There were three fixers, a psychologist, a sociologist and Lefevre himself. Clark went with them on their rounds one day.
They talked to one guest who said, “I made love to my wife on the beach last night and I got sand in my trousers.” He chuckled. “Tore them, too.”
Lefevre poured sand into the man’s trouser cuffs, and tore them slightly.
“What else?”
“I had a wonderful meal last night, but I was a little tipsy. I got some shrimp sauce on my tie.”
The sociologist went to the closet, found a tie, and poured catsup over it.
In the next room, a woman reported that she had gone swimming in the ocean and had forgetfully taken her watch; it was now stopped.
“So it is,” Lefevre said, slipping it off her wrist and dropping it into a glass of salt water.
“You see,” Lefevre said, “the fixers do this kind of minor, necessary environmental change, to correspond with guests’ fantasies. In fact, the changes are easy. They tend to fall into a small range of problems—like stains on clothing, watches in salt water, and unstrung tennis rackets.”
Clark nodded, remembering his own racket.
“We also provide minor scrapes and injuries to our guests. Usually local anesthetic, and then coarse sandpaper does the trick. Once in a great while, we get some guest who fantasizes an unimportant but major injury. One man thought he was badly cut by a knife while fishing. Another thought he was blinded in one eye by powder while he was hunting.”
“What do you do then?”
“That,” Lefevre said, “is a job for our psychologist.”
The psychologist, a thin man in a sportshirt and rumpled slacks, smiled shyly. “I investigate the underlying reasons for the self-destructive fantasy. And I correct it. It can be a slow process, sometimes it takes days. That is why we counter-suggest to the guests when they first arrive—we tell them all how fabulously safe our facilities are, and how no one has ever been seriously hurt at the resort. This makes it more difficult, you see, for them to build a well-integrated fantasy of bodily harm.”
“Meanwhile,” Lefevre said, “our sociologist handles other matters. When we first started this resort, we planned it as an isolated hideaway, with no communications to the outside. No telephone, no telegraph—guests couldn’t communicate out, and couldn’t receive messages coming in. We tried to make it work, but it wouldn’t. We could convince businessmen that their business would wait, that they needn’t bother with long-distance calls daily to New York or London. That was simple. But what do you do when a man’s wife is seriously ill, or his business associate has died? What do you do with some major crisis?”
Clark turned to the sociologist.
“That’s where I come in,” the sociologist said. “I help in the process of making a guest’s responses to stress appropriate. I help the guest to draft communications, letters and cables. I help to plan the guest’s early return home, and help him to deal with his guilt over a tragedy which occurred while he was off having a good time. A common situation is one where a man is off with his secretary and meantime his wife develops cancer, or has a severe auto accident, or something. The guy oozes guilt, and it is manifest in various ways, depending on his personality structure, his place in society, his education, his background, his occupation, and so forth. I help him deal with these problems within the context of his life.” He smiled. “It’s a lot more difficult than pouring whiskey over a cocktail dress, or catsup over a tie.”
Clark said, “You seem to have thought of everything.”
“Yes,” Lefevre said.
The resort had a kind of fascination for Clark, it was such a grand illusion, so carefully maintained and prepared. For several days he watched the process with absorption, and did not think about the future. But eventually, he began to wonder.
His own duties were not taxing. When the storm blew over and good weather returned, the cases of pneumonia cleared quickly, and the number of sunburns was quite small. One fifty-year-old man began to develop chest pain, and was—with the help of the psychologist and the sociologist—sent home to a hospital. Otherwise, life was uneventful.
He had one bad moment with Sharon Wilder. He went to her room to check a possible eye infection; she had complained about itching eyes to one of the waiters who brought her dinner.
When he entered her room, he found her wearing a nightgown, sitting up in a chair. It was midday; she looked tanned and healthy.
“Hello,” she said, when he entered the room. She gave no sign of recognition.
“Hello,” he said. “I am the hotel doctor.”
“Oh,” she said. “Good.”
He went over and examined her eyes. One was red and inflamed. “Has your eye been bothering you?”
“Yes,” she said. “It happened while I was sailing yesterday. I think the wind blew something in.”
He turned back the lid, and found an eyelash, which he wiped away with a bit of cotton.
“Thank you,” she said, when he was through. “You’re very gentle. I like doctors.”
He nodded.
“I came here with a doctor,” she said. “You know Dr. Clark?”
“Yes, I think so…”
“I came here with him,” she said. “But I wish I hadn’t.”
He told himself that he ought to leave now, that he Wouldn’t hear more. But he stayed. “Why is that?”
“They made me do it,” she said.
“Who did?”
“George, and the others.”
“What others?”
“Harvey Blood, all the others.”
“How do you happen to know them?”
“I’ve been working for them,” she said, “for a long time. They control everything.”
“And they made you bring Dr. Clark?”
“Yes. They have some kind of plan for him.”
“A plan?”
“Yes.”
“For here? At the resort?”
“Yes. But also later…”
“Do you know what the plan is?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But I worry.”
