In deep concentration she looked from face to face, and whispered hoarsely, "Moses cast his rod onto the ground, and it became . . . a serpent!"
Jerry heard someone giggle as Miss Damon lifted her walking stick high above her head. The lights in the classroom seemed to dim, just a bit, hardly enough to notice, but Jerry was sure the room had suddenly become just a shade darker.
The Deathdemon held the walking stick above her head, one hand on each end. With her eyes squeezed shut, she began to speak faster than Jerry had ever heard before. "And I know you young people don't believe me so the Lord has said he'll give you a sign so you will believe what Miss Damon tells you and so you'll go home and tell your parents and you'll tell your teachers and you'll tell your friends and other little boys and girls who would stray away from the Holy Spirit of the Lord . . . ."
Jerry gripped the edge of his desk with both hands until his knuckles whitened. He gritted his teeth and looked up, openmouthed, as Miss Damon continued.
"You'll tell them all that you have seen and all you have learned." She bowed her head, dropping her chin to her chest, and she said, "God told me, 'Miss Beth Damon, you cast your rod away," and with that she flung her walking stick, pushing it away from her with both hands. It sailed over the heads of the motionless children.
Jerry heard his classmates gasp. He saw the stick stop in midair, directly over the head of Dickie Laymon and parallel with the floor. It hung there for a moment, suspended from nothing, until it began to rotate. Slowly at first, then the speed of rotation increased, gathering force, like the blade of a helicopter revving up.
Kids made noise. Frightened sounds. One of the girls, Linda Allen, began to cry. Miss Damon remained at the front of the room, eyes pinched shut, arms over her head, palms toward the class. "Quiet, children, quiet in the presence of the Lord."
Jerry couldn't pull his eyes from that magical stick; it righted itself now, turning like the wheel of fortune at the firemen's carnival.
The Deathdemon pointed. "Look, children! There is your proof! There is your proof of the Lord!"
Joey Arnold shrieked and ran for the door. The stick sailed like a javelin leaving an athlete's hand. It connected with the back of Joey's head—Thwap!'—knocking the boy against the wall beside the coat rack. Joey lay on the floor, scrunched into an "S" shape, hands and arms trying to protect his bloody head from further assault.
Now the stick righted itself and stood in front of the exit, weaving ever so slightly back and forth. No visible hand held it, but it stood there just the same.
"Lord knows your sins, boys and girls. You can't hide anything from the Lord!" Miss Damon was screeching now. Linda Allen and her friend Rose sat on the floor, hugging each other and wailing. Dickie Laymon hid under his desk. Johnny Coon, Coon the goon, had his arms folded on his desktop and his face buried in the folds.
Jerry watched the cane. Now it was jumping up and down. It looked like a pogo stick with an invisible rider as it bounced down the aisle. Occasionally it paused, snapping to the right or left to whack some kid in the head.
Most of the kids were crying. Some pressed their palms tightly against their eyes and shook their heads left and right. A girl, Debbie Swale, was chanting "Nonononono."
Jerry watched the stick make its way up the center aisle, tapping loudly on the floor tiles like Long John Silver's crutch. It stopped, still standing under its own mysterious power, right beside Diane Bixby, directly in front of Miss Damon.
Diane leaned to the left, trying to get as far away as possible, yet not daring to leave her seat.
Miss Damon's fingers were linked together, pressing tightly against her solar plexus. With eyes closed, her lips moved rapidly in silent prayer.
The walking stick stopped swaying, snapped to rigid attention.
Jerry couldn't tear his eyes away. He held his breath while all the other kids got quiet at the same time.
The stick leapt into the air and started spinning like a majorette's baton. Three times in rapid succession, faster than she could move away, it struck Diane in the face.
"Sinner!" screeched Miss Damon as Diane, her nose and mouth red with blood, slumped to the floor. Jerry couldn't tell; he thought she might be dead.
The stick did cartwheels from desktop to desktop, tapping rhythmically, dancing, pausing unpredictably to rap someone in the temple.
