And when he spoke, sure enough it was her husband's voice. "I need you, now," he whispered.
He shoved her against the vanity, knocking over her Evening in Paris talcum, pressing her face against the vanity mirror.
Bending obscenely, she saw her own expression of agony as his man-thing like a bloated serpent wriggled against the backs of her thighs. She couldn't move, couldn't tear her eyes from their reflection.
The serpent bored into her, hot, scorching, like the barrel of a gun. A burning sensation moved from the pit of her, spread across her buttocks, along her arteries, over her solar plexus.
The serpent spat like a blowtorch, driving lava deep into her, yet she couldn't move, couldn't scream.
A tiny voice in her mind whispered. "This is death, Daisy. This is what it's like."
Her gaze locked on that horrid hot point at the middle of her forehead where the heat seemed to focus. The skin turned brown, like paper with a candle underneath. It darkened, turned black. As its circumference widened, blue flames danced in its center. Dense, sweet-smelling smoke poured from her skull, filled her nose, covered her eyes.
Somewhere, somewhere far beyond the smoke and the blue dancing flames, she heard laughter.
Burlington, Vermont
Using both hands, Casey pushed the door, then pulled it, then pushed it again.
Drat! she thought. I know I left this damn thing unlocked. I know I did!
She rapped on the door, then pressed the doorbell, thinking maybe Dad or Karen had come back. Nope; no such luck.
"Man, this is just great," she said. "Now what am I going to—"
"Hi!" a pleasant voice said from behind her.
Casey looked over her shoulder at the smiling man in the blue pin-striped jacket and light tan pants.
"Are you looking for Karen Bradley?" he said. His freckled face and bald head glistened with sweat. His red hair made an unruly halo. Casey smiled back at him, embarrassed because she'd been caught talking to herself. "No, but I'm locked out of her apartment."
"Yes. So I see. Is the door stuck? Can I give you a hand?"
"No thanks. But I'll take a crowbar if you have one."
"Locked, eh? Karen's not inside?"
"No. She's at the office. I'm here by myself."
The man looked puzzled. He glanced down at a notebook in his hand, then he looked back at Casey. "You know, I bet I was supposed to meet her there, at the health center." He looked at his watch. "I've got a one o'clock appointment with her. Don't know what I was thinking, coming here. Guess I'd better hurry; I've only got fifteen minutes to get up there."
He turned as if to go, then stopped. "Sorry," he said, turning back, "a moment of confusion there. I'm Bill Graig. I'm a friend of Karen's and I'm a guidance counselor at the high school. We were going to talk about some referrals. Don't know why I came here instead of the office. Force of habit, I guess."
Casey raised her eyebrows. "You wouldn't happen to have a key, would you?"
The man seemed to blush. "Oh no, no. We're not that kind of friends. We just meet here sometimes after work; gets both of us out of the office." He cleared his throat, "Listen, you're locked out, and it just so happens I'm on my way over there. Karen and I probably meet for about an hour. No more. Could I give you a lift over? You could get her key and I could drop you off here on my way back to the school."
"All right!" Casey smiled. "I'm getting rescued. Hey, this is just like in the movies."
Both of them laughed. The man stepped behind the wheelchair and pushed Casey in the direction of the Plymouth.
Hobston, Vermont
Jeff saw nothing remarkable when they entered the woods. Of course he had no idea what he expected: flashy high-tech machinery? Helmeted spacemen? Big-eyed insects with ray guns?
He listened, but heard nothing unfamiliar in the wind. No saucer sounds, no half-human calls echoing from the granite cliffs? Nothing.
Instead, he was far more impressed with the woodland's beauty than with its strangeness. It was tranquil here, very lovely. He wished Casey could see it.
Ahead, from where the land rolled to the northeast, he could see a stark, bare-topped peak. "Mount Mansfield," Alton told him, "highest mountain in Vermont. Taller'n any building in the state. Kinda puts things in the right perspective, don't it?"
Jeff nodded, smiling. He enjoyed Alton's humor, but he could hear a nervous edge to every jest and chuckle.
