She had no right to rest; there was something more important—vastly more important—she had to do.
Now everything would be okay. Lucy could permit herself to sleep, while her body continued northward on its own.
Blue Monday
Burlington, Vermont
Monday, June 20
It was an omen: if Monday got off to a bad start, the whole week was likely to be terrible. For Karen Bradley, "Blue Mondays" very much deserved their reputation.
The Monday following her trip to Boston, she arrived at the Lakeview Health Center at ten to nine. Two messages were waiting for her. The first was from Gloria Cook, informing Karen of Dr. Gudhausen's fatal heart attack. The news hit her like a blow to the stomach. Holding the two pink "While You Were Out . . ." slips in her hand, she sat down before reading the second message.
Number two was from the St. Albans Police Department, asking her to call Officer Chaput regarding the Washburn family.
The Washburn family?
Karen stood up again and walked out of her office. "What's this all about?" she asked her receptionist. "What do the police want?"
"Oh dear God, you haven't heard." Laura Welsh's right hand rose to her lips; her eyes widened. "It was in Saturday's paper." She took a breath before going on. "Karen, Lucy's father flipped out. He . . . he shot his wife and the boy—"
"Little Randy? Oh my gosh! And Lucy? What about Lucy?"
"They didn't find her. The police think she ran away. They're afraid she's in hiding or something. Officer what's-his-name thought maybe you'd have some insight that would help them locate her."
"Me?" Karen didn't know what to say. All her energy had drained away. She felt as if she'd been blasted with some metaphysical double-barrel shotgun: the man who was going to help treat Lucy was dead, and now the poor kid's world had just jumped out of orbit.
Odd that both messages should arrive on the same day. Overkill, even for a Blue Monday.
Standing as if frozen, hand on her throat, Karen felt light-headed, oddly defeated. She had no idea what action to take. Finally, "Both of them? Ed Washburn killed both of them? Winnie and Randy?"
Laura closed her eyes and nodded.
"I can't . . . I just can't believe it. Ed Washburn? No, no way. There was nothing wrong with Ed Washburn, I'd stake my reputation on it. Did . . . did they arrest him?"
Laura shook her head. "Karen, he turned the gun on himself."
"Dead?"
Laura answered with a single nod. Karen dropped heavily into the chair beside Laura's desk. "Oh dear God, that poor little girl."
"I know. I'm so sorry, Karen. Can I get you something? Coffee? A glass of water?"
Karen touched Laura's hand. "No, but thanks. You're sweet." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'd better get myself together and call that policeman." She stood up, absently straightening the front of her skirt. Then, "She was doing so well in so many ways. She was trying so hard. My God, I hate to think about the defenses she'll have to create to deal with this one. Wow."
"I left Lucy's file on your desk, Karen."
"Yes. Okay. Thanks, Laura."
Walking into her office was like walking in her sleep. She drifted around her desk and sat down, totally unaware of what she was doing. This one had really trashed her; she knew she'd be useless the rest of the day.
God, she thought, does it ever get any easier? Were more experienced therapists like Dr. Gudhausen able to deal any better with this kind of thing?
She remembered her first suicide. It had happened over two years ago, when she was just beginning her internship. Mike Tucker was the young man's name. His face remained clear in Karen's memory; she'd never be able to forget him. Mike's wife had left him in the fall of that year, right after they had spent the entire summer building a home in the country.
The first room they'd completed was to have been the baby's room. Belinda Tucker was nearly two months pregnant. One day—God, that had been a Monday, too—Mike had come home early from his job on the Lake Champlain Ferry. He found Belinda packing her car. Quite matter-of-factly she told him that she'd had an abortion and that she was leaving. Period. No questions. No explanations. End of discussion.
There had been no scene, no histrionics. Belinda just drove away. leaving Mike with an empty house and a shattered expression on his face. That expression had become a permanent part of his appearance. It rarely changed during each of his three sessions with Karen.
Sure, he had tried to project a positive attitude. He even forced a smile at appropriate times, but his eyes never lost their haunted, hollow look.
In less than a minute, Mike Tucker's world had changed forever.
