She felt better after patting a little cold water on her cheeks and in the hollows of her throat. With time to analyze her irrational upset Hester realized that she’d simply heard too many horror stories about the man from Peter. She had a bad case of—what was Peter’s term?—”fugitive mentality.” If Childermass had any cause to be suspicious of her he wouldn’t sit there making boring small talk. No, they’d have whisked her away to some grim little room and …
Fugitive mentality again. Hester smiled at herself in the tarnished mirror, hated the smile more than the dopey one she’d flashed at Childermass. She grimaced instead, finally stuck her tongue out at herself. Now that she was back at Paragon she had important things to do; if she hoped to be of any use to Peter then she needed to be nervy and on the attack and not the least afraid of possible consequences … and right now Dr. Roth was waiting for his coffee.
At six minutes past eight Roth slid into a chair opposite Childermass, facing a diffused glare from the snowy park across the street. Hanging baskets in front of the wide windows were dripping scarlet poinsettia leaves. The poinsettia was not one of Roth’s favorite plants: he thought of them as the whores of horticulture. He preferred desert plants, with their austere and delicate flowers.
“Good news this morning?” Roth said to the Wall Street Journal. “A sampan loaded with junketing congressmen has gone down in the Styx. Sabotage is suspected, but not condoned.”
Roth laughed and drank his grapefruit juice. Childermass put the paper aside.
“So how are things at the hospital?” Roth asked.
“Sweetened,” Childermass said indifferently.
“I can’t imagine that all the lawsuits have been filed yet.”
“I’d say we’re one jump ahead of everyone who has a possible claim.”
“Any fuss from the Bellavers?”
“People of quality don’t ‘fuss.’ They make inquiries. They spend money if necessary, quite a lot of money, to get all the facts. Then, if they have a case, they hit like a tsunami. So far the family firm is still looking into it. They seemed puzzled by the whole business.”
“The girl hasn’t talked, then.”
“It isn’t likely she’ll say a word. She left two bodies behind her.”
“Gillian may have no idea she was responsible for the death of McCurdy and Toone. She may not remember a thing that happened to her that night.”
Childermass scowled.
“Retrograde amnesia? That tired old bit?”
“The organism will produce some bizarre effects in its efforts to prevent total mental and emotional collapse. Amnesia is the most common reaction to sudden intense shock. If you’d seen Gillian, blood head to foot, you’d wonder how she could possibly survive the experience with her mind intact.”
“That’s a good point. She may not be totally sane. The family is certainly keeping her under wraps.”
Roth buttered a half slice of toast. “But they haven’t consulted a psychiatrist, or packed her off to a good sanitarium. According to the agents who found her hiding in 909 and the charge nurse who spoke to her, Gillian appeared a little upset, but she didn’t behave irrationally. I think she’d already done a good job of blacking out Mrs. McCurdy. The Toone woman was bad luck, my God, she was asking for trouble with her blood pressure.” Roth ate his toast in two bites and said grimly, “I’m inclined to accept a prognosis of, say, selective repression, which may last a few hours or a few days. It could all be coming back to Gillian by now. If so, God help the unfortunate kid.”
“I’d say the sooner we get Gillian in here, the better.”
“Agreed. I’ve been working on it. A matter of reaching the people who will recommend me to the Bellavers. Complicated. Like finding your way through a maze … meanwhile, the girl is a danger to everyone around her. Her ability to psychometrize is entirely spontaneous. She must create an enormously powerful electromagnetic field. Of course not everyone exposed to it bleeds. But the list of those who will bleed, and fatally, is a long one. Someone with a peptic ulcer could go in a matter of minutes. The smallest vascular weakness in heart, brain, kidneys—”
“Is she as dangerous as Robin Sandza?”
“As far as I know she hasn’t caused as much havoc as Robin, but it’s only a matter of time. Look at this.”
From a folder Roth took the two horoscopes he hadn’t wanted Hester to see. They were identified by number.
