Still, she was comforted with Dad nearby, though if she could save him by wishing him away, she would do it gladly.
Where is Dad? Casey wondered. Was he still upstairs with McCurdy? What were they doing? What were they talking about?
She hoped Dad was just playing along, stalling for time. Or had he felt sufficiently intimidated by the horrible display to buy into McCurdy's plans, whatever they might be?
She didn't want to think about it.
Thunder crashed. The house vibrated. Rain beat heavily on the tin roof of the porch. The worsening storm made Casey feel even more nervous. She knew their situation wasn't likely to improve at all.
"Mmm-phh, ummm-ph. Mnnuh." The little girl was awake now. She twitched and made sounds from the sofa where McCurdy had dumped her.
Casey rolled the chair in that direction and stopped. She'd been grossed out enough by the way the child had looked before McCurdy went to work on her. Now, Casey didn't want to look at her at all! She felt sorry for the little girl, sure. But she had become so repellent, so disgustingly deformed that—
Stop it, Casey! She spoke angrily to herself. Don't forget some people find you pretty hard to look at, too. She'd seen it happen often enough; certain people averted their eyes to avoid looking at her. Once at the Chestnut Hill Mall she'd heard a cute boy say, "Nice face. Too bad she's a crip."
"Oh, I dunno," his companion replied with feigned interest, "might be nice, who knows? I hear paraplegics are lots of fun. . . ."
Casey wheeled herself over to the couch, determined to look at the little girl. If she got grossed out, fine, then she'd be done with it. With that behind her, she might be able to offer some kind of help or comfort.
The girl's face was unchanged by the weird transformation. Now, taking the time to have a good look, Casey guessed the child might once have been pretty. It was only the lips that disfigured her face. What could have made them that way? They were like big floppy ears, elephant ears, the color of raw liver. No wonder the little girl couldn't talk with lips like those. It was a miracle she could eat or drink.
But the body, that was something else. It was completely altered. Impossibly, that weird light had done something awful to the child. It had changed her, melted her like wax, then reshaped her, blending arms and legs and hands and feet into a white, elongated, vein-streaked body that resembled a finless dolphin.
The little girl looked at Casey, and Casey tried to smile. "Hi," she said, "are you feeling okay?"
The girl blinked at her.
"Are you . . . are you thirsty or something?" She didn't know what else to say.
The little girl shook her head vigorously.
"Hungry?"
Her eyes widened as if in fear, as if the thought of eating or drinking terrified her.
Casey—with a great effort of will—reached out slowly, and touched the little girl's forehead.
There, that wasn't so bad.
The girl closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the seat cushion. Her facial features seemed to relax a little.
Casey stroked her gently and heard a soft sigh from deep in the child's throat. The body shivered; a tear glistened in her eye. "Hmmmpffft. Hummmmmm," she purred softly.
Casey continued to run her hand over the pale forehead, smoothing her greasy hair until the girl seemed to sleep.
Everything was fine while Casey looked at the child's face. But she didn't think she could stare at, much less actually touch, the ghastly body. How do doctors and nurses do it, Casey wondered, imagining crash victims and bum patients. And the birth abnormalities. . . . Oh God! How did they deal with it?
But medicine could work miracles of its own. Could surgeons somehow restore this girl?
Or would McCurdy's magic—if magic it was—eventually wear off as it did in storybooks? If everyone cooperated with him, could McCurdy reverse the process, return the child to normal now that he'd made his point?
Casey felt warm tears sliding down her cheeks.
The child snored, air bubbled grotesquely through her lips.
Delicately, Casey touched the place where the child's shoulder used to be. The flesh was soft, spongy. Not like it would feel if bone were underneath. It seemed more like the flexible cartilage of a nose.
She left her hand flattened there for a moment, trying to accustom herself to the odd sensation. She didn't want to break the contact that seemed to have such a calming effect on the child.
Gently, Casey rolled the girl toward the back of the sofa, hoping to free the blanket she was sleeping on. She would cover her, tuck her in, keep her warm against the cool rain that kept pouring down.