Kids cried, screamed for their parents.
Without leaving his seat, Jerry pushed his entire desk backward a few inches at a time. Its metal legs scratched loudly on the tile floor. He could feel the vibration, but knew no one could hear it above the cries of his terrified classmates.
Now the stick had stopped whirling. It hovered parallel with the floor, a ropeless trapeze, gliding over the heads of the cowering children. It seemed to dare them to move.
Jerry pushed his desk back another inch.
Miss Damon dropped to her knees in the aisle, clenched hands against her mouth, her eyes tightly closed'. "Thank you, dear Lord, for all your gifts, and for rewarding me with this magnificent display of your majesty. Thank you for the children, Lord. And thank you for your love—"
The rubber sole of Jerry's sneaker squeaked on the floor as he retreated another inch. Now he could almost make it to the rear stairway. Almost . . .
The horizontal walking stick floated toward Miss Damon. "Thank you for your love—"
Ever so gently, almost like a caress, the stick placed itself under her chin.
And leapt upward, lifting the old woman into the air, dropping her on her back atop the teacher's desk.
Jerry wasn't sure what happened next. When Miss Damon went down, he jumped up. Two rapid steps brought him to the bottom of the stairs. He risked a quick look back, just to be sure the stick wasn't following him.
What he saw was to be a puzzle etched forever on his memory.
Either the stick was lying beside Miss Damon on the desktop, resting against her leg, and partially hidden within the folds of her clothing, or—and Jerry didn't hazard a second look to make sure—it had actually transformed itself into a snake and was crawling underneath Miss Damon's skirt.
The confusing picture was vivid in his mind as he raced up the back steps and into the church.
Earl King
Burlington, Vermont
Monday, June 27
"Karen, your ten o'clock is here," said Laura Welsh as she peeked through the slightly opened door to Dr. Bradley's office.
Karen looked up from her newspaper. "My ten o'clock?" She glanced at her calendar. "I don't have anybody written in for ten o'clock."
Laura stepped through the door and closed it. "Oh-oh, my fault: I forgot to put it in your book, sorry. It's a Mr. Earl King. He called first thing this morning: said you'd asked him to come in."
"I'd asked him? I don't remember any Earl King."
"Oh boy!" Laura rolled her eyes. "What shall I do?"
"I'll see him, of course. The hour's open, and now I'm curious."
Laura flashed a grateful smile'. "Thanks, you're a pal. I'll get him." She turned away and spoke to the man in the waiting room, "Please come in, Mr. King."
Karen watched the door, eager to find out about her mysterious appointment. When the man walked in, she stiffened with surprise, then anger.
Jeff Chandler closed the door and took three swift steps to the chair beside Karen's desk. "May I sit down." he said.
She nodded once and he sat. Not knowing what to say, her eyes automatically scanned him head to foot. Jeff looked much changed from the man she had met in Boston. There was no sign of the tailored three-piece suit, the styled hair, the careful professional grooming. Today he wore jeans, running shoes, and an oversize T-shirt advertising Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. His dark hair was wild; springy curls uncoiled in every direction. He had shaved his beard, then let it grow back for a day or two, giving his face a rough, almost unsavory look.
Jeff's body language told her he was uncomfortable. It took a few moments of fidgeting befor
e he could start talking.
"Karen," he began, "I know how you must feel. I was unforgivably rude to you on the phone the other day, and I know it. I knew it while it was happening, but I had no choice. I sincerely apologize, and if I may, I'd like to explain. Will you listen to me?"
"That's my job," she said, feeling the icy edge in her voice. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm a professional listener."
His eyes left hers as he lowered his head. "Okay, I had that coming. But can we have a cease-fire for a few minutes, at least until you hear me out?"
Karen allowed the muscles in her face to relax. "Okay."
"Thanks." He took a breath, momentarily appearing confused and hopelessly lost. Karen studied every subtle look and gesture. Something's terribly wrong, she thought.