“Robin Sandza and Gillian Bellaver. If you’ll lay one over the other you can see that, allowing a few seconds’ adjustment for local mean time, they were born virtually at the same moment: on February 4, 1962, at nine minutes and fifty seconds past midnight Universal Time. Gillian at Doctors’ Hospital just up the street, Robin at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. Allowing for minor hereditary differences, mostly coloring, they resemble each other physically according to their common ascendant. It was the moment of the new moon in the sign of Aquarius.
The moon, the sun and five planets were all in the same sign. A rare and significant astrological event. It also coincided with an increase in solar activity,
“These children are Aquarius with Scorpio rising, a powerful combination for good or evil. Psychics were predicting that a child born at the time of the Great Conjunction might be the new Messiah. But what about—a thousand children? So far we know of two who are extraordinary—”
“Statistically speaking, how many could there be?”
“I’ll put the computer to work on it. Some of them wouldn’t have survived, of course.”
“But we do have a phenomenon on our hands,” Childermass said, with so much excitement he couldn’t hold his fork. “Robin Sandza’s psychic twin.”
“When they were babies,” Roth mused, “they may have been in touch telepathically. Each other’s imaginary playmate.”
“Even the most backward tribes, the most primitive cultures on earth must have welcomed the birth’ of their Robin Sandza. By now those children are well on their way to becoming the magicians, the prophets, the great healers of their tribes. But there’s no place for kids like them in our great culture, because they’re so superior to what we hold sacred. Now ain’t that a kick in the head?”
“And history teaches that what a culture can’t assimilate it destroys,” Roth said moodily.
‘The rest of their breakfast came from the kitchen, but neither man even picked at the food.
“Once you have Gillian here,” Childermass said, “we’ll make arrangements to move her to Psi Faculty.”
“But how do we—? Another ‘suicide’ without a body would be an unacceptable coincidence. By the time the Bellavers got through with us—”
“We’ll stage an ‘accident’ this time. There’ll be a body—decapitated, so no one will have the stomach to look too closely.”
Roth sat back and took a deep breath. He looked unwell.
“That’s heavy. Very heavy.”
“I don’t think you realize how serious my responsibilities are. Gillian Bellaver and Robin Sandza must be protected—we have to be protected from them. I report to a committee of five men, Doctor. Five of the most powerful politicians on earth. Yet two of them want Robin Sandza destroyed, and the others are wavering. The Chief Executive is said to be ‘very concerned.’ They didn’t know what real power was until they saw Robin at work. Ultimately we’re all in the protection business—self-interest is the only constant in life, and murder is always preferred to impotence. I expect an attempt on Robin’s life before long, probably from the Langley gang. Deep snow at Psi Faculty places a burden on our security. Darkness comes much too early these days.”
“How can you hope to find a—a substitute for Gillian on short notice?”
“We have the body already. It’s being flown in from Copenhagen. The girl died two days ago of a cleanly broken neck. An amazing physical resemblance to Gillian. Fortunately they grow those willowy ones by the acre in Scandinavia. The victim was quick-frozen within minutes of her death. We paid twe
nty-five thousand dollars for her in a natural state. This one was easy; it took us over a week to locate a ringer for Peter Sandza. “
“Oh. What did you need him for?”
“I’m sure that’s something you’d rather not know.”
“Of course! I mean—I’m just curious about Sandza. Wondered if you picked up his trail again.”
Childermass smiled meanly.
“Doctor, you’re scared shitless.”
Roth flushed with shame.
“He’s a—a vicious and unprincipled man. He came within a whisker of killing me.”
“We’re grateful you’re in one piece. But seriously, I don’t think he would have killed you. Out of desperation he may resort to you again.”
“W-why?”
“He assaulted you once, looking for the truth, but even though the beating was severe it was a hasty job by Peter’s standards. At leisure Peter is much more effective. He’s a skilled torturer.”