The day Karen and Mike were to have met for the fourth time. Mike's father called to say Mike wouldn't be coming; he had hanged himself.
For Karen the poignant part of the story was Mr. Tucker's stalwart Yankee sense of responsibility: he had thought to phone to cancel his son's appointment on what must have been the most difficult day of his life.
The thing that drove this episode permanently into Karen's memory was the realization that she hadn't seen it coming. Not a hint, not a clue. She'd been sure Mike's superego was stronger than it was. But she was supposed to be an expert in human behavior; she was licensed by the state as a psychotherapist, and yet she hadn't spotted a thing. She had failed. Permanently, irreparably.
Even today, every time the incident came to mind she felt ashamed. It was still humiliating to recall that her case notes, prepared after their final session, had said it was little more than an adjustment reaction and that Mike was doing fine; the prognosis was excellent. God, she had even been proud of the work she was doing with him.
After lunch, Karen tried the St. Albans number again. As before, the phone seemed to spit its busy signal into her ear. That's just great, she thought, the line's still busy at the police station. What are we supposed to do if we need a cop? Mail an appointment card? Send a smoke signal?
Laura tapped lightly at the door and walked in. "Are you okay, Karen? Your one-thirty appointment's here."
"Yes, sure. I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine. You want me to cancel? Take the afternoon off? I can come up with something to tell him."
"No. That's nice of you, but no thanks. Who is it anyway? Do we have a file on him?"
"It's an initial. Dr. Sparker at the clinic in Hobston called it in this morning."
"Sparker? Really? That's a surprise. Did he give you any background?"
"Apparent sleep disorder. Symptoms of depression. Some paranoid ideation. You know how Sparker is; he's still not too sure about all this new-fangled 'psychology business.'"
"Well, at least he made the referral."
Karen saw the look of concern on the receptionist's face. "I'm okay, Laura. Honest. You can send him in now. Oh! Wait! What's his name, anyway?"
"The patient is a Mr. Barnes, Mr. Alton Barnes, from Hobston."
Highgate, Vermont
Lucy crawled out the back door of the van. She'd been hiding inside, waiting for the sun to come up. Her stay had not been pleasant; it was too hot inside. Her nesting area reeked of wet dog and the sharp smell of her own pee. She threw aside the mildew-rotten sleeping bag that had belonged to the dead guy, and stood up straight, facing north.
As long as she faced north, everything was okay, there was no pain grinding and splintering inside her head.
Somehow, with much stalling, bucking, and racing the engine, Lucy had been able to drive the van to this little turnoff beside the northbound lane of Route 7. Here she had released the emergency brake and let the van tumble down a twelve-foot incline and into the juniper bushes and scrub pine where it couldn't be seen from the road.
That remote part of her mind—the diminishing part she still identified as Lucy—felt disgust at the way she must look in the morning light. Blood caked the area around her mouth; she could flake it off with a fingernail. Her lips hung limply; they felt slack and fleshy like the
puckered mouth of a sucker. They hurt wicked where they'd stretched and torn away from the gum line. And the roof of her mouth was sore, probably cut to ribbons when her braces snapped. Her hands were bloody, too, but that blood was hidden beneath layers of other dirt: grease from the van, dust from the road, and rich black loam from the earth. Most of her fingernails were torn away and her hands were ripped and raw from hand-digging the guy's grave. Her hair was a tangled foul-smelling bird's nest; her skin, except for blood and filth, was colorless.
A northbound car passed the turnoff. Lucy watched it from her hiding place behind an ancient oak. She shook her head: no.
A big truck roared by, leaving behind a swirling ghost of road dust and exhaust. That wasn't the right one either.
It was nearly impossible for her to resist the urge—no, the need—to begin walking north. Could she make it all the way on foot? She didn't know. She didn't even know if she was tired because she no longer had a sense of her own body. Hunger meant nothing to her. Thirst and fatigue were somehow alien. Strangely, she was still able to feel hot and cold, she could sense pain and certain physical discomforts, but she had no idea if she was dead-tired or newly energized. She just felt as if she were being . . . pulled.
