“And how did this stuff affect Mesker?” Pender asked, kneeling next to Skip’s chair so Hillovi, lying on his side, could see him without having to raise his head from the pillow.
Profoundly, was Hillovi’s reply. Charles Mesker, he explained, had been seventeen years old, an insatiable reader possessed of a brilliant mind and an eidetic (more commonly known as a photographic) memory, but long-haired and rebellious, with a disturbingly intense interest in demonology. He was also already an inveterate and indiscriminate drug user by the summer of 1972, when Santa Cruz experienced a temporary drug drought.
No one seemed to have any pot for sale, and what few psychedelics were available were of poor quality, or heavily boosted with methedrine, so Charles and a friend decided to experiment with the friend’s grandmother’s asthma remedy. Someone had told them that eating the stuff, as opposed to smoking it, would result in an intense psychedelic experience, during which they would be able to contact their cosmic archetypes. Neither boy was sure exactly what that meant, but they each managed to choke down several teaspoonfuls of the noxious green powder.
Charles never saw the other boy again—whatever his friend’s archetype was, it was evidently airborne, because a few hours into the trip, the young man did a Linkletter off the roof. In some ways, he might have been the more fortunate of the two.
Charles’s trip, perhaps due to his interest in demonology, took on a dark cast. Leaving his friend’s house, he found himself wandering through a hellish world in which features of the familiar Santa Cruz landscape were conflated with visions of what he would later come to call the Blasted Land.
Gargoyles cavorted on rooftops and swung from the hands of the Santa Cruz town clock. At the Boardwalk, where the shrieking of the damned souls all but deafened him, Charles saw hideous demons cavorting among the crowd. Some masqueraded as vendors, serving up scoops of steaming shit in ice cream cones and severed penises in hot dog buns.
As day gave way to night, the ocean turned into desert dunes and the beach into red-hot coals. Fleeing the Boardwalk, Charles trudged westward along the sand, castellated cliffs towering above him like battlements, blocking out the stars.
The next morning the authorities, alerted by alarmed beach-goers, found Charles dancing and waving atop the rock formation known as Natural Bridges, naked as the day he was born and completely out of touch with reality. Still, he cooperated wholeheartedly with the officers, referring to them as his loyal minions and graciously allowing himself to be led through the knee-high surf to a waiting ambulance.
Although they had never treated a case of Asmador ingestion before, staffers at the Dominican Hospital emergency room were not unfamiliar with handling psychedelic overdoses. Their basic approach was to administer Thorazine until the patient quieted down or fell asleep. Twelve to twenty-four hours later, most patients were generally as good as new.
But not Charles Mesker. As soon as the Thorazine wore off, Charles’s delusions and hallucinations—the Blasted Land, the demons, the Infernal Council, and so on—returned unabated. So the E.R. doctors knocked him out for another twenty-four hours, and once again, when consciousness returned, so did the effects of the Asmador.
After a short stay in the psych unit at Dominican Hospital, Charles was transferred to the Meadows Road facility, where the most effective treatment they managed to come up with was to keep the boy so heavily tranquilized that he was unable to respond to his hallucinations or act upon his delusions. In other words, chemical restraint.
The side effects were predictably devastating, said Dr. Hillovi, who was by then exhausted and in growing pain. Charles suffered a loss of motor control, was wracked by tardive dyskinesia, and worst of all, from Charles’s point of view, he lost the ability to read, which had once been his chief consolation. So every few years, his doctors tried weaning Charles off his meds long enough to see if the effects of the Asmador might have worn off on their own.
But the hallucinations and delusions inevitably returned, said Hillovi—that is, up until their most recent attempt to withdraw Charles from chemical restraint, a little over four years ago. “To our delight and surprise, within two weeks Charles was giving every indication of having recovered from his disorder. He appeared to be cooperative, rational, and high-functioning on an intellectual and emotional level—he even began reading again.
“After three months without any sign of a relapse, Charles was deemed an appropriate candidate for supervised release into the care of his parents. For six months he slept in his own room, read everything he could get his hands on, and even applied for his driver’s license. Then one December night, he crept into his parents’ bedroom and cut his mother’s throat with a steak knife.”
