"Anyway, there's gangs in Boston. Maybe you've heard about them: kids, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, carrying switchblades and guns. Believe it or not, Karen, they identify themselves by the sneakers they wear. That's their uniform. What could be more appropriate for a kid, right?
"Three of these kids—I don't know how old they were, but they were just kids—they were chasing some rival gang member through the cars. Some guy, a retired fireman named Thomsen, told them to knock it off and he tripped one of them with his cane. The other two stopped what they were doing, turned around, and blew the old man away. Just like that. They took out a couple others in the process. Jessica was hit in the face, killed instantly, so they tell me. When Casey got up to help they shot her in the spine.
"What a conspiracy of circumstances, eh? I mean if I'd just been decent enough to drive them, you know? And now I wonder.
"Oh, Jeff . . ." Karen bit her lower lip and blinked away the threat of tears. She took his hand; it felt limp in hers. "I don't have any comforting platitudes for you. Certainly I can understand how you feel about Casey. But the rest of it, it's history now. It's over. None of it was your fault."
Jeff's ice cube had melted. He drank the water from his glass and reached for the bottle on the coffee table. Carefully, he poured himself another two fingers of whiskey.
Karen thought he seemed calmer now. Maybe this was the time to introduce the plan that had been taking shape in her mind.
"Jeff, I have an idea that doesn't involve the police at all."
He looked up, the glass frozen at the midpoint between the tabletop and his lips. His eyes, though slightly suspicious, coaxed her to go on.
"I spoke with a priest today just before I came home. A Father Sullivan. Turns out he's the new Catholic priest in Hobston. We had a pretty interesting talk and what he had to say, well, now that I think about it, it might have something to do with Casey and what's going on here."
Jeff narrowed his eyes, looking at her strangely, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
"A priest?"
Undaunted, she pressed on. "Before moving to Hobston, he was a teaching psychologist at a college in New York state. I wanted to talk to him about a patient of mine, a little girl who . . . disappeared."
Disappeared: the word made Jeff snap to attention. He was listening now. She had his complete attention.
"Jeff, listen to this: It turns out Father Sullivan is also looking for a missing person, another priest, a Father Mosely." In her excitement she rushed the words, "And Alton Barnes, too. His friend Stuart Dubois vanished. And other things are going on. Weird things. Like an old woman Sunday school teacher who started beating kids for no reason—
"In Hobston?"
"Right, yes, Hobston."
"Holy shit. . . ."
"Right. So, what do you think? Can all this be coincidence, Jeff? All this strange stuff? And each of us—you, me, Mr. Barnes, and Father Sullivan—each of us is dealing with a disappearance? What are the odds against that, huh? And there's lots of other weird stuff, too. How much of it centers around Hobston? You said it yourself, Jeff: weird things happen there. You were the one who told me about these 'Fortean Windows' of yours. I didn't know what to think of them then. And now? Well, now I still don't know. But to me it sounds like . . . like something's going on. What, I don't know, but something. I mean, how can I deny it? It's right in front of my face. It would be irrational to deny it."
Jeff nodded.
"And, Jeff, suppose Casey's disappearance has nothing whatsoever to do with the Academy. Suppose it's related to the other stuff that's going on around here. Or maybe . . . maybe they're both part and parcel of the same thing!"
Karen stopped talking, embarrassed from rattling on. Jeff's attention hadn't wandered. "Go on," he said.
"Well . . . well, what about this: Let's not call the police. Let's go back over to Hobston and talk to Father Sullivan. We can be there in less than half an hour. I'll call him. Okay?"
"Wait! No! We shouldn't use the phone. It might be—"
"Bugged? Yeah, right. Maybe we better stop at a pay phone."
"Hold it! Wait! Jesus, Karen, I can't leave here. What if they call while we're gone? What if they want to talk to me? What about Casey?"
"Don't worry, Ma Bell to the rescue. I've got Call Forwarding, remember? A necessary evil in my business. I'll punch in Father Sullivan's number. That way, if they phone here, we can pick it up at his place in Hobston."
