When Jeff spoke it was directly to Mr. Barnes, never breaking eye contact. "Then we'll know you've had an experience that is shared by literally thousands of other people all over the world. And all three of us will know it's true. As it is now, none of us knows for sure what happened out in those woods."
Again Alton's gaze dropped to his hands.
"How about this, Mr. Barnes," Karen said, "I can record the session on videotape. Then afterward you can watch the whole thing so you can see just how it works,"
He didn't look at her. It was obvious the man was monumentally uncomfortable. And it was her fault, too. Karen began to wish she'd never complicated the therapy by involving Jeff.
Alton Barnes sighed deeply. "Okay, miss," he said in a whisper. Karen felt herself brighten. "Shall we give it a try then?"
"Yup. Now that I chewed on it a little. I recall that's why I come here at the start. So let's give her a whirl and see what comes of it."
"And will it be all right with you if Mr. Chandler observes?"
Alton looked up and smiled. "Sure. Why not? The more the merrier. But you don't need to bother about that tape machine of yours. I trust the both of ya."
"Thank you, sir," said Jeff. The men shook hands as if together they'd won a great battle.
Jeff left the room while Karen went about inducing the hypnotic state in Alton Barnes. She was surprised to see how adept a subject he turned out to be. In spite of his initial unease, he relaxed readily. Within a very few minutes he was in a deep hypnotic trance.
Fewer than twenty minutes after Jeff had left the room, she asked him to join them again. Now, Alton was reclining in one of the chairs by the window. His eyes were closed and he looked very comfortable.
She handed Jeff a yellow legal pad and a pencil so he could make notes or, if need be, pass messages to Karen.
When she took a seat across from Alton, the session began.
"Now, Mr. Barnes," she said, "you will be very comfortable and very relaxed. You are perfectly safe in your soft cozy chair. It'll be easy to recall the events that occurred on November twelfth of last year. You'll be able to see everything clearly; you'll remember everything completely. And you'll be safe all the time. You're perfectly safe and comfortable here in my office. You'll be watching the events, just as if you were reclining at home, watching a television program. Do you feel relaxed, Mr. Barnes?"
"Yes. I'm quite comfortable. Thank you."
"Good. Okay then, now you're going back in time. Back to last year and the first day of hunting season. There is snow on the ground, and you have just entered a clearing in the woods. You're looking for your friend, Stuart Dubois. Now, Mr. Barnes, you see Stuart's footprints in the snow, is that right?"
"Yes. Right."
"Okay. Good. Then what happens . . ."
"The footprints, I see 'em goin' up a little rise and then they just stop. They just . . . they just . . . end. And that scares me a little, 'cause I'm thinkin', they can't just stop like that. I'm standin' there with two weapons in my hands 'cause Stu musta dropped his. That ain't right, Stu droppin' his weapon. And it ain't right the way his tracks just stop like that, right out in the middle of nowhere."
"Go on, Mr. Barnes. What else are you thinking?"
"I'm thinkin' I wants to hightail it outta there. Somethin' ain't right and I want to get the hell away fast. But I can't. I can't because . . . because I know somethin's happened to Stuart, and I'm the only one around that can help him.
"But I'm . . . I'm awful scared. I don't know why, but I'm scared as hell. I keep lookin' at his tracks, just ending like that, arid, and . . . Jeez, I can't find my voice. I try to find my voice so I can call out to him, you know. An' finally I call, 'Stu, hey, Stu.' But my voice ain't comin' out with no real force behind it. I try again:
"'HEY, STU!'
"But I know he ain't gonna answer me. And I look at them tracks, and there ain't nothin', I mean nothin' around he coulda jumped up on, and there ain't no place he could be hidin'. He's jest flat out gone, period.
"Trouble is, they ain't but one direction he coulda gone off in: straight up.
"So I figures I jest better look up. And . . . and . . . I don't wanta look up. Please. I don't wanta look up . . . . Oh . . . ."
"It's all right, Mr. Barnes. You're safe here. You're watching this on a TV screen. You're relaxed and comfortable. It's okay to look up now. You're perfectly safe. Nothing can hurt you. Go ahead. Go ahead and look up."
