The aide nodded to his right and smiled benignly. "Could you come with me, please, Mr. Marsh? Dr. Halloway would like to talk with you."
"Is that the psychiatrist?"
"Yes, sir. One of them."
"Then I don't know why he wants to talk with me." The aide's grip on Marsh's arm strengthened—Marsh was amazed at how strong the man was. "Please, Mr. Marsh, Dr. Halloway's time is very valuable." Reluctantly, Marsh followed him.
Thirty Years Earlier on a Farm Near Penn Yann, New York:
Rachel Griffin saw the three dark figures seated around the fire behind the house; she sketched in her mind the geometry, the symmetry those still figures represented.
Her eyes lowered. Her gaze fell on the four remaining snow-covered piles of wood, the beehives, the lopsided pyramids Paul had asked her to build weeks before.
She glanced at him. His eyes were closed now. He seemed in pain, somehow, seemed to be undergoing some deep inner turmoil.
She took a deep breath, held it a moment. "How soon will they die, Paul? Do you think that fire of theirs keeps them warm?"
Paul looked at her; out of the corner of her eye she saw that he was looking. She turned her head; their eyes met. She extended her hand; he took it. "Come here," she coaxed. He joined her at the window. "It's their last night, isn't it, Paul?"
He squeezed her hand; his eyes watered suddenly. "And our first night," he said. She leaned against him. "Rachel, they want us to stay."
"I know it."
"And I wish we could. But . . . I've . . . I've grown beyond them, I think. I've grown beyond them."
Rachel said nothing.
"I thought," Paul continued, "that I owed them something. And perhaps I do. But if I owe them anything, I owe them myself, not you."
Again Rachel was quiet.
"Do you understand what I'm saying, Rachel?"
And she did understand, had understood, she knew, for weeks, and only now—the evidence so clear—able to admit it, or begin to understand it.
Paul had been one of them. It was as simple as that. He had been one of the children. And then he had become "Paul Griffin." He had learned, had grown, had survived. He had been transformed. And now, two decades later, what he had been was coming back, was destroying him—had been destroying him since their first day at the house—because it (she didn't know what to call it, she knew so little about it, only what the boy had shown her) no longer recognized him, and could no longer trust him.
Just as Lumas had not recognized him. Or trusted him. Because the world outside the land and the farmhouse had done its awful work.
Dr. Halloway's cavernous office was at the end of the corridor, between another set of locked doors. It was festooned with exotic plants, and a dark Oriental rug graced the floor. There were two couches—one, an overstuffed rococo style, the other a white fabric on rattan, which had been placed beneath a pair of unlikely bay windows. The room was dimly lit.
The doctor, a man who had been described by one of his patients as "depressingly average-looking," sat behind a huge, dark oak desk, his back to the wall farthest from the door. He nodded at the rococo couch when Marsh came in. "You may sit or recline, Mr. Marsh. Whatever you wish."
Marsh disliked him at once, he wasn't sure why. He went over to the rococo couch and sat on its edge, with his arms folded in front of him. He supposed that he looked very uncomfortable, and he was happy for it.
"Relax," the doctor coaxed smilingly. "We're just going to talk."
Marsh put his palms flat on the couch to either side of himself.
"That's better, Mr. Marsh. Now could you tell me, please, how old you are."
"I'm seventy-three."
"And can you tell me who the President is?"
"Yes, I can."
"Who is it, please?"
Marsh named the President.
"Could you tell me what city this is?"
"It's New York."
"The borough?"
"Manhattan."
"That's excellent, Mr. Marsh. Really excellent."
Marsh leaned forward. "I want my dog. One of your employees has got him, and I want him."
Halloway checked a thin file on his desk. "Yes, I see that it mentions something here about a dog. His name is Seth?"
Marsh shook his head. "No. His name is Joe."
"Then who is Seth, Mr. Marsh?"
Marsh was rapidly learning to dislike this man—he seemed like someone who set himself apart from everyone else; aloof!—Yes, that was the word. "Seth is no one," Marsh said.
Halloway smiled a thin, patient smile: "No one, Mr. Marsh?"
"No one at all."
