"What is it, Karen? Can you tell me?"
"Oh, it's like you and your wife, Jeff. Don't you see?" She turned her head farther away, buried her face in her pillow. "These things . . . they always end . . . they always end in . . ."
"What? Tell me, Karen. Talk to me."
"They end in tragedy. Always. They always end in tragedy." Crying now, muscles tense, she tried to hold on, tried to keep the sobs away. "Go, Jeff. Please."
He didn't. He tightened his grip on her shoulder. "It's okay, Karen. It's okay, I understand."
He tugged at her shoulder, gently but insistently, trying to get her to face him. She allowed herself to be moved. Rolling onto her back, she looked up at him again. She smiled weakly, embarrassed by the tears, embarrassed by her timidity. "M-maybe it's that I'm just tired. Maybe it's that too much Is happening . . . so many changes . . ."
For a long while she just stared up at him. He didn't look away.
"Why don't you lie with me, Jeff. Just until I fall asleep. Would you do that?"
He nodded once, perhaps a bit sadly, and stretched out beside her, taking her in his arms.
Necessary Evil
Burlington, Vermont
Thursday, June 30
Bored with magazines and morning television, Casey Chandler decided to go outside for a while. Who would give her any trouble in broad daylight? Besides, Dad said nobody knew they were here, so what was he so worried about?
All she wanted to do was sit in the sun for an hour before Dad came back from Hobston. It would be nice to pass some time in the fresh air looking at the lake.
Casey wheeled to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. It was so wide she had no trouble getting her wheelchair over the threshold and onto the walk. With one hand steadying the rubber tire, she pulled the door closed. Then she began to move.
Following the sidewalk around the corner of the building, she hoped to get close enough to the lake to watch the sailboats. Or better yet, maybe there'd be kids on windsurfers zipping around in the morning wind.
Beneath her, the concrete sidewalk was smooth and flat. Maybe if I had a sail, she thought, I could let the breeze push me along . . . .
An abrupt incline ended the sidewalk. Way too steep, it must be some developer's poorly conceived acquiescence to handicapped accommodation. Still, it allowed Casey to descend to the blacktop if she gripped the push rims as if her life depended on it.
The smoothly paved road ran west, directly toward the lake. Its slope was gentle; Casey could easily make it back up when she needed to.
Soon she discovered another sidewalk leading to a long wooden deck covered with white plastic furniture. Colorful umbrellas shaded each cluster of table and chairs.
Casey was delighted with this observation platform atop steep red rock cliffs. Within seconds she was on that deck, looking out on the lake. The craggy shore of Lake Champlain was a hundred feet below.
Just as she'd hoped, there were sailboats weaving on gentle rolling waves. And yes, there were kids on their windsurfers—college guys in black and neon spandex—their features obscured by the distance, their bodies tanned and glistening.
To her right she could see the huge Champlain Ferry chugging its way toward Plattsburgh. Closer to shore, The Spirit of Ethan Allen, a humorously inept imitation of a nineteenth-century paddle wheeler, ferried tourists along the shoreline.
Casey felt good here. The sun warmed her face and a soothing breeze kept her from getting uncomfortably hot. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds, the wind, and the distant laughter of young people on the beach below.
From behind the wheel of his rented Plymouth, Dr. Ian "Skipp" McCurdy watched the young woman in the wheelchair as she left the condominium. He felt sorry for her as he watched the awkward leaning and pushing effort required to move the chair along the level sidewalk. How can she smile like that? he wondered. What does she have to smile about?
When she reached the steep ramp leading down to the roadway, McCurdy was sure she'd topple and hurt herself. Yet somehow she managed the maneuver easily and with a mysterious grace.
McCurdy had never met Jeff Chandler's daughter face to face, but he'd seen plenty of photographs of her. Many had been Academy file photos, but there was also the color five-by-seven school portrait Jeff kept on his desktop. Even without the wheelchair, Casey Chandler would be easy to recognize. Handicap or no, she was a beautiful girl. Absolutely beautiful. Briefly, the Devil in McCurdy's mind forced him to wonder what it would be like to—
No! Good Lord. Stop it! I'm thinking like a psycho!