But in doing so, she saw the other side of the snakelike torso.
New terror flashed like the lightning outside the window. The orifices were gone! The body was smooth. Completely smooth. It was as if the child were a prisoner in a seamless sock of flesh.
And in that moment Casey understood the child's terror about eating and drinking.
Oh dear God, she thought, covering the girl with the blanket. She wept in silence as she stroked the little girl's head.
In the upstairs bedroom, Jeff and McCurdy sat in ladder-backed chairs before the empty computer screen. The monitor's neon glow was the only light in the room. Now and then the sky outside the window would light up like a flashbulb, blasting dense shadows against the bedroom walls.
A half-dozen fireballs whizzed by in rapid succession, like tracer bullets. "Looks like Pearl Harbor all over again, doesn't it, Jeffrey?"
Jeff tried to keep his voice clear of emotion. He wanted to answer in a businesslike way, in exactly the same matter-of-fact manner he normally used with McCurdy. He hoped a business as usual attitude would insure some level of safety. "What's going on, Skipp. What's happening here? Did you cause this somehow? The storm? The lightning?"
McCurdy laughed low in his throat, like a series of belches. "It's sure an attention getter. A good one, too, don't you think? Tomorrow it'll be in all the papers. It'll be on TV. I bet the networks will show up before morning. Miracles are big business, Jeffrey. Miracles are news."
"Miracles? Like what you did to that little girl?"
"The Lord permitted it. Don't forget that. The Lord permitted it so it can't be wrong."
"Can't be wr—!" Jeff got hold of his temper before it flared. Calmly, he thought, calmly. . . . "Okay. I understand. So what do you want with us? What do you want me to do?"
McCurdy's eyes widened, as if the answer to Jeff's question should be obvious. "Quite simply, you will be a spokesman. This, my friend, is the promotion I've been grooming you for. Your new assignment will be very much like . . . well . . . public relations." McCurdy smiled, "Hey, you're a good-looking guy, Jeff. You have an attractive way about you. You're quick-witted and bright. You've got charm, charisma. We need those qualities. This is a media age, you know. And, thanks to the Academy, you've got the smarts to know the impossible can sometimes happen. Sometimes the unreal is real." McCurdy winked at him as if they were old friends.
Jeff hoped his fear didn't show. He had no choice but to believe McCurdy's weird science had somehow tapped into the secret forces of the universe. Had this new knowledge and power driven McCurdy into self-righteous megalomania? Did his madness control Jeff's fate and the fate of everyone he cared about?
"And what about Casey?" he asked.
McCurdy smiled warmly. "That's all part of the benefit package. In exchange for your cooperation, your daughter will get up and walk. People will see that. They'll see it and they'll believe. Maybe then you'll believe, too. Jeff, what's happening here is the work of the Lord."
"I . . . I . . ."Jeff cleared his throat. "Okay, Skipp, let's put our cards on the table. Suppose I refuse to cooperate, suppose I say I don't believe any of this, and I don't want anything to do with it?"
McCurdy shook his head sadly, clicking his tongue. He reached into the pocket of his pants, jingling the change there. Then he pulled out a handful of coins. After sel
ecting a shiny twenty-five-cent piece, he held it up in front of Jeff.
"Remember the coin I showed you during our talk at the Academy? 'In God We Trust,' you recall?"
"Yes."
"Well, I recall something, too. According to your résumé, you have a special interest in magic tricks. It's your hobby, right?"
"Y-yes."
"Then you should know better than anyone the difference between deception and reality. Let me show you one of my own little tricks. Hold out your hand."
Slowly, Jeff offered his open hand. McCurdy placed the bright coin in the center of Jeff's palm.
"Close your hand," McCurdy instructed.
Jeff's fingers curled over the quarter, covering it completely. He felt its firm metal edge against his skin. Then immediately McCurdy commanded, "Now open it."
Jeff looked down at his palm in utter disbelief. The coin was gone!