"Wow," Jeff said. "Where to start?" His ultra-blue eyes explored the office until they again met Karen's. "Let me begin by explaining why I'm here. Remember, I told you about my work at the Massachusetts Technological Academy?"
"Sure. You debunk UFO sightings."
"Right. I do that and lots of other things as well. But UFOs make the most entertaining dinner-table conversation. They're also the most public of our many activities. In reality, the Academy is involved in all sorts of . . . well, arcane research. Most of it's highly classified. UFOs are just the visible tip of the proverbial iceberg."
Jeff stood up, paced over to the window, and looked out on the lake. "Late last week I got word that I'm being considered for some kind of promotion. Ian McCurdy, the executive director, called me in and spoke quite candidly about some of the other things the Academy is involved in. It's stuff I didn't know about, scary stuff. Scarier than I would have imagined."
"So you're not upset about the promotion, but you don't think you can be a party to these . . . other things?" Karen heard herself being the psychologist when she knew Jeff needed a friend.
"I know I can't. But I'm upset about the promotion, too. I'm afraid it, like everything else at the Academy, is not just exactly what it seems."
"How do you mean?"
Still facing the window, Jeff spoke, never looking at Karen. "I have a friend there, an administrative assistant. She tipped me off, told me to be careful. I think she did it because she's somewhat sympathetic to my stand on . . . certain of the Academy's policies . . . ."
Karen leaned forward, elbows on her desk, listening with greater concentration.
"While I was talking with Dr. McCurdy, I had the feeling he was sizing me up, testing me, trying to get me to tip my hand about something. He was probing into areas that have nothing to do with my skills as a researcher, administrator, or scientist. The whole interview just didn't seem to be . . . on the level."
"So what exactly did this administrative assistant tell you?"
"That she'd noticed a pattern. That promotional interviews often resulted in firings."
"Firings? Why do you think they'd fire you?"
He turned from the window to face her. "I don't fit in. I'm too much of a maverick. And I've made the mistake of articulating certain . . . ethical concerns—objections, really—about what the Academy is hiding from the general public."
Karen nodded, careful to appear interested but not too sympathetic.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself," Jeff paused, as if collecting his thoughts. "Dismissals at the Academy are rare. That's because employee compatibility is measured in advance by intense pre-employment screenings followed by absurdly in-depth reference checking for security clearances. But when somebody gets the boot, believe me, it's serious business. As I understand it, firings are always sudden and normally they're a complete surprise. When they occur, the sacked employee gets a couple months severance pay and is hustled out the door."
"So why all the game playing? Why this promote or dismiss business?"
"Just a trick to get me to drop my guard. They want to find out what I really know. What I believe. How likely I am to be a thorn in their side."
"Are you hiding something?"
"No. Well, yes, in a way. No big deal. I don't have a record or anything like that. When I was in college I was into computers. I programmed a virus and set it loose in the ROTC data bank. Wiped out a lot of records, replacing them with the names of all my favorite albums. Stupid, I know. I could have been expelled. Could have been convicted. But I got off with a slap on the wrist and a good talking to. They weren't storing anything vital and had a backup my virus couldn't touch."
"Does the Academy know about that?"
"Probably. But I didn't tell them. There was no conviction; it's not part of my record. Maybe McCurdy just wanted to see if I'd fess up."
"If they're not confident of you, why don't they just give you some kind of warning or put you on notice or something?"
Jeff shrugged. "Same thing as sacking computer programmers, I suppose. What if you fire one who's really into retribution? If he continues on the job, he can sabotage your operation, do stuff that'll cost you thousands of dollars to correct. He can delete irreplaceable data or disable programs, he can mess up files, input bogus information, cause all kinds of general damage that can be irreparable."
"Right, I see."
"In my case, not only do I have access to computers, but also I have access to lots of classified information unrelated to UFOs. And they know I don't go along with their secrecy. Right now they're probably thinking, What if this guy goes to the press . . . ?"
Karen stared at him for a long time. "I still don't get it, Jeff. Why avoid the inevitable? Why didn't you just report for work today? Why come here of all places?"