Shaken, he wiped the unclean image from his imagination by uttering a quiet prayer, asking for strength and forgiveness. My dear God, what's happening to me?
It's all right. I'm with you now, said a soft voice in McCurdy's mind. He smiled and nodded, relieved. Then he took a couple of deep calming breaths. Yes, everything was fine.
When he was sure Casey had made it to the observation deck, he prepared by carefully considering the options. He had to plan, calculate, anticipate. He had to maintain a cold mind. Right, that was the phrase: a cold mind. At this point McCurdy could not afford excitement. As he knew full well, emotions deceive; they create mistakes.
McCurdy waited, offering another silent prayer to steady his nerves. Please, Lord, make me strong of mind and heart, for what I do, my Lord, I do for you.
We are strong, Doctor McCurdy, said the sweet, soft voice.
As McCurdy's lips continued to move soundlessly in prayer, his attention never wandered from the girl in the wheelchair.
How far was she now from the steep jagged face of the red rock cliff?
Was anything there that might cause her to fall?
Should he join her on the deck? Or should he go inside the apartment? Wait for her there?
Trust in me, the voice whispered.
When he was confident the girl's attention was occupied, McCurdy got out of the car. After closing the door as quietly as possible, he straightened his bow tie and tugged on the sleeves of his seersucker jacket.
Satisfied that he was presentable, he took a casual look around.
Then, quickly, he crossed the parking lot to the front door of Karen Bradley's condominium.
His white-gloved hand went directly to the doorbell. He pushed it.
Once. Twice. As he'd anticipated, no one answered.
No one is here, the voice said.
McCurdy looked around nonchalantly.
Not a soul watching.
He took the knob in his hand and tried the door. Unlocked; he'd been right about that, too.
Steady, now . . . steady, he thought. Dear Lord God, let your tranquility fill me . . . .
Trust in me, the voice answered.
McCurdy pushed the door open about three inches. This allowed him enough room to put a hand inside and trip the lock.
Quickly he removed his hand, pulled the door closed, and tried to open it again.
No way. It was locked tight.
Then, removing his gloves, he walked back to the car and waited.
Hobston, Vermont
"See there?" said Alton Barnes, pointing. "That's the Dubois place."
Jeff Chandler nodded, trying to keep up with the older man. They'd left the car at the end of Bingham Creek Road and walked the trace of a trail that skirted the vast field beside the house. Now they followed a stone wall, making their way toward the forest. From there they'd continue up the mountainside to the spot where Stuart Dubois had vanished.
Alton Barnes sliced through the green grass as the bow of a ship slices the tide. The older man moved with surprising alacrity; his head turned rapidly from side to side as he studied the trees, the brush, and the shadows. Jeff could tell Alton was tense. Even his voice sounded strained. "Stu's wife still keeps the place. Can't be easy way up here with no phone and no power. Tough old broad, Daisy Dubois."
Jeff glanced at the house. Quiet and dark, it seemed to shrink into the eastern distance. Looks vaca
nt, he thought.
"Did you ever talk to her about what you saw up here?" Jeff asked.
"Heck no," said Alton, "never talked to nobody about it."
"Maybe we should stop in, ask her if she has ever, you know, seen anything strange."
"Reckon the only strange thing she's seen up here is you and me." The older man chuckled at his own joke. "But we can stop in and find out for sure. Probably wouldn't hurt to check in on her."
Daisy had been alone in the kitchen for a long time. Hours? Days? She just couldn't tell because she kept fading in and out, losing track of time.
Her shoulders ached because her arms were tied behind her back. The arms themselves—when she could feel them—tortured her with their prickles and throbs. They wouldn't let her forget the razor-bite of baling wire where it had scraped to the bone.