"Th-that's impossible!" he said. He knew enough about sleight of hand and misdirection to know how the trick could be accomplished if the coin were in the magician's hand. But not like this; it was absolutely impossible for the coin to vanish from his own fist. It couldn't be done.
McCurdy smiled, pleased with himself. Then he was silent. Outside, the thunder and lightning stopped. The whole universe seemed to pause.
McCurdy's eyes were deadly earnest. He looked at Jeff with a terrible intensity. In a low voice, almost a growl, he said, "I wanted you to see that video, Jeffrey. I want you to remember it now. That coin could as easily be your heart."
The five-mile drive had been nerve-wracking.
They'd sped through a terrifying rainstorm. Fat heavy drops pelted the windshield with surprising fury. Wind picked up, whipping across the flatlands with hurricane force, battering Sullivan's car from one lane to the other.
The defrost motor hummed, fighting to clear the windshield. It was a losing battle. The air was so moist Father Sullivan joked that they were in a submarine.
Before them, above the deserted road, Karen could see mist-dulled flashes in the eastern sky.
"Some fireworks," Alton said from the back seat.
A few cars were parked at the roadside with their lights off. Driving past, Karen could see people inside, watching the sky.
At a turnoff near the road to Dubois's farmhouse, she saw a huge RV with Quebec plates. An elderly couple had set up aluminum armchairs under a fold-up metal awning. They were sipping drinks as they watched the sky show.
Sullivan clenched the wheel with both hands as his car ripped through thickening sheets of rain.
They left the car partway up the hill, off the road and partially hidden.
Karen and the priest crept through the rain and darkness, following Alton Barnes. They paused when the house came into view, a dense black rectangle in the night. When lightning flashed, the place looked haunted.
She saw Jeff's car parked near the driveway, with another vehicle beside it. Both sets of lights were on; now their beams had faded to a lifeless glow. The taillights of a third vehicle, a station wagon, reflected beyond the open door of the barn.
Candles or kerosene lamps burned upstairs and down. Karen guessed the lighted windows indicated which rooms were occupied. She suspected at least four people were inside: the owner, Jeff, Casey, and the frightening unknown in this equation—Dr. Ian "Skipp" McCurdy.
Standing there in the rain, the reality of what they were doing struck her like a sudden chill. Her body had prepared before her mind—teeth clenched, muscles tense and ready. But ready for what? She didn't know.
"My car's way over there," Alton whispered, nodding toward the dark distance. "I left it when McCurdy drove me to town. . . ."
The priest crouched beside Karen. She could see his eyes trained on the house. "I think I should try to get up close," he said, "maybe look in the windows."
"Oh, Father—"
"It's all right, Karen. One of us has to go. There's no point all of us taking a chance. I just want to make sure Casey and Jeff are in there. If they're not, we're wasting our time out here."
"Please be careful."
The priest crouched, flattening himself as best he could. He looked like a giant black toad in the tall grass. Impressions of raindrops caused a rippling effect on his clothing.
"Father?" Alton said.
Sullivan looked at him.
"Why don't you let me go? I been in there before, I know the layout."
The priest shook his head. Karen had a pretty good idea what he was thinking: If her hypnosis had failed, the suggestions governing Alton's behavior might still be in place. If so, he could be dangerous; he could betray them to McCurdy.
"The sketch you made for me is fine," Father Sullivan said. "I'd appreciate it if you stayed with Karen. Don't worry about me. I'm not planning any heroics. I'm just going to take a look and come right back."
"Father?"
"Yes, Mr. Barnes?"
"There's a pistol in my car. Want me to get it for you?"
"Is the car locked?"
"Nope. Never lock it."
"Then I'll get it on my way. If anything happens, you and Karen run for the car and get the hell out of here."
Karen wanted to say something to the priest, something comforting and encouraging, but she remained silent as he made his way through swaying wet stocks of timothy and rain-blasted buttercups. He quickly vanished from sight until a hissing fireball streaked across the sky.
"I hope they don't spot him," she whispered to no one.