Both men stared at the panorama. Pointing, Alton continued, "If ya look at it just right up on top, you can see the face of an Indian, forehead, nose, chin, and all. Like he's some giant, lyin' on his back, lookiri' up, keepin' a watch on the sky."
Jeff studied it for a moment, then, sure enough, the rocky mountaintop really did look like the profile of a reclining Indian.
After they passed a row of evergreens, Alton stopped beside a hickory tree and cleared his throat. "This here's where I figger Stu stopped to rest after we split up. I 'member the imprint of his rifle butt in the snow. And the snow was all sorta tromped down, jest as though he'd stood here for a minute or two, shiftin' from foot to foot."
Alton seemed to hold back at the point where the slope steepened to become the base of Stattler Mountain. He took a few hesitant steps forward and stopped. "I ain't so sure I want to go up in there again." He wiped his hand nervously across his mouth, avoiding Jeff's eyes.
"We're getting close to where it happened?"
"A-yep, too close, for my money." Alton pointed with a trembling hand. "You jest walk right up there, straight ahead. Pretty quick you're gonna see a mossy rock with a big, kinda circular depression—what they call a bowl—right near it. That's the spot. You go on an' look. I'll wait right here."
Not wanting to pressure the man, Jeff went on alone. But—he had to admit—he felt a queasy spot in the pit of his stomach. Without Alton at his side, he didn't feel so brave.
Soon Alton called out behind him, "That's where I found his Winchester. Eight there by your foot, lyin' in the snow."
Jeff looked down. He glimpsed the brown tail of a snake as it whipped out of sight under a rock. Then he looked over his shoulder. Alton was still leaning against a tree about one hundred yards below.
"You okay there, Jeffrey?" Alton called in an abnormally high-pitched voice. Its echo bounced around in the air.
"So far so good."
The sun beat on him warmly. Circular shadows collared the trees, hugging their trunks. Jeff guessed it must be around noon. Checking his watch to confirm, he found it was almost one o'clock.
Blood pounded in his ears from the exertion of the climb. His chest hammered. He looked around again, studying the landscape, feeling puzzled.
What had really happened here?
He experienced a melancholic chill identical to the one he'd felt years ago when he viewed the battlefield at Gettysburg. Or perhaps it was closer to the tremor he'd endured more recently when morbid curiosity led him to retrace the steps of the infamous Boston Strangler. It was as if some unsettling memory hovered permanently in the air. There was an almost tactile discomfort in the place's deceptive normalcy; the tranquility was some kind of illusion.
Yet, all appeared commonplace, remarkable only in its loveliness. But try as he might, he just couldn't get beyond it—something had happened here.
What?
Had a man literally walked off the face of the earth?
Had a UFO swooped down and pulled Stuart Dubois into the heavens?
Had the old man stepped out of the third and directly into the fourth, fifth, or sixth dimension?
Or had the sky opened up, creating a porthole to another. reality? Every notion seemed so foreign, so unreal, so utterly incredible in this natural setting.
A breeze rattled dead leaves in the treetops. Jeff scanned the sky: clear, blue, perfect as exquisite crystal. It seemed to go on forever. The mountain slope ahead was bright in the sun. Dull rocks seemed to glow, greenery appeared iridescent. Shadow-choked trees formed walls on either si
de of the mountain trail.
What? What had happened here?
Something heavy hit a branch. Jeff tensed, looked up. A red squirrel vanished into a shadow. Somewhere beyond, a woodpecker tapped Morse code on a hollow limb.
Movement caught Jeff's eye! A flash of white darted among columns of dark tree trunks. Was it an animal?
There it was again! A good fifty yards away. An animal, yes. Moving on all fours. Whitish. Fleshy colored. The overall impression was of a starving pig with something—a snake?—in its mouth?
He took a step toward it, but it was gone.
"You all right up there, Jeffrey?"
He turned to see Alton approaching slowly.
"Y-yes. I'm fine. A bit perplexed, but fine."
The older man was close enough for Jeff to see his eyes darting around. Alton's face was slick with sweat. "You 'bout through? What say we head on down? I've had about enough of this mountain climbin'."