Just then, the light on the front of the machine that timed the automatic release of morphine sulfate into Hillovi’s bloodstream switched from steady red to blinking green. He sighed gratefully and closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again, his pupils had already begun to contract. “When Charles was arrested, he gave his name as Asmador, and told the police that he’d cut the old lady’s throat on orders from the Infernal Council.
“Mrs. Mesker refused to press charges, of course, so Charles was returned to Meadows Road.” By now, Hillovi’s pupils were mere pinpoints, and his affect disconcertingly jocular. “And so, my jolly green giant,” he told Pender with a crooked grin, “if you have any further questions, I suggest you ask them soon, or forever hold your peas.”
Pender, who had a million of ’em, winnowed them down to two with immediate and practical applications. “What do you think’s going to happen as the effects of the chemical restraint continue to wear off?”
“Based on past history, I’d expect Charles’s hallucinations to grow more vivid, yet also better integrated, as time passes. In other words, his two worlds should begin to merge again, and continue to merge until they become as one to him.”
“Last question: Do you have any suggestions as to the best way to handle Charles when he’s in that condition?”
“From a great distance, with a tranquilizer dart,” said Hillovi, with a stoned wink and a laugh that sounded more like the barking of a phthisic sea lion.
12
Returning alone to the Cherokee, Asmador took inventory of the luggage and gear under the tarpaulin in the cargo area. And a most unusual inventory it was: two hunting bows, two target bows, dozens of arrows, spare bowstrings, calibrated sights, scopes, binoculars, night-vision goggles, day and night camouflage outfits, backpacks with built-in quivers, archery gloves and leather wrist guards, face black, hunting and field-dressing knives, trail mix, freeze-dried rations.
Moving like a man in a trance, Asmador picked up the larger hunting bow and assumed a sideways stance with his left arm extended, the elbow locked, the wrist cocked, the hand wrapped firmly around the leather-padded grip. Dazedly, he hooked the fingertips of his right hand around an imaginary string and drew it back until it was tucked in against his right cheek.
Suddenly he found himself transported by a combination of muscle-memory and sense-memory to a sunbaked field where stuffed targets were lined up on three-legged wooden stands, with straw bales stacked to provide a backstop. He smelled sweat and leather and straw, heard the snap of the bowstring, the sizzling sound of an arrow zipping past his ear, the solid thunk of the arrowhead striking home.
Obviously, this current humanoid incarnation was no stranger to the sport of archery, Asmador realized, snapping out of his trancelike state. And a lucky thing it was, too, he told himself—surely using a bow and arrow would be more satisfying and rewarding than firing a gun. So impersonal, guns. Of course, a knife would be even better, but you have to get really close to your victims to use a knife. Either that, or have them already hog-tied. But something told Asmador it might not be all that easy to sneak up on the traitor Epstein a second time. Nor was the FBI man, Pender, likely to let himself be taken without a fight. So if they did have to be ambushed from a distance, using a bow would
be a most satisfactory compromise.
But you’re getting ahead of yourself again, thought Asmador, tossing the bow back into the Cherokee and snapping the tarpaulin down to cover it. The first thing he needed to do was get a room for the night. Then tomorrow morning, he’d try to obtain an address to go along with the phone number that helpful, regrettably deceased librarian had given him this afternoon.
CHAPTER THREE
1
Pender dragged himself out of bed around eight o’clock on Sunday morning, still logy after only five hours of sleep. Donning the shapeless old corduroy bathrobe Skip had loaned him, he padded barefoot down the quiet, dawn gray hallway to the kitchen. Skip was sitting at the kitchen table in a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, poring over the photocopied enlargements of Luke Sweet’s Pocket Pal and making notes on a legal pad.
Blessedly, there was fresh coffee on the stove. “What are you doing?” Pender carried a mug imprinted with a Far Side cartoon of the Boneless Chicken Ranch over to the table, where Skip was working by the yellow light of an overhead lamp with a stained-glass shade shaped like a mushroom.
