault."

Jeff's ice cube had melted. He drank the water from his glass and reached for the bottle on the coffee table. Carefully, he poured himself another two fingers of whiskey.

Karen thought he seemed calmer now. Maybe this was the time to introduce the plan that had been taking shape in her mind.

"Jeff, I have an idea that doesn't involve the police at all."

He looked up, the glass frozen at the midpoint between the tabletop and his lips. His eyes, though slightly suspicious, coaxed her to go on.

"I spoke with a priest today just before I came home. A Father Sullivan. Turns out he's the new Catholic priest in Hobston. We had a pretty interesting talk and what he had to say, well, now that I think about it, it might have something to do with Casey and what's going on here."

Jeff narrowed his eyes, looking at her strangely, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

"A priest?"

Undaunted, she pressed on. "Before moving to Hobston, he was a teaching psychologist at a college in New York state. I wanted to talk to him about a patient of mine, a little girl who . . . disappeared."

Disappeared: the word made Jeff snap to attention. He was listening now. She had his complete attention.

"Jeff, listen to this: It turns out Father Sullivan is also looking for a missing person, another priest, a Father Mosely." In her excitement she rushed the words, "And Alton Barnes, too. His friend Stuart Dubois vanished. And other things are going on. Weird things. Like an old woman Sunday school teacher who started beating kids for no reason—

"In Hobston?"

"Right, yes, Hobston."

"Holy shit. . . ."

"Right. So, what do you think? Can all this be coincidence, Jeff? All this strange stuff? And each of us—you, me, Mr. Barnes, and Father Sullivan—each of us is dealing with a disappearance? What are the odds against that, huh? And there's lots of other weird stuff, too. How much of it centers around Hobston? You said it yourself, Jeff: weird things happen there. You were the one who told me about these 'Fortean Windows' of yours. I didn't know what to think of them then. And now? Well, now I still don't know. But to me it sounds like . . . like something's going on. What, I don't know, but something. I mean, how can I deny it? It's right in front of my face. It would be irrational to deny it."

Jeff nodded.

"And, Jeff, suppose Casey's disappearance has nothing whatsoever to do with the Academy. Suppose it's related to the other stuff that's going on around here. Or maybe . . . maybe they're both part and parcel of the same thing!"

Karen stopped talking, embarrassed from rattling on. Jeff's attention hadn't wandered. "Go on," he said.

"Well . . . well, what about this: Let's not call the police. Let's go back over to Hobston and talk to Father Sullivan. We can be there in less than half an hour. I'll call him. Okay?"

"Wait! No! We shouldn't use the phone. It might be—"

"Bugged? Yeah, right. Maybe we better stop at a pay phone."

"Hold it! Wait! Jesus, Karen, I can't leave here. What if they call while we're gone? What if they want to talk to me? What about Casey?"

"Don't worry, Ma Bell to the rescue. I've got Call Forwarding, remember? A necessary evil in my business. I'll punch in Father Sullivan's number. That way, if they phone here, we can pick it up at his place in Hobston."

"I don't know, Karen . . . A priest . . ."

"I've talked to him, Jeff. He's not one of these sweetness-and-light types. He's down to earth. Bright. Dr. Gudhausen recommended him to me, don't forget. And I think we can trust him."

Jeff continued to stare at her, blinking.

"Come on, Jeff, snap out of it, will you! Jeez. . . ."

And suddenly he was grinning at her.

"Hey! What are you doing? What are you smiling about?"

"You. You never swear, do you?"

"W-what?"

"No matter what's going on, you never swear. You say things like' 'darn,' and 'gosh,' and 'wow!'"

"What are you talking about?"

"You! You don't ever swear. You don't cuss, curse, use four-letter words, blaspheme."

"I don't . . . what do you mean? So what?"

"So nothing. It's just that I've never met anyone who doesn't swear before."

For a wonderful moment, they both laughed, embraced. Then more tears came.

Hobston, Vermont

"C
at still got your tongue, Mr. Barnes?" said Skipp McCurdy as he walked back into the kitchen, smiling pleasantly. "Well, no matter. You'll be talking soon enough."

Al heaved against the cords that bound him to the chair. He knew he had no chance of breaking free. Every time he moved, the naked child at his feet snapped to attention like a vigilant attack dog.

McCurdy pushed the child with the toe of his wingtip. "Settle down now, he's not going anywhere."

The child scurried back to the wall where she crouched, hugging her knees to her chest.

Chuckling. McCurdy took off his blue pin-striped jacket and loosened his bow tie. Then, as if someone had pushed a freeze frame button, he stopped. He straightened mechanically and cocked his head to one side, apparently listening to something Alton could not hear. In a moment he dashed outside, returning quickly with a black briefcase that he placed on the kitchen table.

When Alton saw the case, his stomach knotted tighter than the cord on his wrists. He had a pretty good idea what was in it and he knew what was coming next.

Again he flexed against his restraints.

McCurdy clicked his tongue. "Oh my no, Mr. Barnes. What do you think I have in here? Thumbscrews? Red-hot pokers? A cattle prod maybe? Such mistrust. . . ."

As McCurdy opened the briefcase, Alton saw the TV screen built into its lid.
One of those portable computers
, he concluded.
But why?

McCurdy looked around for a place to plug it in. "Imagine that," he giggled, "no electricity. Thank the Good Lord for battery backup. What a fine age we're living in, Mr. Barnes! A fine, magical age. An age of miracles!"

Now he was pulling some kind of flat metal antenna from the side of the case. "I wouldn't want you to miss your afternoon game shows, Mr. Barnes." Again he laughed and the sound was ugly, like a beast growling.

"To start, I'm going to show you how we can use this magical little machine to bring your friends Jeffrey Chandler and pretty little Dr. Bradley to join our meeting. Would you like that? Would you enjoy a bit of company?"

Alton squinted at him, willing himself not to break eye contact. But he said nothing.

Then McCurdy froze again, listening to the silence. His tongue clicked and he said to no one, "Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. Ooooh-kay!" He turned on Alton. "But first we have a little errand to do. I have a show here that I know you're going to enjoy. It's of an inspirational nature. Tell me, Mr. Barnes, have you ever seen a sinner burn in Hell?"

Alton glared at him.

"Still nothing to say, heh?"

Planting himself in a chair before his makeshift computer table, McCurdy switched on the machine. The impression of a hand appeared on the screen. When McCurdy placed his hand on the image, Alton again noted his truncated little finger. He'd remember that—a good identifying detail.

MCCURDY VERIFIED

McCurdy's fingers deftly tapped the keys:

*clement harry. display visual.

The outline of a head took shape on the LCD monitor. The image waved and flexed as features clarified. Soon Alton saw a detailed photographic likeness of an unfamiliar face. A five-pointed star appeared around the image, started to spin. A light show of colors and shapes danced brilliantly on the screen.

Alton Barnes watched, almost hypnotized, though he had no idea what he was seeing.

Waterville, Vermont

C
lem's strength was returning. It seeped into him like blood into sleeping limbs, restoring their senses, bringing them back to life. Little by little, the drug was wearing off. Clem Barry was waking up.