"Oh . . . I . . . I . . . Yes. Okay. There's . . . I see there's light up there. Oh God, oh God, there's light up there. It's real bright, but it don't make no shadows. And it looks, it looks . . . hot. White-hot. But I can't feel it. I can't feel no heat from it.
"Funny.
"Funny."
"What's funny, Mr. Barnes?"
"The light. I . . . I'm lookin' right into it and it don't hurt my eyes. It looks like . . . kinda like . . . a disk, or somethin'. Bright. Real bright. It looks . . . you know, round . . . like somethin' flyin'. Like one a them Frisbees, or a clay pigeon, maybe. But bigger. It's real big. I'm thinkin', Oh God, oh Lordy God, I don't like this. Oh God, let this not be happenin' . . . ."'
"It's all right, Mr. Barnes. You're perfectly safe. Relax now. Take a breath. That's it. Let the breath push all of the tension out of you . . . ."
"Yeah. Sure. I'm lookin' up. It's . . . I see a big circle of light. Right up over my head now. Must be forty, fifty feet straight up. And it's round. Perfectly round. Like a disk, like a big, glowin' disk.
"But . . . oh . . . it ain't a disk. It's—Oh God no, this can't be—no, it's not a disk at all, it's . . . it's . . . I think it's more like . . . Oh Christ, that's what it is all right. Oh God—"
"What is it, Mr. Barnes? What is it you see?"
"It's . . . it's a hole. That's what it is. It's a big hole in the sky! In the air. A hole. An . . . and it's moving! It's goin' up, and it's goin' west—
"And—oh God—and there's somethin' else. Somethin' awl . . . Oh, don't make me say it! I can't. . . Don't—"
"Mr. Barnes . . ."
"I . . . I . . . Yes. I see . . . I see Stuart! I see him dangling out of that hole, half in, half out. His legs is kickin', and he's twitchin' and floppin' around, puttin' up a fight.
"And he's screamin'. Oh. He's screamin' somethin' wicked. God, he's screamin' like a squirrel gettin' tore to pieces by a cat. I can't—"Stuart! STUART!"
"He hears me, I think. He hears me and he thinks I can help him. But . . . I . . . I . . . can't. I can't help him. 'Cause he's way off up above my head, and . . . I . . . I can see it now. I can see it."
"What do you see, Mr. Barnes?"
"I see what it is now. I see . . . For cryin' out loud, there's somethin' inside that hole! There's somethin' on the other side of it. I see heads leaning over, like I'm on the bottom of a well lookin' up, and there's two, three . . . people . . . animals . . . looking down the well at me. I see heads. I see arms. Good Merciful Christ, there's somethin' on the other side a that hole! And they got hold of him. They got hold of Stuart!
"STUART'!'
"They got him, they got him up there. They got him and they're pullin' him through!"
Boston, Massachusetts
11:00 hours
In his sealed office, McCurdy was sweating profusely when the monitor blinked on. He knew what was coming. It was his error, his mistake in judgment. He just prayed it wouldn't be his job to correct the situation.
Dear God, how could he have known?
INSTRUCTIONS
TO FOLLOW
Though it had already begun, he wasn't prepared for tonight's dialogue with the machine. He was tired. His mind was as fuzzy as his vision. In fact, he couldn't remember going to bed last night.
Trying to slow his racing mind, McCurdy stared at the purple screen with anticipation.
NUMBER U-7734
CHANDLER, JEFFREY
SECURITY
WILLFULLY
VIOLATED.
MAX.
RISK.
There it was. Jeff had made his run.
On some level it didn't surprise him. But just the same, there was no way he could have known.
Thank God they had prepared for just such an emergency. Sure, Jeff had been smart. Smart enough to act fast. Smart enough not to use his own vehicle. Even smart enough not to use his credit card. But this was the big time, and Jeff's crime-show tactics simply hadn't cut it. What he'd failed to realize, of course, was that the tracking device was the credit card itself.
CHANDLER, J.