"Okay, fine by me." No point in prolonging this.
"You still want to stop in, talk to Daisy Dubois?"
"Sure, why not?"
Burlington, Vermont
Weird, Karen thought, gazing at the bay from her office window, really weird.
The arrival of Jeff Chandler and Casey had turned her life upside-down. Now her whole sense of reality seemed to be warping beneath the added weight of her surprise house guests. Suddenly, right out of the blue, she was forced to consider such way-out notions as unidentified flying objects, holes in the sky, murder by computer, and all sorts of new-age science fiction nonsense that could scare her silly if she thought about it enough.
What's happening, she thought.
Last night's scene at the condo had made sleep difficult. And, good as it felt, she had lain awake far too long in Jeffrey's arms.
Today she was paying the price: she felt drained, listless. And goodness, she had so much catching up to do! Where did all this work come from? Where should she start?
Karen stiffened her spine, forcing herself to concentrate on business. She looked at her appointment calendar. Ah, no one scheduled after lunch. She'd use the time to tackle some dictation. But for now, she'd work her way through the pile of notes and phone messages.
She picked up her short stack of pink "While You Were Out" slips. Right on top was a message from Officer Chaput of the St. Albans Police Department. Oh, Jeez, she still hadn't called him back! She read, "Called again. Wants you to phone and set up an appointment to discuss Lucy Washburn's disappearance." Laura had underlined the message in red ink.
The second message reminded her of another call she still hadn't made. It was from Dr. Gudhausen's secretary, giving her the name of the therapist Dr. Gudhausen had wanted to consult about Lucy's MPD.
A priest, Karen thought. Why a priest?
The words "St. Mark's College, Utica, NY" were clear and easy to read, but she had to squint to make out the name.
Father Wm. Sullivan—Psych. Dept.
Funny. That name sure looked familiar. Maybe she'd read one of his papers in a journal or something.
She picked up the telephone, determined to satisfy her curiosity about the priest before talking to Officer Chaput.
She began to press the buttons.
Hobston, Vermont
Even in the bright midday sun the house looked dark.
Jeff and Alton cut across lots, wading through a field of hip-length timothy dappled with buttercups. As they walked, Jeff studied the old place. The clapboarding had weathered dull brown, rust blemished the tin roof, and the porch sagged like the spine of a dying beast. Odd not to see power lines running to the structure. It was like a scene from another age.
Much of the barn roof had collapsed. Huge hand-hewn beams were visible through a hole, its edges scaled with rectangles of slate. Glassless windows looked in on darkness.
The whole dying farmyard seemed like a monument to a way of life that had all but passed.
"It doesn't look like anybody's home," Jeff said. "The place looks deserted."
"Naw," Alton assured him. "Daisy's there. She's probably got an eye on us right now, wonderin' who we are and what we're up to. Pretty quick, soon as she knows it's me, you'll see her out on the porch waving. You wait an' see what I tell you."
But she didn't appear as the men moved closer.
"That's funny," said Alton as he stopped and stared at the barn.
"What?" Jeff stopped, too.
"Lookit that, looks like there's a car in the barn."
"So?"
"Daisy and Stu never had no car."
The back end of what appeared to be a station wagon was vaguely visible beyond the open barn door.
"Maybe she has company," Jeff said.
They detoured a bit to investigate. When they moved close enough, Alton remarked, "Massachusetts plates, ain't that right?"
Jeff nodded, recognizing the familiar design. "Maybe we shouldn't intrude. She may not appreciate the kinds of questions I want to ask. Not in front of guests."
"Prob'ly won't appreciate 'em anytime."
Smiling, Jeff collected his thoughts, reviewed the things he wanted to ask the old woman. Had she seen or heard anything strange on that day back in—
"Alton?"
"Yessir."
"Tell me again when it happened. What was the date that you and Mr. Dubois were up here, do you remember?"
"Remember, hell, I'll never forget. It was huntin' season. First day of huntin' season, jest last year."
"But the date . . ."
"It was on a Thursday. November twelfth. Why?"