"I don't know, Karen . . . A priest . . ."
"I've talked to him, Jeff. He's not one of these sweetness-and-light types. He's down to earth. Bright. Dr. Gudhausen recommended him to me, don't forget. And I think we can trust him."
Jeff continued to stare at her, blinking.
"Come on, Jeff, snap out of it, will you! Jeez. . . ."
And suddenly he was grinning at her.
"Hey! What are you doing? What are you smiling about?"
"You. You never swear, do you?"
"W-what?"
"No matter what's going on, you never swear. You say things like' 'darn,' and 'gosh,' and 'wow!'"
"What are you talking about?"
"You! You don't ever swear. You don't cuss, curse, use four-letter words, blaspheme."
"I don't . . . what do you mean? So what?"
"So nothing. It's just that I've never met anyone who doesn't swear before."
For a wonderful moment, they both laughed, embraced. Then more tears came.
Hobston, Vermont
"Cat still got your tongue, Mr. Barnes?" said Skipp McCurdy as he walked back into the kitchen, smiling pleasantly. "Well, no matter. You'll be talking soon enough."
Al heaved against the cords that bound him to the chair. He knew he had no chance of breaking free. Every time he moved, the naked child at his feet snapped to attention like a vigilant attack dog.
McCurdy pushed the child with the toe of his wingtip. "Settle down now, he's not going anywhere."
The child scurried back to the wall where she crouched, hugging her knees to her chest.
Chuckling. McCurdy took off his blue pin-striped jacket and loosened his bow tie. Then, as if someone had pushed a freeze frame button, he stopped. He straightened mechanically and cocked his head to one side, apparently listening to something Alton could not hear. In a moment he dashed outside, returning quickly with a black briefcase that he placed on the kitchen table.
When Alton saw the case, his stomach knotted tighter than the cord on his wrists. He had a pretty good idea what was in it and he knew what was coming next.
Again he flexed against his restraints.
McCurdy clicked his tongue. "Oh my no, Mr. Barnes. What do you think I have in here? Thumbscrews? Red-hot pokers? A cattle prod maybe? Such mistrust. . . ."
As McCurdy opened the briefcase, Alton saw the TV screen built into its lid. One of those portable computers, he concluded. But why?
McCurdy looked around for a place to plug it in. "Imagine that," he giggled, "no electricity. Thank the Good Lord for battery backup. What a fine age we're living in, Mr. Barnes! A fine, magical age. An age of miracles!"
Now he was pulling some kind of flat metal antenna from the side of the case. "I wouldn't want you to miss your afternoon game shows, Mr. Barnes." Again he laughed and the sound was ugly, like a beast growling.
"To start, I'm going to show you how we can use this magical little machine to bring your friends Jeffrey Chandler and pretty little Dr. Bradley to join our meeting. Would you like that? Would you enjoy a bit of company?"
Alton squinted at him, willing himself not to break eye contact. But he said nothing.
Then McCurdy froze again, listening to the silence. His tongue clicked and he said to no one, "Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. Ooooh-kay!" He turned on Alton. "But first we have a little errand to do. I have a show here that I know you're going to enjoy. It's of an inspirational nature. Tell me, Mr. Barnes, have you ever seen a sinner burn in Hell?"
Alton glared at him.
/>
"Still nothing to say, heh?"
Planting himself in a chair before his makeshift computer table, McCurdy switched on the machine. The impression of a hand appeared on the screen. When McCurdy placed his hand on the image, Alton again noted his truncated little finger. He'd remember that—a good identifying detail.
MCCURDY VERIFIED
McCurdy's fingers deftly tapped the keys:
*clement harry. display visual.
The outline of a head took shape on the LCD monitor. The image waved and flexed as features clarified. Soon Alton saw a detailed photographic likeness of an unfamiliar face. A five-pointed star appeared around the image, started to spin. A light show of colors and shapes danced brilliantly on the screen.
