"See. McCurdy believes in magic as much as he believes in God. And he believes that all the age-old magical beliefs might each hold a certain amount of magical truth. It makes a weird kind of sense: every culture in the history of mankind has had a tradition of magic. And within cultures there have always been subcultures, sects, and secret societies, all carrying some small part of a great body of hidden wisdom. How can something that is completely bogus have such staying power?"
"But, Jeff, how can you honestly—"
"Believe it? I'm not sure that I do. Not completely. But try this on: chemistry evolved out of alchemy, right? Astronomy is astrology all grown up. Maybe the arcane forces we refer to as magical conform readily to natural laws we just aren't aware of yet. Maybe McCurdy will be remembered as the terrible genius of the twentieth century who brought magic out of the closet and put it into the classroom. In any event he's succeeded in putting it on America's defense budget right along with psychic warfare and flying saucer research."
Karen heard herself sigh pathetically. She felt as if she wanted to hide and cry and forget everything that had happened today. She felt as if she wanted Jeff to take her in his arms and tell her it was all some great big joke, a campfire story designed to scare her half to death before she crawled into the snug security of her sleeping bag.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Thirty minutes after one o'clock in the morning. No wonder she was feeling so fragile—she was tired. Tired, but not sleepy. "Okay, Jeff," she said slowly, trying to control her voice, "one thing at a time. First, how do you know that tape is on the level?"
He got up, walked over to his open briefcase. He removed a file and brought it to Karen. "Here," he said, "this is a photocopy of the autopsy report. Look at it. Check out the cause of death."
Karen's eyes quickly found the entry in question, then raced over the typed pages for something that would argue with the medical doctor's conclusion.
After a while she closed the folder and handed it back to Jeff. "I'm sorry, Jeff," she said. Now her voice was stern and cold. "I just cannot believe this. It's impossible. It's a joke or a plot of some kind. This just cannot be true. No. No way."
She shook her head and, when Jeff took the file, crossed her arms defiantly.
"It is unbelievable. I admit that, Karen, but I have no choice but to believe it's true. Before the doctor performed the autopsy he found no cuts on the body, no intrusions whatsoever. Nothing at all. Nowhere. But when he opened the chest the heart was gone. Believe it, Karen, the man's heart vanished from his chest!"
Boston, Massachusetts
They walked up and down the aisles of the church. The tap of McCurdy's leather-soled shoes echoed ominously in the hollow of the vast marble-floored sanctuary. Lights from outside cast the silhouette of wire mesh against the muted colors of twelve stained-glass windows. Before the altar, rows of candles burned in red glass holders. Above, soft indirect lighting illuminated the great carved crucifix. On either side there were statues: to the left, the Virgin Mary; at right, St. Joseph holding the baby Jesus.
"A great change is coming," the stranger said to Ian McCurdy. "Until the millennium, God's presence will be felt upon the earth. It is time for a miracle, a vast and monumental change only hinted at in Revelation. It will be a time that will purge the soulless ones and bring God's children back to the altar of the Lord. There is much to be done, and I warn you, these will be the most difficult of times. But the help you can offer will be the greatest of all."
"I will do what I can, of course.
"What we ask will not be easy. You have been given two visions, Dr. McCurdy. You have seen the filth of this world, and you have never been seduced by it. And you have seen the face of the Lord. You realize now that this is a drastic time that will require drastic measures . . ."
"Yes."
"Have you ever killed anyone, Doctor?"
"Killed anyone? I . . . I was in the war. A fighter pilot—"
"A personal killing, Dr. McCurdy . . ."
"The demonstration for the Pentagon, I did the programming; I pulled the switch, I—"
"But that was with the sanction of your government. What about on your own? Have you looked your victim in the eye? Offered him the chance to plead? Killed him face-to-face, taking his life in your hands?"
"No. Never like that. That's . . . well, wouldn't that be murder?"
"Murder? Hardly. Remember, the children of God do not die, Dr. McCurdy. They are reborn. Only the soulless ones die. And you cannot murder that which is not human. The soulless ones are not the children of the Lord."