“What about?”
“Roger,” she said. “I worry about him.”
“Why do you worry?”
“Because he’s so stupid,” she said, and lapsed into silence.
He tried to tell himself that it meant nothing, that she was simply expressing a fantasy under the influence of a drug. He had heard other fantasies from guests which were impossible and untrue; there was no reason to believe differently about Sharon Wilder.
He tried to tell himself, to convince himself.
It didn’t work.
Several days later, as his month at the resort was ending, he said to Lefevre, “I’ll be going back soon.”
“Yes,” Lefevre said. “You will.”
“To Los Angeles?”
Lefevre laughed. “Of course. That’s your home, isn’t it?”
Clark frowned. “But I know a lot. I know a lot about this island, and about Advance. You don’t expect me to believe that you’re just going to turn me loose—”
“I do expect you to believe it,” Lefevre said. “That is exactly what we intend.”
“You’re not afraid I’ll talk?”
“Talk to whom?” Lefevre said, and laughed. “Nobody would believe you if you told them the truth. They’d laugh you out of town. No, no, we’re not worried.”
Three days later, he was in his room, packing his suitcase and preparing to return to Los Angeles.
16. THE SHORT SAD LIE OF ROGER CLARK
“NOW SERIOUSLY,” SHARON WILDER said, as the seaplane took off, “wasn’t that the most fabulous place?”
“Fabulous,” Clark said.
“I adored every minute of it,” Sharon said, and snuggled up against his shoulder. “I just loved it.”
“So did I.”
She yawned. “But I’m sleepy…all that excitement…”
A few minutes later, she doz
ed off. Looking around the airplane, Clark saw that most of the other passengers were sleeping as well.
He did not feel sleepy at all. In fact, he was more wide-awake than he had felt in days. He checked his watch; in an hour, they would reach Nassau, and then an hour after that, Miami.
Miami, he decided, was the place. Not Los Angeles. They would almost certainly be waiting for him in Los Angeles, but they might not be expecting anything in Miami.
He tried to formulate a plan. He wouldn’t have much time; it would have to be done in the airport. He could call the police—or he could go to the airport police—or perhaps the medical station at the airport, he might be believed by doctors—or he could call his lawyer in Los Angeles from the airport, and get his advice—or he could call the police, an anonymous tip to investigate Eden Island, that it was all a fraud…
He considered each idea in turn, and tried to make up his mind.
But two hours later, when he landed in Miami, he still had not decided.
“Harry, will you come on already, we’ll miss the plane…. Harry, do you want us to miss the plane, is that what you want, Harry?”
The woman pounded on the glass telephone booth. Inside, Harry turned his back to her. Clark, waiting in line, sighed. This had been going on for five minutes.
“Harry…”
Clark looked around. The booth was located along a corridor leading to the departure gates. People were walking up and down, going to planes, leaving them, family, friends, everyone…
He watched the crowd carefully, wondering why he was bothering. Did he expect to find someone he knew?
“Harry, Sadie is waiting for us at the airport, if we miss the plane she’ll worry. Harry, do you want her to worry, your own sister, your own flesh and blood, Harry?”
Clark looked at the coins in his hand; they were slippery now with sweat. He was sweating a lot, it seemed. He looked at the coins and tried to decide who he was going to call. He hadn’t made up his mind, but somehow he felt that once he was inside the booth, with the glass door closed and the receiver in his hand, he would know who to call. He would know instinctively.
“Harry, I should have to worry my hair out over a simple airplane, why do you do this to me—”
At that moment, Harry finished his call and stepped out of the booth. He turned to the woman.
“Shut up dear,” he said, and walked off.
Clark got into the booth, heart beating fast, and dropped his dime in. He heard it cling through.
He waited.
He looked down at the card attached to the bottom of the phone. It was a rate card, with numbers to call for long distance, person-to-person, emergencies, ambulance, police…
Police.
Dial 0.
He dialed zero. The operator answered “Can I help you?”
“Get me the police,” he said. It came out as a whisper; he hadn’t intended that.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear—”
“I said, get me the police.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Of course it’s an emergency,” he said, turning in the narrow booth to look over his shoulder.
“Do you wish to be connected with Miami police, or Miami Beach police, or the airport police please?”
“I don’t care,” Clark said. “Just so you hurry—”
There was a knock on the door to the booth. He turned. Two men in trenchcoats were standing there.
“Hold on, operator.”
He opened the door.
“I’m on the phone,” he said.
One of the men smiled and said, “We’re police officers.”
That’s very quick service, Clark thought, and then he realized that it was too quick, much too quick. “I want to see your identification.”
They reached into their pockets and flipped badges in little leather billfolds. He couldn’t really see, but it looked—
“Are you Roger Clark?”
“Yes…”
“Doctor Roger Clark of Los Angeles, California?”
“Yes…”
The other was checking a picture and a sheet of paper. “Caucasian male, age twenty-eight, five feet ten inches, medium build—”
“I’m Roger Clark, but I don’t understand—”
“Please come with us,” the other police officer said. He smiled. “You’re just the man we’ve been looking for.”