"Just trying to get the facts straight."
Something about that date stuck in Jeff's mind. It seemed to click over and over as if it were a record skipping on a turntable. He just couldn't recall, but something about it—Thursday, November twelfth, last year—made him uncomfortable. Yes, that was it—uncomfortable. Somehow, he seemed to associate that date with discomfort, pain. His mind was spinning. His subconscious wrestled with a memory that he couldn't bring into focus.
"What's the matter, Jeffrey?"
Jeff realized he had stopped walking. He was staring at the ground as if he were in a trance. "There's something about that date . . . something I can almost remember. . . ."
Then it was there, like a vision illuminated behind his eyes. The date came into focus like a picture on a TV screen.
The tape! The videotape he had stolen from the Academy. The recording of the execution victim had been made on November twelfth of last year!
"Holy shit," Jeff said to no one. "Holy fucking shit!"
"Somethin' wrong, Jeffrey?"
"No . . . ah, nothing wrong, exactly." He was in motion again, striding toward the house. "Come on, Mr. Barnes. Let's go have a talk with Mrs. Dubois."
Jeff studied the house as he approached it. He could swear nobody was home. Even on this warm afternoon the windows and the side door were closed. No motion was obvious beyond the dark glass. It was as if nighttime filled the place.
Their pace slowed as they crossed the dooryard.
"I . . . ah . . . I got kind of a funny feelin' . . ." Alton said.
"Yeah," Jeff agreed, before he could rationalize the sensation away.
"Yeah, me, too."
Alton touched Jeff's arm. "Somethin' ain't jest right."
They stopped their approach.
"Daisy!" Alton called. He cleared his throat and tried it again, "Daisy!"
They waited. Jeff thought he saw motion inside, but it was only the reflection of an airborne bird in an upstairs windowpane. The men looked at each other.
"Cats," Alton said.
"What?"
"Daisy's cats. I don't see her cats. They oughtta be climbin' all over us by now."
"Come on," Jeff said, leading the way to the porch step.
A car horn blared. Rapid staccato blasts caused both men to look at the road. A black Nissan was speeding toward them, leaving a cloud of dust thick as jet exhaust.
"That'
s Karen's car," Jeff said, turning in the driveway to meet her.
Before the Nissan had ground to a halt, Karen was opening the door.
"Jeff, oh God—"
He ran to her. "Karen, what is it? What's wrong?"
She was panting as if she had been running. Her eyes were wide with something very like fear. Jeff watched as she struggled to control herself.
"Jeff . . . it may not be anything, but—"
"But what, Karen? What's the matter?"
"Jeff, it's Casey—"
"What's wrong with her? Has something happened?"
"I . . . I don't know."
He grabbed her by the biceps. "What about Casey?"
Karen took a deep breath. "I . . . phoned her at lunchtime. Just wanted to say hi. I thought she might be lonely or something. She didn't answer the phone. I figured maybe she'd just gone outside. But the more I thought about it, the more worried I got. She still didn't answer when I tried her again, so I drove home. She was gone, Jeff. The house was locked and she was gone. I looked all over for her."
"Well . . . well . . ." Jeff shook his head. "Maybe she just . . . just. Oh Christ, where could she go?'
Karen stared at him.
"We'd better get back there," he said. "I'll ride with you. Alton's got his own car."
After a hurried good-bye, Jeff and Karen were in the Nissan, racing down the hill.
Alton stood alone in the dooryard. He looked one last time at the house, then at his car where it waited down the road at a turnoff.
Before he could make a move he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. The side door to the house was opening.
A bent figure stood in the deep interior shadow.
"D-Daisy?"
"Alton Barnes, is that you?" It was Daisy Dubois's voice.
"Yes, ma'am, it is."
"Why, I thought that was you out there. Come in quickly, can you? I need your help with something."
Waterville, Vermont
His breathing eased. His thoughts slowed. The anger passed.
He could see it perfectly now: there'd been no real reason to get so angry. He had let Winston the orderly get under his skin. And he'd lost his temper again. For the first time in weeks.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 26