"I'm not sure I could—"
The man rounded on McCurdy. "You must be sure. You must know." He took a breath, paused before resuming his pacing, shoulder to shoulder with McCurdy. Then softly, "If a Christian would willingly die for his God, wouldn't he kill for his God just as readily?"
"I don't . . . I'm not . . ."
The man stopped, turned slowly, looked McCurdy in the eyes. He put a dirt-smeared palm on McCurdy's shoulder. "You will be tested. You must prepare yourself for killing, Doctor. It is the Will and the Way."
McCurdy blinked back the panic that threatened to push tears into his eyes. He never thought it would be like this. His mind raced, struggling to understand. "Kill who?"
"The first, to see that you can. Then others when the time comes."
"But—"
"But why? Is that what you wish to know? To return God's kingdom to the earth. It's simple."
"You don't believe me, do you? Yet you pride yourself on being a believer. You feel you are better than the rest, one of the elect, or so you think. You fancy you're one who feels personal outrage at the state of the world. But after all your rhetoric, after your research at the Academy, and after all your Sunday mornings filling up a pew, you really don't believe, do you, Dr. McCurdy?"
"Tell me if you believe!"
"Tell me!"
McCurdy whirled away from him and let himself fall onto the hard wooden pew. "I do believe." His voice was strained and cracking.
The stranger sat down beside him. Oddly, McCurdy was aware of the scent of rose petals, not the biting stench of this street person's breath as he whispered directly into McCurdy's face, "I know. I know you do."
Side by side, still as statues in the gloomy interior of the church, the men sat quietly for a while. Finally, when he felt composed, when he was confident he could speak evenly and well, McCurdy said, "Who must I kill?"
The man smiled with infinite patience in his sad soft eyes. "Me," he answered. "You must kill me."
Something seized up in McCurdy's chest as if an icy fist had clenched his heart. Sweat like bullets pushed through his skin.
"Now," the man whispered. "You must kill me now."
Some unfamiliar reflex, one McCurdy had never experienced before, propelled him from the pew. Panting, nearly breathless, he stood in the center aisle of the church glaring down at the changing face of the stranger.
It was as if a tiny spotlight illuminating the man's features were instantly extinguished. Tight skin stretching across his forehead relaxed into deep furrows. A webwork of wrinkles appeared around his eyes; the eyelids fell to half-mast; the eyeballs reddened. His smiling mouth drooped, became shapeless. Thick liver-purple lips quivered spastically. A glistening sliver of drool hid itself within the whiskered creases of the chin.
And the posture changed. It was as if the force that had controlled his limbs, allowing him to meander around the church at McCurdy's side, had suddenly abandoned him.
The man growled something incoherent and slumped in the pew.
McCurdy took another step backward, again responding to that novel reflex of revulsion. Could it be some atavistic reaction to the strange, the alien, the supernatural? Was this how our ancestors felt when they witnessed bolts of fire in the sky, or looked up, quaking in terror, as the black moon passed before the sun? Or might this be how men felt in the proximity of a spirit, a demon, or during some ang
elic visitation? Did Bernadette at Lourdes experience terror before the peace had come?
Now the odor of rank alcohol was ripe in the church, intensified by the stink of the man's fear. Crablike, the garbageman slid along the polished wooden bench, backing away from McCurdy. A trembling hand grappled in his back pocket for the paper-wrapped pint of liquor.
"Who dahell're you?" he slurred. "Wha dahell you doin' in nere?"
McCurdy shook his head, alarmed by the transformation.
"You da priest innis place? You da fahdah?"
The drunk's back pressed against the side of the pew; his knees pulled up—fetuslike—for protection. Even in his terror, he gulped from the bottle.
"It's okay," McCurdy said quietly, "it's okay, I won't hurt you."
The man's eyes widened, pupils darted back and forth. He could push himself no more tightly against the corner of the wooden pew.
McCurdy took a seat at the other end of the bench, a good six feet away from the cowering man. "Yes," he said, "yes, I'm the priest. Don't be afraid."