Alton Barnes watched, almost hypnotized, though he had no idea what he was seeing.
Waterville, Vermont
Clem's strength was returning. It seeped into him like blood into sleeping limbs, restoring their senses, bringing them back to life. Little by little, the drug was wearing off. Clem Barry was waking up.
Yet even at his most lethargic he had been able to think. The tranquilizer hadn't stopped his mind from working. Instead it kept his thoughts, no matter how horrible, from bothering him too much. And so he loved this chemical freedom from the torture of his own mind. At the same time, he realized how helpless he was when under sedation, how totally and completely vulnerable.
But he had put the time to good use. He had thought the whole thing through, never recoiling from any of the ugly knowledge. Yes, Father Sullivan seemed like a good and strong man. If something was still hiding in the church, Sullivan should be warned straightaway. None of this cryptic business about looking in the Bible; in all probability Father Mosely's Bible wasn't even there anymore. So how could Sullivan look in it?
Clem had been in a position to help, and he had refused. That's not the way Father Mosely would have liked him to behave. In the beginning, so very long ago, Clem had freely offered to help. Father Mosely had refused. Then, when Clem tried to tell his story, people thought he was lying. And crazy.
How could they know every word of his story was true? What they called symptoms of mental illness were in reality rational behavior. Why couldn't they understand that he didn't like to touch things because he knew all things were infested? All matter was not exactly as we see it.
The easiest thing had been to acquiesce, accept his diagnosis and eventual confinement. In time he had learned to be grateful for his incarceration because he was safer here, locked away from the outside world, confined, protected. Here people kept an eye on him twenty-four hours a day. He'd never have that kind of security anywhere outside. Out there, he would have been on his own. Out there, he was at the mercy of—
For nearly ten years the bad thing had not bothered him. Not really. Except for little reminders. At dinner a fork would twitch in his hand. A bird might perch on the bars of his window and speak to him. Or it would rain inside his room and he'd get in trouble for spilling water.
But now, with Father Sullivan back in the church, suppose the bad thing started up again? Suppose, simply by keeping his silence, Clement Barry had given the new priest and the people of Hobston the Judas kiss?
Soon, as soon as he regained his strength, he knew what he had to do. When the drug wore off he would sneak away, leave the hospital. He would find Father Sullivan and tell him everything. He'd offer to help and he'd hope it wasn't too—
What was that?
With difficulty, Clem lifted his head off the cot and looked around his room. Water dripped in the sink in the corner. A breeze drifted through the open window, brushing his skin like a silk scarf. Air ruffled the clothes in his closet. The arms of his three long-sleeved shirts rose and fell as if they were waving to him.
Tiny specks of white plaster snowed from cracks in the walls and ceiling.
Why should that be?
Clem propped himself on his elbows as the locked door rattled in its frame.
Only the wind, he thought. Only the wind. . . .
But there was also that buzzing in his ears. He must have left his radio on. With a tremendous effort of will he moved his limp legs, heavy as the limbs of a statue. He flopped them over the side of his bed. His stocking feet plopped like dead things onto the cold tile floor.
Groaning, he shifted to an upright position. The effort made him feel like the heaviest man in the world. Somehow he stood.
Five unsteady steps brought him to the radio. Numb fingers found the knob—the radio had been off all along.
Yet, the buzzing grew louder.
He looked at the window. The black horizontal bars seemed to be bubbling. A closer look and he saw hornets, one after another, perching there. The sky beyond was an ebony cloud, as if a million wasps had assembled and were heading his way in an endless swarm.
Clem ran clumsily to the window, slammed it down, crushing tiny black bodies against the sash. They twitched and groped with hairlike legs.
More plaster rained from the ceiling.
The buzzing in his ears grew louder.
When he looked down at the floor he realized he was standing in midair a thousand feet above the distant rocky ground.
Clem gasped and flopped back onto his bed.
He knew what was happening. The thing was messing with him again. He had probably summoned it simply by thinking about it. He had learned, don't think about it. He knew thinking about it only made things worse.