Also, she felt as if certain specialized parts of her brain weren't working right. Those, she reasoned, must be under the control of one of her internal travelers. One such function had recently announced itself: her bladder had let go and she didn't know it, not until she felt warm liquid running down her left leg. The Lucy-part of her was ashamed, now. Embarrassed.
Then a strong unnamed sensation excited her. She felt herself breathing in hard excited gasps. She looked south and the twin glowing headlights were like the eyes of a close friend. She stepped into the road, willing the car to stop.
The vehicle slowed down, pulled over, came to rest beside her. The man inside leaned over and unlocked the passenger door.
Lucy pulled the door open. She saw red hair, a crew cut. The man was smiling at her.
Neither spoke as Lucy got in, but somehow she knew the man's name was Herbert Gold, and just like her, he was heading, up to Canada.
Burlington, Vermont
"Mr. Barnes, right this way, please . . ."
Alton felt his face redden as the receptionist led him into Dr. Bradley's office. Looking around, he expected to discover some eccentric-looking wild man with Coke-bottle glasses, wearing a white coat.
Instead, he saw a pretty young woman.
That can't be the doctor, he said to himself, she's just a kid. What can a kid tell me about all this crap I'm going through?
She smiled warmly and stood up, extending her right hand. "Mr. Barnes, I'm Karen Bradley."
He wiped his sweaty palm on his green work pants before shaking hands. At least folks around here were polite enough to call him Mister Barnes. Doc Sparker's nurse started calling him "Alton" the first time they'd met. He didn't like that; it wasn't right, it wasn't good manners.
"Please sit down, sir, make yourself comfortable."
Alton felt oddly oversize, awkward as a bear in the presence of this young lady. She was so different from him: youthful, poised, graceful, and highly educated with all her fancy diplomas papering the wall. Rich too, he guessed, like all doctors. Why, she was even good-looking with her long red hair and bright blue eyes. He took a careful step toward the stiff-looking chair in front of the doctor's desk.
Dr. Bradley stepped out from behind her desk, motioning toward a pair of easy chairs next to a wide window that overlooked Lake Champlain. "I think we'd be more comfortable over here."
Alton noticed a vase of cut flowers on the coffee table that separated the two chairs. Roses, he could smell them. Nice, he thought.
Each took a seat. Alton looked out at the lake; Dr. Bradley looked at Alton.
Immediately he felt beads of perspiration leaving cold trails as they rolled down his sides. Stinging droplets of salty sweat from his forehead seeped into his eyes, irritating them, filling them with tears. She's going to think I'm crying, he thought, brushing the moisture away with the backs of his hands.
"We can open the window, if you like . . . ."
"No. I'm okay. But thanks."
Alton crossed his legs, trying to look comfortable and at ease. The doctor was watching his foot; it was vibrating up and down like a tap dancer's.
"You're a little nervous to be here, aren't you, Mr. Barnes?"
"No, I—" he caught himself before he lied. "Yeah, but it ain't you. miss. I was nervous before I come in."
She smiled sweetly. "And how long have you been feeling this nervousness?"
"How long? I can tell you exactly when it started: last fall, first day of huntin' season. But it's got a lot worse since then."
"Would you say you have always been a nervous person, Mr. Barnes?"
He thought about it, thought of his childhood on the farm, thought of school and of the time he dropped out from the tenth grade. He thought of the army, the war, the torture, the death of his parents, the years in a custodial position at the high school. "No, not always, I guess. I mean, no more'n the next fella."
"But the nervousness has gotten worse lately; is that right? Ever since hunting season you've been getting more nervous?"
"Yeah. It's gettin' so bad I can't sleep at night. Never had that problem before. Used to sleep like a baby. Now I get to feelin' scared, like somebody's watchin' me. I imagine awful things. An' pictures, ugly awful pictures roll around in my head so fast I can't shut 'em off. Then, during the next day I'm tired. No energy. Not worth a good goddamn."
He looked away, down at the carpet. "Excuse me, miss."
"It's all right, Mr. Barnes. Swearing is perfectly all right. Please go on."
He still didn't look her in the eye. "And I'm cranky, too; get mad about nothin'. And whenever I do get a little sleep. I have these dreams, these awful wicked nightmare dreams. I have to fight 'em hard in order to wake up."