PRESENT LOCATION:
BURLINGTON, VERMONT
Burlington, Vermont?
Another nauseating flicker of disbelief intruded. My God, this time it's really happening! We've got a breach. A dangerous breach!
Jeff ran and he took something with him. Something highly classified. Something McCurdy himself had made the mistake of leaving unsecured.
McCurdy's fear mounted in white-hot surges as an instruction sequence appeared on the screen. He was gripping the arms of his chair when the first order appeared.
LOCATE
Of course. This one-word command was to be expected. And it was the easiest to obey. He had anticipated it.
The next would decide if Jeff was simply to be contained, taken into custody, or—
The screen flashed:
ABORT
McCurdy's heart jumped against his chest. His temperature soared.
He had never done an abort! Not in person, not by himself. He'd always been able to delegate something like that. Sure, he'd had ample experience with security's three-strike command series:
LOCATE—CONTAIN—ASSIGN
and even the more dreaded, and twice used:
LOCATE—ABORT—ASSIGN
But—oh sweet Jesus!—this might be his first two-word directive. He prayed silently, moving his lips without speaking, Let me assign it. Please let me assign it.
Of course, he had known all along that someday a critical situation might call for personal executive action. And the meeting this morning, the meeting in the church. That must have been to prepare him for something.
But maybe not for this.
Maybe that was one thing and this was another.
Maybe now wasn't to be the time.
Oh, he'd been lucky, so far. The Academy had suffered very few serious problems. No final resolution had ever been his personal responsibility. This time, however, the situation was different, unique.
Jeff had stolen a parcel. And—dear God—McCurdy knew exactly what that parcel contained.
He took a deep breath and realized his eyes were tearing. He concentrated on the blurry screen.
Oh my dear Lord Jesus, let it say ASSIGN!
He waited, holding his breath. If no additional words appeared on the CRT, this would be McCurdy's first abortion.
How could he? He couldn't. Not to Jeff. He just couldn't.
But it had been McCurdy's mistake. He was, after all, responsible. Please, dear Lord, don't end the transmission here.
Why, McCurdy actually knew Jeff Chandler. Liked him.
Jeff wasn't dangerous. Not in any personal way. He was just a good-natured clown with a skyscraper IQ. But he'd never been smart enough to appreciate the full significance of his position, and perhaps that was McCurdy's error, too—
No. Now wasn't the time to think about it. This was no time to get sloppy or sentimental. This was no time for McCurdy to debate with his conscience. He knew full well that the greater good would be served by the outcome of tonight's dialogue, however personally painful it might be. Lesser men had done far more for their country and for their God.
Again, McCurdy found himself mouthing a silent prayer. Please, he thought, let there be one . . . more . . . word.
And as if the machine had read his mind before answering his prayer, the display flashed the word for emphasis:
ABORT
ABORT
ABORT
ABORT
The Acolyte
Hobston, Vermont
Wednesday, June 29
Sullivan's sense of purpose had been reaffirmed by Sgt. Shane's visit. She had cut right to the quick of the thing: "Why would anybody kidnap an old man like that?"
Well, Sullivan wanted to find out; yard work and renovations could wait.
Now, sitting on the oak floor of what would become his study, he tried to decide where to start.
The rectory had been unoccupied since Father Mosely's "accident." Why had no new priest been assigned? That seemed odd. Why close down a church?
Last year the new bishop, Armand LaPoint, announced he was eager to revitalize St. Joe's. It should be easy to fill the church again considering the suburban overflow sloshing nonstop from Burlington, saturating every surrounding town in Chittenden County. "Just look," LaPoint had said during Sullivan's first telephone interview. "we've got well-attended churches in Winooski, Essex, Shelburne, and Williston. Why not Hobston?"
Why not indeed?
During their second interview, His Eminence explained the kind of priest he was looking for. An older man, one who can be viewed—quite literally—as a father figure by his young, educated, upwardly mobile flock. Yet, it must be a special man, one subtle enough to embrace traditional church values without frightening the parishioners away. "The new man must have a certain . . . charisma. Administrative skills alone won't get St. Joseph's up and running again."