Roth didn’t say anything. He rubbed his sweating palms on his trousers.
“I thought you told me—you were beefing up the security force around here.”
“Oh, we are. But short of placing you in solitary confinement there’s no way to guarantee your safety.”
Childermass let that soak in, like a solution of chilled acid. Then he hunched his shoulders apologetically.
“These days, Doc, we’re spread kind of thin. We need to maintain a twenty-four-hour watch on Sutton Mews in case Peter decides on another move in the girl’s direction. And we’re making every effort to uncover his confederate at Paragon.”
Roth was astounded. “Confederate? Someone who works here?”
“Oh, he must have penetrated Paragon months ago. I would say, knowing Peter, that it has to be a woman. He may have doubled one of our own dollies. That would be like him. But we’re painstakingly checking and rechecking everyone. I’ve had to call agents out of retirement to do this job. Your Bauernfrühstück is getting cold, Doctor. Dig in.”
“I’m trying to drop a little weight,” Roth muttered. He poured coffee instead, despite a queasy stomach. “When I get through to the Bellavers, what—how much do you think I should tell them about Gillian?”
“That depends on what they’re ready to believe,” Childermass said. “By now they should be eager for the advent of a miracle worker named Irving Roth.”
Chapter Fourteen
TUESDAY, JANUARY 4 9:28 A.M.
Mrs. Bellaver? This’s Jake, up here in Bedford?”
“Oh, yes, Jake, how are you?”
“Fine, Mrs. Bellaver, and we all want to thank you and the mister for that wonderful Christmas bonus. Although that isn’t the real reason why I called. Your secretary said maybe I shouldn’t bother you, but I just got to thinking, and the more I thought about it the less sense—
“Something wrong there, Jake? The horses—”
“The horses are all in excellent condition, ma’am. Ambrosia and Fan-Fan are both in foal, and that yearling we picked up at auction last July is proving out to be—”
“You said something didn’t make much sense to you, Jake.”
“Well, yes, that’s right, Mrs. Bellaver. I know Gillian’s been bad sick and all, in fact she just got out of the hospital.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Knowing how sick she was I couldn’t believe it when Jody Pete—that’s my middle boy, had all that back trouble when he fell out of the loft—Jody said he seen her down by the stables, it must have been a few minutes before seven o’clock this morning.”
“Jody saw—? Well, that … Jake, he must be mistaken. Gillian’s right here at home. She’s feeling much better but she’s still weak, she hardly leaves her room.”
“I know you think this is—crazy, and a terrible waste of your time, but Jody, he’s about Gillian’s age, had this crush on her long as any of us can remember, he swears to me, Daddy, I know it was her; it was Gillian. Gillian talked to him, he says. Kept asking where Pony was. She was just real tearful about not seeing Pony there at the stables.”
“Pony—? You mean that cute little Shetland we bought her for her fourth birthday?”
“Yes, ma’am. Came down with a blood infection if you’ll remember, I don’t expect Gillian had him more than eight, nine months altogether. That’s what struck me as bein’ so strange; if it was some other girl, looked like Gillian, tried to fool Jody, how would she’ve known about Pony?”
“You’ve got me, Jake, but Gillian is upstairs in her room right this moment. It’s a hundred miles round-trip to Bedford. What time is it now, nine-thirty? Even if she could have left the house without any of us being aware of it—”
“Yes, you’re right, obviously this has got to be some kind of uncanny coincidence. What I thought, if there was a chance she was up here, just getting over being so sick and all, then you’d want to know about it.”
“Just a moment please, Jake, did Jody mention what she—what this girl was wearing?”
“Hold the line and let me check.” Katharine put the receiver down momentarily and tuned her mind to the distant, eerie flutings from Gillian’s room. Miss Chowenhill looked inquiringly across the ground-floor office at Katharine, who smiled noncommittally and put the receiver to her ear as Jake came back on.