"The dreams, do they have anything to do with hunting season?"
Alton was surprised. "Yup. Yup, that's right."
"So maybe we should start at the beginning, don't you think? Why don't you tell me about hunting season. Tell me everything you remember. After that we can talk about what's happening in these dreams of yours."
Alton cleared his throat and settled back in his chair. He took a deep breath and realized he was starting to calm down. Maybe this doctor was just a pretty young gal, but she sure was easy to talk to. Leaning slightly forward in her chair, she seemed truly interested in every word that he said. By God, he was almost ready to level with her, but before he could go on, he had to check something. "You ain't gonna tell nobody about this. That's what Doc Sparker told me. Is that right?"
"Absolutely. Whatever we talk about in this room is private. It's just between you and me, and it's strictly confidential. I won't even give my notes to the secretary to type if you don't want me to."
Alton held her gaze for a minute, searching those deep blue eyes for a suggestion of treachery and finding none. He nodded once, emphatically. "Okay then, that's good." Alton locked his fingers together and rested them on his stomach. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he started talking.
"Tell you the truth, miss, what I remember 'bout huntin' season's pretty much what I seen in the papers. It was in all of 'em, you know: Free Press, Herald, all of 'em.
"I'm talkin' about the disappearance of my friend Stuart Dubois. Stu and me, we always went out first day together. First day huntin', first day fishin', didn't matter one bit, we was out there.
"Stu, he's a little bit older'n me. Not much, fifteen, twenty years, mebbe. An' we been friends a good long time. I think of him like an older brother, mabbe even, you know, kinda like a father in some ways. That sound kinda funny, does it? I guess it prob'ly does.
"We was in that stretch of woods up behind Stu's place. An' jes' like always we split up: Stu goes one way, I goes another.
"Prett
y quick, after we put some distance between us, I hears Stu yellin' an' cryin' out to high heaven. Sounds like he hurt himself or somethin'. God, but that was a frightful sound. Stu's wailin' away like he's sufferin' wicked and's half scairt out of his wits.
"I go runnin' in that direction when the shoutin' stops. I keeps goin' though. Pretty quick I find Stu's rifle in the snow. That give me a funny feelin', 'cause . . . well, I can't imagine Stu puttin' down a weapon like that, not in the snow. That ain't the way Stu treats a firearm.
"And I see his tracks headin' up this little slope, so I follows him. Then, 'bout eight, ten feet up—goddamnedest thing I ever seen—them tracks jest stop. Jest plain stop, like some big ol' eagle'd swooped down outta the sky and carried Stu off.
"Now, next thing I done—
"You sure all this is off the record? I mean, I ain't gonna lie; I ain't gonna hold nothin' back. That's the promise I made myself when I decided to come here. I figure they ain't no point in holdin' nothin' back. See, the way things been goin' lately, I'll do most anything to put a stop to it. But what I got to say, well, it's gonna sound crazy as hell from here on in, and I know it.
"Okay. Good. I 'preciate it. B'cause, ya see, I never told the police or game warden about them tracks. I brought 'em up to the site and everythin', jest the way I'm supposed to, but by the time we got there, well, the snow had melted off, so there wasn't nothin' to show but wet ground and Stu's rifle.
"And I didn't tell the police what happened next, neither. See, I'm standin' there with Stu's weapon in one hand, mine in the other, and I'm callin' out for him. I'm lookin' around like crazy, an' callin' out for Stuart. An' then . . . then . . .
"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is the tough part. See, I'm lookin' around, but there's no place Stu coulda gone. I mean, cripes, it's a wide-open clearin'! Trees all around, sure, but none close enough to jump to. Didn't have to look up to know nothin's up there. Nothin' but spindly little branches way up overhead. Had to force myself to look up. That's 'cause there's no place else to look. And when I did, it was jest as if the sun was right up above my head. There's this bright white light jest floatin' up there, hangin' in the air up above the treetops. It's weird, too, 'cause you'd expect a light bright as that would be makin' big black shadows on the ground. But it wasn't makin' shadows, and it wasn't makin' noise. But it was there, I swear to God, it was there and I seen it.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 12