Her mouth was dry as sand. Every time she tried to summon some spit, she gagged on the ball of cloth. Lordy, how long had it been since she'd had any food or water? When one of those awful people comes out of the bedroom, I'll ask for a drink. They can't refuse a body a drink.
Daisy couldn't stop drifting in and out of sleep. Seemed like people kept coming to visit, old friends, relatives, even her husband Stuart. All were dreams, she knew, but they were good dreams and she welcomed them.
So what if she was going crazy? Maybe crazy was better than wired to a hard wooden chair in her own kitchen. But what if crazy were her only option? What if it were the only way to escape this mess?
Oh, what did they want with her, anyway? If they were going to kill her, why didn't they just do it and get it over with?
For the first time Daisy faced the other option: she might die in that chair. The memory of those friendly faces, and the sad, sweet smile of her husband, made her think death might not be so bad. Why not give up? Let go? Whenever she drifted off to sleep, her friends would be waiting.
Could be they're not dreams, Daisy reasoned. Could be they're honest-to-God real. And if that were true, Daisy had a pretty good idea what they were waiting for.
She started to pray then, giving the unsettling word emphasis in her mind. If I should die, before I wake . . .
There!
A noise. She thought she heard a noise!
Merciful God, maybe it's help! Maybe help's coming!
She listened hard. Yes! Voices! The far-off sound of men talking!
And to the west, through the window, she could see two men walking in the field! She gave her head a little shake, but they did not vanish. They were real.
If she could . . . if she could just make it to the porch . . . she could cry out for help!
She tried to move her fingers—thought she was moving them, too, but she couldn't tell for certain. The wire, she imagined, had filleted the flesh of her forearms like the sides of a bass.
She tugged on her right arm one more time. Yes! Yes! Wire and flesh resisted, but lubricated by blood, her hand came free!
Adrenaline surged. Suddenly wide awake, she brought her arm around, stared at the gore-slick pulp that had been her right hand.
She checked to make sure she could still see the men. She'd have to act quickly, before they were out of sight.
It was easier to free her left hand. Now, with both bloody stumps before her, she bucked in her chair. Rocked it. Pitched it forward. It clattered to the floor.
Her head struck hard, but she didn't pass out.
Wait! What if the man and the little girl had heard?
Eyes closed, Daisy held her breath, listening, praying. When she looked she saw the faded floral linoleum two inches below her nose.
Hands free, she was able to hook a paralyzed thumb under the wire that bound her neck. A jolt of pain flashed as her knuckle connected with a live nerve ending in the open neck wound. She didn't care. Gritting her teeth, she loosened the wire. A moment of tugging and she was able to pry it up and over her head.
She was free!
She worked to get the gag out of her mouth. When the soggy obstruction was clear, she spat several times, once again tasting her own spit.
She strained to elevate her head, hoping to see how far it was to the door.
Eight feet, no more. So very close.
If she could crawl to the porch she could cry out for help—
But wait! What if she couldn't make herself heard? What if she was too weak to shout for the men as they moved farther and farther away?
She thought: When the redheaded man grabbed me, he threw the shotgun onto the porch swing. And she'd never seen him bring it in. Was it . . .? Could it still be out there?
If Daisy could get through the door and onto the porch . . . if she could get her hands on that shotgun . . . she'd be protected. . . . A signal shot would bring the men to her aid!
Facedown, she dragged herself a foot toward the door. Grit scraped her skin like sandpaper.
Another six inches. Oh Lord, don't let them get too far away. . . . She pulled herself forward again, leaving tracks of smeared blood on the grainy linoleum.
Three and a half feet.
She heard herself breathing. Hard. Fast. Her chest pumped. When she exhaled, she blew dirt out of her path.
A noise!
She heard a noise behind her.
Oh, God! What was it?
She froze. Her fine-tuned ears listened for the latch on the bedroom door. Silent seconds passed. Daisy held her breath, knowing she was losing precious time.