“I’m compiling the late Mr. Sweet’s so-called fantasy revenge list, which I’m presuming Asmador is using as his guide.”
As much as he hated the ’suming words, ass and pre, Pender told Skip, he had to agree that sounded likely enough.
“He never actually makes the list,” Skip pointed out, “he just adds to it. But here’s what I’ve come up with.” He tilted the legal pad toward Pender. There were six names on it: F. Harris, E. Harris, Pender, Brobauer, Oliver, Epstein; Skip had drawn a line through the first two and the fourth. “From what I can tell, there was no particular order to the first three attacks. Or at least nothing obvious or chronological that would give us a hint as to who’s next.”
Pender took a thoughtful slurp of coffee. “I can think of a set of circumstances under which the question of who comes next is irrelevant, no ’suming required,” he announced. “Care to take a guess?”
Skip, an only child who unconsciously tended to assign older males the role of surrogate big brother, really wanted to get this one right. Stalling, he took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee in his mustard yellow mug. And another, and another, until it came to him: “If we’re all three in the same place at the same time!”
“Bingo!” Pender raised the Far Side cup in a mock toast to Skip, who gave him a strained smile. “You know, you don’t have to do this,” Pender told him. “You have no client—nobody’s going to think less of you if you decide to take a pass.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” Skip picked up the photocopied pages and riffled idly through them. “I’ve been through this two or three times since yesterday, and I can’t help wondering—don’t laugh now—but I can’t help wondering, what if Little Luke was telling the truth?” He absentmindedly jogged the pages until the edges were lined up, then carefully put them back down on the table. “I mean, taken as a whole, his story kind of holds up in a way, doesn’t it? So what are the chances he was just some poor kid who had a shitload of hard luck, and got railroaded all the way to the funny farm? With our help, I might add.”
Pender blew a blubbery raspberry and blithely waved away the possibility with his free hand. “Remember how Hillovi said the kid racked up a thirty-nine on the Psychopathy Checklist when he was admitted?”
“Vaguely. Why?”
“The PCL scale only goes as high as forty. Charlie Manson barely made thirty-eight.”
“No shit?” said Skip, brightening visibly.
“Scout’s honor,” said Pender, who had of course pulled the Manson number out of his enormous ass. “And now that we’ve got that out of the way, do you think you can locate Dr. Oliver’s whereabouts for us? If not, I could try contacting a friend of mine at the CJIS, but I’m not sure—”
Skip cut him off. “Let me put it this way: if I can’t find him, neither can Asmador.”
2
Awakened early Sunday morning by the mournful bleat of a foghorn, Asmador throws back the quilted counterpane, rolls out of bed, and pads barefoot out onto the balcony of an overpriced hotel room in Fort Bragg, overlooking the mouth of the Noyo River, where a squat, weather-beaten fishing trawler is just putting out to sea.
The sky is ablaze to the east, casting a fiery glow over the estuary; bare-masted sailboats rock and creak in the tidal swell. Leaning out over the wooden railing of the balcony, Asmador is startled at first to see a grotesquely naked, hunchbacked, rat-tailed demon capering on the raised bridge of the trawler, cupping its misshapen genitals in one hand and gesturing lewdly toward the oblivious crewmen with the other. But along with the shock comes a strong sense of familiarity, even homecoming. This was how it had been in the time before, when the Blasted Land resembled Santa Cruz, and demons danced on the Boardwalk and swung from the hands of the town clock.
After rolling a joint and brewing a cup of complimentary coffee in the little machine on the counter outside the bathroom, Asmador tries calling the number the librarian had given him. He reaches an answering machine, which refers him to a second number, where a second answering machine informs him that although the Oliver Institute will be closed through May 15 for its annual two-week residential training at Braxton Hot Springs, Dr. Oliver will be checking his messages from time to time. So if you’d care to leave a message…
Asmador does not care to leave a message. Instead he calls the front desk. “This is Mr. Daniel in room 230.” Peter Daniel was the name on the dead archer’s driver’s license and credit cards. “Do you know where Braxton Hot Springs is?”