The package slipped from the man's trembling hand. McCurdy heard the muffled explosion when the bagged glass burst against the marble floor.
"I didn't take nothin', Fahdah. I jes' come in from owside. Tha's all. I jes' come in from owside."
McCurdy slid a little closer to him. "That's okay," he said, "everyone is welcome here."
The terror in the man's face didn't relax. As McCurdy slid another foot closer, the man shifted in his seat. Now his feet were on the floor.
He tried to get up, one hand on the back of his pew, the other on the pew in front of him. The man was obviously weak; he had trouble rising to his feet.
When McCurdy stood up the man recoiled. Legs unsteady, backing toward the aisle, he almost toppled. His foot connected with the fallen bottle, slid on the wet floor beneath the shattered glass. He stumbled. When his legs shot out from under him, he fell. The back of his head smacked hard against the floor.
"Ohh!" he cried. His hands jumped to his skull. "Oh God, ohhh." Rocking back and forth on the marble floor, he hugged his head with his hands. "Oh my head . . . . Oh God, id durts."
McCurdy stood over him, looking down at the pitiful face contorted in agony. The man's eyes darted back and forth. He blinked once. Again. "Fahdah, good God help me, Fahdah. I can't see. Oh God, I can't see!"
"There, there," McCurdy said soothingly, kneeling by the writhing man. "You've hit your head, that's all. You're stunned. You'll be all right in a minute. Try to relax now."
"My eyes. Oh God, I'm blind."
"Take your hands away from your eyes, now. That's right." McCurdy let his fingertips rest against the man's temples. He could feel blood pulsing rapidly. "Relax now. You'll be okay in a minute. That's it, relax."
McCurdy passed his hand over the sightless eyes, watched their wild rotation in slightly different directions. "That's right, settle down. Stretch your legs out. That's it. Yes. Try to be comfortable. Okay now, take a deep breath."
The man's breathing slowed. He dropped his arms to his sides. "Fahdah, I'm not gonna be blind, am I, Fahdah?"
"No. You'll be fine. Close your eyes, now. That's right, good. Just keep them closed a moment while I say a little prayer."
The man stopped thrashing and struggled to lay very still. "Dear Father in Heaven, take pity on this unfortunate servant."
Tears slid from beneath the closed eyelids. Now the vagrant was flat on his back, his arms slack at his sides. McCurdy knelt closer beside him, his right knee touching the man's arm.
"St. Joseph, let your healing light shine on this injured brother . . ." Looking down at tension flowing from contorted features, McCurdy lightly massaged the man's temples with the fingers of both hands. "Let your healing power flow to these damaged eyes . . ."
As lightly as the touch of a bee to a flower, McCurdy's thumbs rested on the delicate eyelids. He could feel the eyeballs moving below the thin layer of skin.
"And put an end to his suffering . . ."
Driven by the full weight of his body, McCurdy thrust his thumbs deeply into the eye sockets. He felt fragile bones give way like eggshells as the thumbs descended. An exquisite warmth flowed over his hands, a living softness caressed his fingers.
The man's heels beat a spastic tattoo on the marble floor.
When the thrashing stopped, McCurdy rose and walked confidently to the font of holy water at the back of the church. He rinsed his hands thoroughly and reached up under his sweater to dry them on his shirt.
He left the church the same way he had come in, stopping only to drop the nails back into their holes in the cellar window and to replace the metal grate that covered the glass.
Hobston, Vermont
The middle of the night.
Lucy wasn't asleep, but she was dreaming.
It was as if she'd been dreaming since Friday, when they'd arrived way out here in the boonies at the old woman's house.
Lucy wished the voices inside her head were part of the dream. For a while they had been almost silent, talking in whispers from far, far away. Then they got louder. Almost too loud. So loud she couldn't hear anything else.
This was a new thing—so many voices. Used to be just one, the Mean One, that would talk to her inside her head. But now there were a whole lot of them, all talking at once. Buzzing, screaming, and laughing. They never stopped!