Satisfied no one was coming, she reached forward, planted her forearms against the floor, and dragged herself a foot closer to the door. Her heart beat even faster; her lungs worked like a bellows. Sweat ran down her face, trickled into her eyes, stinging, clouding her vision. Another foot.
The door was within reach! She touched it to make sure. If she could get through it, if she could get outside, the shotgun would be less than four feet away.
Supported by her left forearm, Daisy arched her spine, reaching for the latch. Blood flowed down her arm in bright rivulets, tickling her, filling wrinkles, weaving and crisscrossing like a network of external arteries.
She hammered on the latch with the ball of her thumb.
Once. Again.
Cringing from the noise, Daisy listened for movement within the house.
Everything was quiet. She pushed the flayed ham of her hand against the metal latch. Metal scraped exposed nerve. Daisy bit her lower lip in an effort not to cry out.
The latch moved with a metallic click.
The door opened about an inch.
Just enough to see outside.
The two hikers were gone, but they could not have traveled far. No, she could still call them with a shotgun blast.
Daisy rolled onto her left side, hoping that would create enough room for the door to swing open.
Yes! Open now. Wide open. Yet she couldn't feel the sunlight on her body. She seemed to be lying in a shadow.
She bent her neck backward, forcing herself to look up.
A man stood in the doorway.
Thank God, she thought.
The first thing she saw was his bare feet, then bare legs. His bright white garment hung all the way to his knees. As her gaze traveled higher, her eyes clouded with sweat and tears. Straining, she could almost see his face.
"Help me," she wanted to say, but no words came.
His arm descended: she reached to take it. There was no pain as her ruined hand touched his.
The eclipsed sun glowed behind his head like a halo. He must be an angel, she thought. Yes, a white-robed angel come for me.
The man bent lower. She felt his strong hands probing underneath her shoulders and legs. He picked her up with ease, and now his face was close to hers.
He looked familiar. He looked so familiar. She blinked, and his smiling face came into focus.
And she knew!
Oh. Ooooh. So it was real. He really was out there.
She was so very happy to see her husband again. She wanted to kiss him, tell him that—
No! What was he doing? He was carrying her back inside the house!
She had to warn him! Had to tell him about those people, in the bedroom.
"B-b-beh-troom . . ."
Now they were passing the kitchen table, passing it and . . .
Stepping toward the bedroom. He had misunderstood. He thinks I want him to take me into the bedroom.
"Nuuuh. Nuuh nununu." She couldn't tell him. She couldn't speak.
The bedroom door opened by itself, like magic. When he carried her over the threshold the strangest odor filled her nose. Sickish sweet like . . . like . . .
The room was empty! How could that be? The little girl, the redheaded man, even the old man in the bed—they were all gone. Vanished.
Oh. thank God!
When Daisy saw the open window with its lacy nylon curtains blowing outside in the draft, she understood.
Stuart put her on the bed, looked down at her, his youthful face full of love, his familiar eyes smiling with a mischievous delight. It was just like their wedding night.
He touched her forehead, brushed strands of hair out of her face. He's an angel, Daisy thought, he's an angel now and the Good Lord sent him to fetch me.
But something wasn't right. There was something wrong with the gown that he wore. Stuart's radiant white cloak, it was nothing but a sheet. Daisy looked down. The top sheet was missing from her bed.
"W-wait . . ."
Her chest tightened, locking half a breath in her windpipe.
Still smiling, Stuart touched her face. His hands were warm. No, not warm, hot. They were burning.
Panic shot adrenaline throughout her exhausted body. Somehow, she got to her feet.
Reeling. Daisy took one, two stumbling steps toward the door, but he grabbed her hand, stopping her midroom. She stared in disbelief at her own reflection in the round vanity mirror. Could this haggard bloody old woman really be her?
Stuart's reflection was clear as he stepped behind her. The sheet fell away and she saw he was naked. His man-thing was hard and big, almost bursting, just like on their wedding night.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 25