Eager to escape his teaching position at St. Mark's College, Father Sullivan made it known, emphatically and without humility, that he would very much like the assignment.
"Psychologist to parish priest? That's a radical change of station," LaPoint told him. "But in an era when the number of available priests has dwindled unfortunately, perhaps we can make . . . unusual accommodations . . . ."
During a subsequent telephone conversation, Sullivan had learned Father Mosely was still alive. But LaPoint had no information about the old priest's condition, or the odd happenings surrounding the onset of his illness.
Exorcism?
It kept coming back to that.
Frustration mounting. Sullivan pushed away a cardboard box full of dusty old missals, financial statements, and mimeo-masters for Sunday services long past. The carton scraped across the gritty wooden floor as he wiped his fingers on his filthy khakis.
Where could notes about the alleged exorcism be filed? Were they stashed in a bookcase someplace, packed in a cardboard box, pushed to the back of some closet or drawer somewhere in the huge old parish house? Could useful information have been overlooked by whoever cleaned out the rectory?
What else could he check?
He'd tried to contact Mrs. Phalen, Father Mosely's housekeeper. She had passed away several years ago. And Bishop LaVallee, who had run the diocese in Mosely's time, had died also.
Then Sullivan tried to locate the physician who'd attended the old priest on the day of his "stroke." Only one doctor was listed for Hobston. A phone call to Sparker, Lloyd, M.D., was no help at all. "'Course I remember Father Mosely," Sparker had told Sullivan, 'but I never treated him. Coulda been an emergency team from Medical Center; coulda been old Doc Blodgett. Blodge was a Cath'lic fella, as I recall. Dead now."
Dead end.
Might Father Mosely have mentioned the exorcism to any of the townspeople? Most likely not. Any casual discussion would have been a tremendous breach of protocol.
Who then would know about it?
Again he thought of the young policewoman: ". . . if you should stumble on to anything in the house.
Okay, it was reasonable to assume the victim of the infestation, or possession, would have been a Hobston family. Probably a Catholic family. If so, their name should be listed in the church register for the year in which Mosely took sick.
That didn't narrow things down much, but at least it was a place to start.
Now, thought Sullivan, just where might those old church registers be?
Montreal, Quebec
Whe
n Ian "Skipp" McCurdy's plane touched down at Dorval Airport, the jolt of landing forced a sour belch against the inside of his tightly closed lips. He swallowed, then allowed the stream of foul-smelling breath to escape slowly. He felt hot and clammy; sweat stung his eyes. Lord, I hope I'm not getting sick. He reached up to adjust the stream of cool air so it blew directly on his face.
The hour and a half flight from Boston had seemed especially long. Time never passed easily without his cigarettes, and the chilled fruit salad he'd been served right after takeoff must have been rotten. It had turned to gas in his stomach. For the last forty-five minutes he'd been terrified he might have to use the toilet on the plane, always an unpleasant and often a messy process. Even now, as the nausea began to pass, McCurdy kept his flight sickness bag within easy reach.
Some fighter pilot, he thought, and clicked his tongue. Guess I just can't fly anymore. Not on these small commercial rigs. Out of practice or something.
McCurdy's pulse throbbed in his bandaged finger. It hurt. And when it didn't hurt, it itched. Just something else to worry about.
The plane taxied in nauseating fits and started to the terminal. When it stopped, and the attendant opened the door, McCurdy remained in his seat. He didn't want to rush or risk jostling anyone who might remember him later. No, he didn't want to make anyone angry. All he wanted was to avoid drawing attention to himself.
A little kid with bib overalls looked at him in surprise. "Mommy, that man burped," the child said, giggling.
On his feet now, inching toward the door, McCurdy nodded to the smiling flight attendant. Docilely, he followed the line of passengers down the ramp and to the customs desk. When he flashed his diplomatic passport, the smiling boyish official said, "Bonjour," and waved him through. McCurdy walked around the metal detector. Well past, he breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered if anyone had noticed what he'd done. Looking around to check, he strained to appear nonchalant.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 22