“I believe it’s in Lake County. If you give me a few minutes, I could probably find out for sure.”
“Would you?” says Asmador, scratching absentmindedly at his pubic hair. “That would be terrif.”
3
Pender and Epstein reached Braxton Hot Springs, a New Age retreat center in the heart of Lake County, shortly after one o’clock on Sunday afternoon. ABSOLUTELY NO MOTOR VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT, declared the hand-painted wooden sign on the gate at the end of the winding, two-and-a-half-mile-long driveway. A half dozen vehicles, ranging from a handsome new Lexus to a rusted-out VW bus with a psychedelic paint job, were parked in a dirt lot by the side of the road.
ELDERS, DELIVERIES, DIFFERENTLY ABLED, USE FOR ASSISTANCE, read a second, smaller sign nailed to the last telephone pole. Skip opened the rusty metal cabinet mounted beneath the sign, picked up the handset inside it, and clicked the hook with his forefinger like a character in an old-timey movie—Hello, Operator, give me Central!
Figuring that the chances of smoking being permitted beyond the gate were slim, Pender fired up a Marlboro while Skip talked to somebody at the other end. He only managed to sneak a few puffs before a lovely, fresh-faced, wet-haired young woman in a damp caftan arrived in a four-seater golf cart. “Are you here for the ceremony tonight?” she asked, looking them over dubiously.
“Could be,” said Pender, buttoning his tomato soup sport coat to hide the Smith & Wesson Model 10 in his shoulder holster.
“You never know,” added Skip—he was wearing a tan, zipper-front working man’s jacket long enough to cover the Beretta in his kidney holster.
The young woman dropped them off in front of the Center, a two-story, wood-and-glass building with a cantilevered roof. “O’s probably out on the deck,” she called over her shoulder, casually stripping off her caftan as she trotted up the dusty road in the direction of the hot springs.
“Welcome to California,” said Skip, smugly.
Pender rapped on the aluminum-framed screen door.
“Come on up!”
An open-treaded spiral staircase led to a carpeted, glass-enclosed room as sparsely furnished as a dance studio. Sliding glass doors opened onto a hardwood deck where an overweight, middle-aged man with a shaved head and a bushy, gray-blond beard was standing on one foot. The sole of his other foot was pressed flat against the inside of the opposite knee, and both han
ds were raised over his head, palms together like a football referee signaling a safety. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry,” called Pender, who remembered Dr. O as a slender, beardless preppy with sandy hair. “We were looking for Dr. Oliver.”
“You found him.” Oliver, who was wearing a pair of white cotton meditation pajamas, abandoned his yoga posture. “What can I do for you?”
Obviously, Dr. O had failed to recognize Pender from their previous meeting, which meant Skip was free to launch into the cover story he and Pender had agreed to try first. They were, he told Oliver, two freelance writers working on a book about the evolution of the spiritual movement in the West from Be Here Now to, well, now. Skip apologized for not having contacted Dr. Oliver in advance, explaining that they had only heard about his institute a few days ago and had been trying to track him down since then.
Ten minutes later, seated at a trestle table in the rustic dining hall downstairs, sipping some surprisingly kick-ass chai in lieu of coffee, Dr. Oliver described the sequence of events that had transformed him from a jacket-and-tie psychologist to a pajama-wearing guru. It included a pilgrimage to the East (no mention of the Mountain Project debacle), a blinding flash of enlightenment, and subsequent years of study and meditation at the bare or sandaled feet of various spiritual teachers, the last of whom ordered him to return to the West to pass on the wisdom he had gained.
He then gave them a brief outline of the two-week training currently under way. The first week had consisted largely of breaking down the trainees’ baseline assumptions and ego structures. This evening’s ceremony marked the turning point, then the second week would be concerned with building up healthier, spiritually oriented human beings.
And no, he told them in response to their request, he would not give them permission to observe the ceremony tonight—dramatic pause—but he would be willing to let them participate in the ceremony, if they agreed to sign waivers and let him vet anything they might write about himself or the institute or the training.
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