Lucy remembered how they had urged her onward in roaring, painful whispers, "Go on now, go ahead. She won't shoot a little girl like you." So Lucy went ahead. She had to. Just like when the Mean One spoke. The only time she could disobey was when somebody from outside gave her an order. She could disobey Mommy, or Daddy, or any of her teachers. She could even disobey Dr. Karen. But when a voice spoke inside her head, she had to do just exactly what it told her.
Lucy couldn't remember when she had quit trying to fight them. When they spoke to her on Friday night she had gone straight up onto the porch, grabbed the gun, and pulled it, barrel first, right out of the old lady's hands. Then the man—Mr. Red, she called him—who somehow seemed as much a part of Lucy as her own hands, had bounded up the steps and grabbed the old lady around the waist. She had kicked and cried—she seemed pretty strong for an old lady—but Mr. Red dragged her inside, and tied her to a wooden chair with coils of baling wire.
And there she sat, all through Saturday and all through Sunday, way on the other side of the room, her ankles and wrists dripping blood from the wire cuts, her head drooping down till her chin rested on her chest. Sleeping now. Snoring like a drowsing animal.
The voices stopped. Lucy's mind shut off. She saw only darkness. It was as if her eyes had rolled back all the way into her head where everything was blacker than a movie theater before the film comes on. Sometimes Lucy caught sight of things in the darkness inside her head, flitting forms or familiar faces that were gone before she could be sure who or what they were.
There! Her daddy was there! She could see him way off in a tiny circle of light, as if he were in a spotlight on some faraway stage. He was drinking something. Using a straw. A funny straw that was bigger and thicker than the straws Lucy had used at school. This one was really thick. Thick as a broomstick. And black. Shiny black. It shone as if it were made out of metal. Daddy's cheeks kind of caved in, forming little pockets because he was sucking so hard.
But something was wrong!
He was sucking too hard. Way too hard! So hard the liquid came up the straw and into his mouth much too fast!
His cheeks puffed out; his eyes snapped open. He jumped off the floor, flew backward as the top of his head exploded like a mushy red fountain, and—
What's going on? Lucy's mind raced around inside her head like a bumblebee in ajar. Even with her body rooted, beyond her control, her mind fought to escape. It battered against the inside of her skull, harder and faster, as if the captive bee had turned suicidal.
The voices in the blackness whispered excitedly, but Lucy couldn't quite make out what they were s
aying.
When she opened her eyes, the dream-pictures vanished. Her daddy was gone and the darkness of the old woman's kitchen came back into view.
"You're all alone," the voices told her.
Lucy saw the old woman was awake, too. Her wide, frightened eyes flicked back and forth like the eyes of the mechanical cat on the clock back home in Mommy's kitchen.
But the old woman wasn't supposed to be awake. Today, tomorrow, something was going to happen and the old lady wasn't supposed to see it.
As Lucy began to move, the old woman's eyes locked on her. They seemed to say, Help me, please, help me, little girl.
Lucy's body tensed, just as it did when she was angry.
She wasn't angry now, not even a little bit, but she couldn't stop herself from stomping across the room and standing right in front of the old woman.
Today, tomorrow, something is going to happen . . . .
The lady looked up at Lucy, scared as could be. Lucy wanted to tell her, Don't be scared, lady, it's okay. But even as the words formed in her mind, her hand reached out and tore away the top of the woman's raggy old dress. Lucy felt her body laughing at the woman's flat wrinkled old tittles. And probably her toothless old mouth would be open in horror if Mr. Red hadn't stuffed her ugly cotton panties in there before wrapping her head with masking tape.
And—Lucy's body laughed some more—it was really funny the way he'd taken a Magic Marker and drawn a smiling mouth on the tape. Today, tomorrow . . .
The old lady made a noise through her nose and jerked her head back and forth like she was saying no.
But the old lady couldn't be allowed to see what was going to happen.
Lucy's hand came up and she hit the old woman hard on the side of the head. The old woman's head snapped sideways. She heaved and groaned. She made sounds like coughing.
Lucy hit her again. This time she went back to sleep.
Something is going to happen.
Lucy ran over to the screen door.
Sometime soon, today, tomorrow, someone new will arrive.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 20