"O-okay." he said in a tense whisper. "Okay, I won't say nothin'. I'll stay right here in my room and I won't say nothin' to the priest. Okay . . . ? Okay . . ."
Something wet, clammy, and invisible dragged across his face. He tried to brush it away, and his hands came away slick with blood.
It's not real, Clem thought, it's just trying to scare me.
Still, he frantically wiped the blood on his pants.
The buzzing in his head turned to a hissing; and the hissing became words, "Sssstupid . . . sssstupid . . . stupid . . . Ssssssss."
Clem slapped his hands to his ears, but it did no good. He tried the floor again. Cautiously. It was an invisible barrier that easily supported his weight high above a shadowy pit seething with red dancing flames. They flicked at him, reached up like serpent tongues.
Without daring to look down, three sprinting steps brought him to the door. He tugged on it, pounded.
But the orderly had locked him in.
He opened his mouth to shout, "Hel—" but something like damp cotton filled it, gagging him. He tried to pull it out, but nothing was there.
Then he noticed the walls.
They were beginning to change. The beige paint was vanishing like mist evaporating from a windowpane. And all of a sudden the walls were gone.
One by one the pieces of furniture in his room fell into the lightless void. His bureau spun away and disappeared. His desk dropped out of sight, its chair flew off into space, and the bed hovered a second and soared off into infinity. Hairbrush, toothpaste, slippers, and a Coke bottle zipped around him like comets.
Clement clung to the solid knob of the invisible door. It's not real, he thought, none of it's real!
In his ten years as a mental patient he had learned much about the deceptions of the mind. And the bad thing did its work in the mind.
Clem saw sweat flying from his face as, frantically, he tried to look around. There was nothing else to see. It was as if he were suspended in space, enclosed in an endless, all-encompassing planetarium where tiny stars surrounded him in the heavens. They were white pinpricks, far away and out of reach.
"Stop it!" Clem screamed.
Something moved from behind him, coming into view. It was the wood-framed mirror that had hung over the washbasin. It floated surrealistically in the black infinity until it positioned itself directly in front of him. Clem wanted to swat it away, but he didn't dare let loose of the doorknob clutched in his aching, sweating fists. If he released the doorknob, he knew he would plunge to his de
ath.
Gotta hold on, he thought. This isn't real. None of it's real! I can't be in space. I couldn't breathe. I'd explode or something.
When he saw his face in the mirror, the pain came.
A sloshing sensation, like warm water in his stomach. Only this time it was in his head.
I shouldn't have thought "explode." Oh God, I shouldn't have thought "explode."
His terrified face glared at him from the mirror. He wanted to look away, but right now his face was the only real thing in the universe. The alternative—looking at the blackness and the stars—would bring madness. So he looked at himself, saw the skin of his face redden as if it were blasted by a scorching sun.
Saw the hair of his head and eyebrows singed and falling away like dust.
Saw his irises bleach white, turning his eyeballs into perforated eggshells.
And the pain in his head intensified.
Blood slipped from his nose, his mouth, his eyes. He looked like a painted savage in the mirror. His last articulated thought was that something inside his head has dislodged.
Then—Oh my God—he saw what might have been liquefied brain flowing from his nose and ears.
He screamed. But in space there could be no sound.
PART FOUR
DEVIL'S TOWN
"Something entered people, something chopped, pressed, punctured, had its way with them and if you looked, bad child, it entered you."
—Maxine Kumin
The Man of Many L's
Excerpt from
The Reality Conspiracy:
An Anecdotal Reconstruction of the Events at Hobston, Vermont
Dr. Lloyd Sparker lived just far enough out of town to enjoy a sense of escape when he went home after work. As a younger man, he used to drive the mile and a half between his office and his house. But now, and ever since his heart attack in '83, he truly believed that exercise was every bit as important as he told his patients it was. So on days when he didn't have to make hospital visits, he walked to and from work.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 28