"According to the admitting physician, you had quite a lot to say about him—about this being you call 'Seth.'"
"Oh?"
"Yes, you did. You even went so far as to talk about certain 'powers' this being possesses. Would you like to tell me what those powers are, Mr. Marsh?"
"I'd like to know why I'm being held here."
"Do you feel that you are being held against your will?"
"The doors are locked and no one will unlock them; you figure it out."
Again the doctor smiled a thin, patronizing smile. "Is it one of Seth's powers, Mr. Marsh, to walk through unlocked doors?"
"No."
"I see. Then what powers does he possess?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? How can you not know about your own creation, Mr. Marsh?"
"He's not my creation."
"Oh. Whose is he?"
"The earth's."
"That would really apply to all of us, wouldn't it?"
"To some of us more than others."
Another thin smile. But now, Marsh saw something else, something uncertain in the man's eyes, as if he were vaguely troubled. "To Seth more than anyone else, Mr. Marsh?"
The doctor's smile faded. "Do you feel that you are a troubled man, Mr. Marsh?"
"No."
"Do you feel . . . " He paused, looked away as if in search of the correct thought. He looked back, attempted another thin smile. "Do you feel that we here at Bellevue . . . do you feel that I . . ." He looked away again.
Marsh asked, "Is something wrong?"
The doctor waved the question away. "No. Nothing's wrong. Don't concern yourself." He looked clearly troubled now, as if he were in pain. "Don't concern yourself," he repeated. "A migraine, I think. A migraine. That will be all for this . . . That will be all for this . . . Do you feel, Mr. Marsh, that we here at Bellevue. . . Do you feel that . . ."
Marsh stood. "Can I get you something?" he asked, and felt foolish for it—he wasn't sure why.
"Irving C. Halloway. And of course, my father was a member of the profession, as well. . . . You may be excused, Mr. Marsh. You may be excused." He put his hands to his ears; he lowered his head.
Marsh went to the door, opened it, and went back to his room.
Chapter 58
In Central Park: Near Bethesda Fountain
Seth could hear them at last. A thousand different voices murmuring, shouting, whispering a billion different things. Mundane things. Romantic things. Profound things. Human things. "Yes, of course I'll throw a Tupperware party," and "The lessons begin on Friday?—How much are they, please?" and "The damned train is late again," and "That was nice; that was very nice," and "Cloudy tomorrow, with a chance of rain," and "In our discussion of phobias, we must first define the term," and "Why did she do it, Daddy?" and "What is this?—A size twelve?—I asked for size eleven," and "It's a Nikon, officer," and "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine," and "It's Depression glass, that's why I'm charging twenty-five dollars; you can understand, I'm sure," and "I'm gonna cut you right up the middle, my man!"
Seth could not sort it all out; he did not even try. Because, of course, it was merely the gloss of civilization. And humanity. It was window dressing. It was adaptation, and need, and survival. He had merely to find its weak spots, pierce it, and watch it disintegrate around him
. And then, naked, free of their little costumes, and knowing what they were once again, they would follow him. And they would take their island back.
Chapter 59
At The Stone
They were standing with their backs to the wall to the right of the opened elevator doors; Mrs. Dyson was the first in line: she was dressed in a flower-print white house dress. She was trembling; a continuous string of high-pitched, whining sounds were coming from her. Next to her stood Dr. Wanamaker, who had been allowed to appear here with his pants on, as well as his best white shirt, and a wide, purple-satin tie that he'd tied very neatly and snugly; Carter Barefoot, nervously scratching his red hair, stood next to Wanamaker. Mr. Klaus was next, as stoical as ever in his tattered but clean gray, pinstriped suit, with only a T-shirt on beneath. There were some bruises and lacerations visible around his face and neck from the beatings that Snipe and his lieutenant had given him. One of Snipe's lieutenants, Mars-Bar, stood very close to him; he was watching and hoping for some sign of fear in Klaus' eyes, and because he wasn't seeing it he was getting angrier by the moment. Skeletal Bill Meese stood several feet to the right of Klaus; like Mrs. Dyson, he was trembling; he feared that his bladder might let go, and he raised his hand. "Sir," he said to Mars-Bar, which made Mars-Bar smile, "I have to go to the bathroom; please—"
"Shut up!" Mars-Bar commanded, and Meese fell silent. His hands went to his crotch; if only he could hold it till they threw him in because he was sure that's what Snipe had in mind.