“I am?” He came out of the booth reluctantly. “But why?”
“You’re pretty famous, Dr. Clark. You know that, of course. Pretty darned famous.”
They steered him down the corridor, one on each side.
“We’ve all been looking for you, you’re just the man we wanted to see.”
“I am?”
He must have looked alarmed, because the other man smiled reassuringly and said, “Just routine. We need your help, that’s all.”
“Help?”
“That’s right. Just routine.”
“Routine what?”
“We’ll explain all that,” the man said.
As they walked, Clark began to wonder. Somehow, they didn’t seem like cops. They were too pleasant or something; it wasn’t right. They were moving him quite rapidly down the corridor; up ahead he saw the departure gates, a flight lounge, bar…
He stopped.
“Wait!”
They paused, and turned to look at him. There was something pitying in their expressions, and something hesitant and careful. They smiled.
“Come along, Doctor.”
“Everything will be fine, Doctor.”
They took his elbows, leading him forward.
“You’re not cops,” Clark said.
“Sure we are,” one said.
“What else would we be, Doctor?”
“I don’t know,” Clark said, “but I know you’re not cops. You’re impostors.”
The two men exchanged glances.
One said, “That’s all right, Doctor.”
“Everything will be fine.”
Clark began to struggle in their grip, but they held him tightly.
“Now, don’t make a scene, Roger. Just come along quietly.”
“Don’t be foolish, Roger. Just take it easy now.”
He struggled more fiercely; people stopped to look, to watch as he went, wriggling and twisting between the two men.
“There’s no point in that, Roger,” one man said soothingly.
“Just stay calm, Roger. Everything will be fine.”
Abruptly, he stopped struggling. He relaxed and walked quietly between them. He had a plan.
“Much better, Roger.”
“Much more comfortable, Doctor.”
Ahead, clearly visible, standing by the entrance to the flight lounge, was a cop.
A real cop in a blue uniform, nightstick swinging idly in his left hand.
A cop.
Clark allowed himself to be led forward, and he said nothing until he was nearly abreast of the cop. And then he fought and shouted, “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped! Help, police!”
He felt foolish, but he was frightened, frightened and cold in the grip of the two men. The cop in blue looked over strangely. “What’s happening here?” he said to the two men.
One replied, “We’re taking him in, Sam.”
The cop in blue nodded. “Okay, lieutenant.” He looked closely at Clark. “Say, is this…?”
“Right, Sam. It’s Roger Clark.”
“No kidding,” Sam said, pushing his blue cap back on his head. “You found him here, huh? In Miami airport! Well, isn’t that something.”
One of the men leaned over. “Not really, Sam. We were tipped.”
“Aaah.” Sam nodded wisely.
“Come along, Roger,” the men said, and steered him into the flight lounge. Clark was stunned, so astonished that he could no longer struggle. It seemed these men really were policemen after all. Unless the cop in blue was also a fake. But no, that didn’t seem possible, it was too elaborate
a hoax, and for no purpose…
He looked around the lounge. The men were taking him into the bar, which was dark and noisy; he was led to a corner. In the darkness he could barely see two people, sitting at a far table. As he came closer, he could begin to make out their features—
“Ah, officers,” Harvey Blood said, rising. “You found him. Excellent work.”
And standing beside him, George Washington said again, “Excellent, excellent.”
Clark stared at them, and then over at the two cops. If they were cops.
“How is he?” Harvey Blood asked.
“A little excitable, but pretty good.”
“Oh, excitable. We can fix that.” Harvey Blood turned to Washington. “It wouldn’t do to have him excited on the airplane. Jumping around, disturbing the other passengers…”
“No,” Washington said, reaching to the floor, bringing up a black physician’s bag, opening it on the bar table.
“No,” agreed the two men, watching as Washington removed a syringe, filled it, held it to the light.
“Listen,” Clark said, finding his voice at last. “This is all some kind of mistake. I know these two men. They are Harvey Blood and George Washington. They—”
“We know Dr. Blood and Dr. Washington,” one man said calmly. “We know all about everything. You know, we’ve been following you in the bulletins for days. Never thought we’d see you here, though.”
“Bulletins?”
One of the men asked Blood, “How’d you know he was going to be here?”
“Someone in Nassau spotted him,” Blood said.
“Nassau! How’d he get down there?”
“We traced him from Los Angeles,” Blood said. “Found the girl who sold him the ticket. He flew to Nassau five days ago.”
“Pretty tricky,” the man said, looking at Clark and shaking his head. “Pretty clever.”
Washington took Clark’s arm, held it out, rolled up the sleeve. Clark began to struggle just as he felt the coolness of the alcohol swab.
“You can’t do this—”
The needle stung.
“—to me, you can’t do this.”
Another swab of alcohol. His sleeve was rolled down.
“He’ll be fine now,” Harvey Blood said. “Just fine.”
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