"I feel it's me oughtta be goin' up there," Alton told her. "I know he don't trust me. But I'm okay now. I know I am. Besides, I been in combat; I can use a weapon. He's a priest; prob'ly can't handle himself if things get hairy."
"I'm not sure I agree with you. Mr. Barnes. Something tells me there's a lot about Father Sullivan we don't know."
"I hope you're right, miss. I sure hope you're right about that."
The pattern of lighted windows suggested someone was upstairs and someone was down. Okay, Sullivan could check the bottom floor easily enough, but he'd have to stand outside a while to see if anyone went up or down the stairs.
He moved in a wide circle around the house, keeping low to avoid being spotted in a flash of lightning. Certain rooms had no lights burning in them. Could he safely presume those rooms were empty?
Not necessarily.
The whole situation seemed to grow more complex as he thought about it. The impulse grew stronger to abandon this foolishness, to drive back and get the police.
Fine, but what, exactly, would he tell them?
Maybe Casey Chandler was abducted? Maybe her dad went looking for her. Maybe they were both inside this farmhouse, held against their will. Maybe the Academy was experimenting with magic and mind control.
Pretty lame.
Hopefully he'd have more to say once he'd established Jeff and Casey were inside.
Standing by the eastern wall of the house, he found himself beneath an icy waterfall—rain pouring off the roof. He'd have to endure it; this was the only place from which he could watch the living room.
Yes. . . . Someone was in there. Someone seated and almost invisible in the faint orange light. Someone in . . .
The wheelchair suggested the young woman was Casey Chandler. And she was not alone. Someone else was lying on the couch under a blanket. Jeff? Mrs. Dubois? Sullivan couldn't make out any facial features among the shadows.
Casey was stroking the unknown person's hair.
It must be Jeff. Who else could it be? But why was he lying down? Had he been hurt? There was no way to tell. Also—Sullivan had to admit it—there was no visible evidence that these people were being held against their will. They weren't tied; they weren't under guard . . .
Fearing he'd make some telltale noise, Sullivan avoided the porch, inching his way to a dark window at the rear of the house. According to Alton's sketch, this would be the kitchen.
The soggy weight of his saturated clothing and the freezing rivulets of wa
ter dribbling down his neck made him shiver in discomfort. Wind assailed the shrubbery around him. More than anything, he could use a drink right now, a, shot of bourbon to warm his insides and steady his nerves.
But there was no time for such thoughts. He crept through a muddy flower bed and stretched up to the windowpane. Thorny rosebushes scratched at his pants.
Carefully, ever so carefully, he peered in. Weak light spilled in from the living room and spread among the solid shapes of kitchen furniture. Sullivan groped under his jacket and removed a yellow disposable flashlight from his shirt pocket. When he was sure no one was there, he flashed the light into the room and turned it off quickly.
Dear God!
He thought—he couldn't be sure, but he thought—he saw bodies on the floor! Two of them. A wave of dread left him short winded—what if Jeff were among them? He tried the light again but couldn't discern the faces.
Rounding the corner, Sullivan crept along the back wall until he came to the next window. This should be Mrs. Dubois's bedroom.
Before he could ready his flashlight, another fireball split the sky. Emerald-leafed trees, vivid green grass, the house itself, lit up with three-dimensional brilliance. In the dazzling flash he caught a glimpse of the drawn shade beyond the windowpane. For now, the contents of this room would remain a mystery.
Reflected in the glass, another blazing globe soared off and vanished behind Stattler Mountain. Funny, he thought, so many comets. And all of them moving toward that mountain. It's as if it attracts them, as if they're trying to draw attention to . . . something.
But that was speculation; he had other things to concentrate on, like how little he'd accomplished here. And he'd been at it so long! All he could report with certainty was that Casey Chandler, and someone, were in the house.
He hoped Karen was all right with Alton Barnes. He'd better get back and find out.
But what of Jeff? What of Ian McCurdy? What of Daisy Dubois herself?
Sullivan decided to go back to the living room window and watch awhile longer. Anyone moving around inside should eventually pass through there.
The Reality Conspiracy Page 37