“Mrs. Bellaver, he says jeans with patches and tape on ’em, those Frye boots like they all wear, a red ski vest, and a blue-and-white knit cap.
“I see. Well, I can only repeat that it’s a mistake, a case of mistaken identity, but thank you for letting me know. And—if you should see this girl, try to find out a little more about her.”
“I sure will.”
“Jake—there’s no chance Jody Pete dreamed this whole thing up?”
“Why, he couldn’t even think of such a thing! I’d bet my life on that.”
Miss Chowenhill was on another line. She looked at Katharine again as Katharine hung up.
“The Zaire Delegation, His Excellency would like to postpone the interview until five o’clock, and make it his apartment at the Carlyle instead of the UN.”
“Okay,” Katharine said absently.
Katharine followed the sound of the flute to the second-floor bedroom, passing Rosalind, one of the day-workers, on the stairs.
“Sure would like to change those sheets in there,” Ros grumbled. “In just a few minutes.”
Gillian’s breakfast tray was on the floor outside the door. Katharine tried the doorknob; locked. She rapped a couple of times. Gillian continued to play her flute, the melody lost and sad and fundamentally haunting, a melancholy exercise which caused Katharine actual physical pain as she bent to examine the breakfast tray; she felt as if sharp splinters were lodged between each rib.
The fluting stopped. The door opened almost immediately and Gillian looked out at her mother, who was down on one knee.
“Oh, hi. What are you doing?”
“I wanted to see if you had something to eat.”
“While you’re snooping around like that why don’t you have a look in the toilet?”
Katharine stood, clenching both fists.
“I can’t believe you said that!”
“I … I guess I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”
“And why is this door always locked? You’ve been very sick, you might need help in the middle of—”
“I don’t lock the door!”
“It was locked just now and it’s always locked, what do you have to hide in there, Gillian?”
Gillian flung the door open, crashing it against the wall.
“Ye gods, come in, come in, if it’s so important to you!”
She was wearing tattered shorts and a limp sweater out at one elbow. Her hair needed combing and had an odor. And she was much too thin. Gillian went back to the messy bed, clutching her flute. She lay face down with her feet in the air. There were some sordid-looking yellowish bruises high on the inside of her thighs.
“Gillian—”
“I’m not eating because
my tongue is still sore. I did drink some milk, and that filled me up.”
“Ros wanted to know if she could change the sheets and freshen up in here.”
“Oh, okay.” Gillian rose and started pulling everything off the bed.
Katharine opened a louvered closet door. Gillian stopped what she was doing and stared at her.
“You used to have a blue-and-white knit cap.”
“Still do, it’s there on the shelf, I think.”
“Do you wear your red ski vest?”
“Of course, all the time, you’ve seen me wear it a hundred times.”
“And your Frye boots?”
“When I go riding in cold weather, otherwise I ride barefoot. Mother, what the hell’s—I mean, really, I don’t understand—”
“I imagine Jody Pete has seen you wearing all those things.”
“Jody Pete? Up at the farm? Sure. I suppose so. Why’d you bring him up?”
“He … he was certain he saw you at the farm this morning. About seven o’clock.”
Gillian laughed; she was startlingly loud.
“Bananas,” she said, shaking her head. “Really bananas.”
“He’s not what you’d call an imaginative kid. I’ve always found him very sober-sided and—”
“I know Jody Pete, you don’t have to tell me about him. Why would he make up a crazy story like that?”
Katharine smiled. “I really don’t know. He daydreams about you, I guess.”
“Oh, sure.”
“You’re feeling better, aren’t you, Gillian?”
“I am. But I get tired easy. I sleep a lot.”
Gillian stood very still and tall, hands at her sides, staring at a point a little to the side of Katharine’s left shoulder. Her air of secrecy and self-enforced wretched solitude was oppressive.
“Try not to lock me out? Can’t tell you how that worries me.”
“Mother, there has to be something wrong with the goddamn lock!”
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