"Aunt Sandy" stood weeping beside him; every now and then these words bubbled out of her: "Ain't no way for an old woman to die; ain't no way for an old woman to die!"
Connie Tams stood angrily next to her, her body stiff and her fists clenched. She was working up a giant wad of saliva to bathe Snipe in when he appeared.
He appeared. He had a small pad of white notepaper in hand, and several pens and pencils. He stood at the center of the line, and several feet out from it. He held the note pad up. He smiled broadly, which tended to cheer up several of the old people a little—a mouth full of rotted teeth is not particularly frightening.
He said, "You think I'm gonna throw you down there, like I done to Lou and the big lady; that's what you think, ain't it?"
Several of the old people nodded sullenly.
Snipe shook his head; "I ain't gonna do that. Yer my meal ticket. All I wantcha to do is write yer names down here on these sheets of paper." He held the pens and pencils up. "I even brought these along. And when yer done with 'em you can keep 'em." He glanced at Carlos, standing to the left of the opened elevator doors. Carlos grinned. He looked back at the line of old people. "Ya see, what I want to do is save you old farts some walkin' and some aggravation havin' to stand in line at the fuckin' bank. That's why yer gonna sign these sheets of paper. 'Cuz then I'll know what your signatures look like. And then when yer checks come, I'll just go an' collect 'em and sign 'em myself and you won't have to worry about a thing." He smiled again.
"Bullshit!" one of the old people said.
Snipe looked quickly from one face to another. "Who said that?" he demanded.
"Bullshit!" he heard again from the same voice.
He glanced from one face to another, once more, saw something that looked like puzzlement on Klaus' face, and stepped over to him. Mars-Bar stepped away. "Was that you, Klaus?" Snipe asked evenly.
Klaus said nothing; the puzzled look faded.
"I asked you a question, man—an' I want an answer. Iwant an answer now!"
"Now!" he heard, from somewhere to his right. He looked toward the source of the voice, but saw little—only Aunt Sandy, Bill Meese, and Connie Tams looking back at him blankly, and beyond them, the poorly lit corridor that branched at right angles to the left and right about twenty feet away. His senses told him that the voice had come from one of those directions; his brain told him otherwise.
He slapped Klaus very hard. Klaus flinched slightly.
Snipe grinned. He took hold of Klaus' left hand, stuck a piece of the notepaper in it, took his right hand, and put a pen in it. "Your name, my man—write your name!"
Klaus held the paper against the wall, wrote on it, and handed it back.
Snipe was amazed at Klaus' apparent cooperation, but tried not to let it show; he took the paper. "That's my man," he started. Then he read what Klaus had written: SANTA KLAUS—in big, bold print.
Snipe angrily crumpled the paper in his fist.
Klaus grinned tightly at him. "We used to eat people like you for breakfast," he growled, "and then we'd feed the bones to our dogs!" And in the next moment, his mammoth right hand was around Snipe's throat.
Connie Tams saw her chance; she stepped over and let loose with her mouth full of saliva; it hit Snipe squarely between the eyes, then slid very slowly down toward his gaping mouth.
Mars-Bar pushed her to one side: she fell to the floor. Carlos came over quickly; together, he and Mars-Bar tried wrenching Klaus' hand from Snipe's throat. It was impossible. The man's strength was enormous.
Carlos pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt; it was a long knife, with a six inch blade. He sunk it deep into Klaus' chest. Klaus flinched.
Mars-Bar glanced at Snipe, whose face was turning blue, whose struggles were weakening.
"Jesus, get him again!" Mars-Bar said to Carlos. Carlos sunk the knife into Klaus' chest once more. Once more Klaus flinched.
Connie Tams struggled to her feet. She screamed shrilly, then her teeth found Carlos' thigh, and she bit hard. Carlos screeched, pulled the knife from Klaus, lashed out at her, struck her a glancing blow on the shoulder. She kept biting. He lashed out again. He missed. He tried again. The knife slid into Connie Tam's neck, near her jugular. She screamed, staggered back, her hand pressed hard to the wound. She crumpled to the floor.