Jeff dropped into one of the easy chairs by the window. From her desk Karen watched him slouch, long legs stretched out in front of him, nearly horizontal. He combed his fingers through his hair.
"I didn't go in because I'm afraid."
Karen waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she prompted, "Afraid?"
"Yup. Here's something else my friend told me. About two years ago, right after I started work, a guy named Vince LoBianco was fired. He was a research assistant and not involved in the UFO project. Then last year a woman named Merrilee Hubbard resigned, a protest resignation." Jeff straightened in the chair, crossed his legs. His foot tapped nervously. "Today, both of them are dead. They died within two months of leaving the Academy. LoBianco had a heart attack. Hubbard wrapped her car around a tree."
He raised his head looking Karen in the eyes. "You're thinking, coincidence? Maybe. If not, you can see why the woman who tipped me off has taken a tremendous risk. Thank God she gave me a little time to get the hell out of Boston, to disappear. By warning me, she put a lot more than her job on the line."
"I see that, if what you say is true. But what I don't understand, Jeff, is why you came here? Why are you telling all this to me?"
Jeff tapped his fingertips together. "Karen, I didn't have time to think about it. I didn't have time to plan. On one level, I realize I may have put you in danger by coming here, but on another level, I hope to God you can help me."
Karen felt herself softening. Recognizing the outward symptoms of Jeff's tension and fear, she thought a moment before speaking. "Okay, maybe I can help you. Tell me how."
When Jeff blinked, relief was evident on his face. "I think there may be a couple of ways. First, you're safe; no one at the Academy even knows you exist. So they have no way of knowing you and I are acquainted. Think about it: we met by chance; there's no record that we went to dinner together; I didn't even put it in my calendar, and the restaurant doesn't take reservations. And another thing, I paid in cash—no credit card, no written transaction. I've thought about this, Karen, and I'm pretty sure there's no record that I know you or anyone at all in Vermont."
"Record? What kind of record?"
"Their so-called personnel records, in depth, highly intrusive files kept by the Academy."
"They actually keep a record of your friends?"
"Wow, do they keep records!
They maintain extensive files that include pre-employment security investigations conducted by—get this—the FBI. And the bureau continues its involvement with ongoing random checks and updates. Man, there's more people looking at us than at the Dallas cheerleaders. I know how this sounds, Karen, it sounds paranoid as hell, but it's true. If they ever want to find me, they can produce a list of everyone I've ever known since I was, Christ, fifteen years old."
Karen shook her head. "This . . . this is all so . . . weird!"
"Yup. See, Karen, it was just dumb luck that you and I ran into each other, even dumber luck that we didn't leave any kind of a trail. Shortly after we had dinner, I got word what might be coming down. I didn't know how else to behave on the phone when you called. I wanted very much to talk to you; I know I was terribly rude, but I just didn't dare have a conversation. I was afraid my line was bugged, or something. This way, maybe they know I got a call, but at least I didn't let you give your name."
Karen sat quietly, studying the end of a Bic pen. Finally, "That's reason number one: I'm an ally the Academy doesn't know about. What's the other reason?"
Jeff smiled a long, sad smile. "You're a psychologist."
Karen raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean? What's that got to do with it?"
"Well, when you give me the go-ahead, I'm going to tell you the whole story . . . ."
"Yes . . ."
"If I told it to anyone else—the police, the press, even some of my closest friends—they'd think I was nuts, totally paranoid, delusional. You, on the other hand, have the professional expertise to hear me out and diagnose that, okay, I may be a little stressed out, but I'm perfectly sane."
"And . . ."
"And if you believe me, maybe you'll help me. Maybe we can decide what to do?"
Karen stood up and walked from behind her desk. She took a seat in the armchair across from Jeff, searching his eyes for any suggestion of deceit. "Okay, Jeff, I'm with you so far, at least I think I am. For now, anyway. But for my own piece of mind, just tell me one more thing."
The Reality Conspiracy Page 17