Snipe had stopped struggling altogether.
Carlos plunged the knife into Klaus' forearm, severing the muscle. Klaus' tight grip on Snipe ended at once. Snipe, like Connie Tams, collapsed.
Klaus' eyes rolled back in his head. He fell to his knees; he hit the floor, face down.
Carlos bent over Snipe while Mars-Bar watched the rest of the little group, who were looking on in various stages of shock and revulsion. Bill Meese's bladder had let go; Aunt Sandy was weeping openly and loudly; Carter Barefoot was bent over at the waist, his hands covered his face; he was trembling.
"Snipe?" Carlos whispered, and saw that color was coming back to Snipe's face. "C'mon, Snipe, c'mon!"
A few feet away, Connie Tams began moaning softly; the wound at her neck was oozing a thin line of blood. Carlos stood, stepped over to her. "Fuckin' old bitch!" he hissed, and kicked her very hard—the toe of his boot connected with the side of her head. She stopped moaning, at once. He went back to Snipe, stooped over him again. "Snipe?"
Snipe coughed feebly.
"Snipe?" Carlos repeated.
Snipe coughed again and again. The coughing quickly grew fitful and urgent, as if he were trying desperately to bring up a piece of meat that had gotten stuck in his throat. He pushed himself up on all fours, his head hanging. He continued coughing, even more fitfully. Carlos became very concerned. He stood, mounted Snipe, grabbed him around the chest and hugged him strongly.
Mars-Bar, looking on, was flabbergasted. "Jesus H., what in the hell you doin'–"
"It's what . . . you do . . . when someone's chokin'," Carlos stammered through the effort of hugging Snipe.
Suddenly, Snipe stood, Carlos still hanging on to him. Carlos jumped off. Snipe vomited. Twice. Again. And again. At last, he stopped, put one arm to the wall, the other to his throat. He whispered hoarsely, "Throw 'em both down the shaft. Now!"
Carlos went over to Connie Tams' limp body; he could see that she was still breathing. He lifted her by the armpits, took her over to the opened elevator doors, and tossed her through. Seconds later, a small whumping noise came back to him. He went over to where Klaus lay face down. He studied him for a moment, then said to Mars-B
ar, "I'm gonna need a hand here." Mars-Bar came over, and together they began dragging Klaus over to the elevator doors. Snipe watched silently; every once in a while a small cough escaped him.
Without hesitation, Carlos and Mars-Bar pushed Klaus over the lip of the shaft. It was a forty foot drop, and the fall just under two seconds.
Klaus died instantly when he hit.
But in the two seconds before that moment, he saw much in his memory's eye. He saw a lifetime.
He saw the patterns of light and shadow all around as he pushed himself out of the earth, but never free of it.
He felt the warm sensuous touch of his "brothers" and his "sisters," present at the birth.
And then he saw himself growing away from them. Watched them wither and die around him with that first winter.
And felt again the need, the awful desperation, that had driven him here. To this city. And, at last, to this building. And at last, to his death.
Snipe turned to what remained of the group. "Hey, you dipshit," he said hoarsely to Carter Barefoot, who was still bent over with his face in his hands. "Straighten up!"
Carter did not respond.
Snipe nodded to Carlos. "Straighten him up, Carlos!"
Carlos went over and forced Carter into a standing position, pulled his hands away from his face. He slapped him once. "You listen when Snipe talks to you."
Carter nodded frantically.
Snipe leaned over and picked up the sheets of notepaper, the pens and the pencils that had fallen to the floor when Klaus grabbed him. He held up the notepaper. "I'll make . . ." he began, and cleared his throat several times. "I'll make a deal with you assholes." He coughed, massaged his throat. "You sign your names," he went on, "and don't give me no trouble and maybe I won't let Carlos and Mars-Bar have no more fun." He stopped.
"Yes," said Wanamaker, "I'll sign."
Snipe grinned. They were going to believe his lie. He stepped over to Wanamaker, and offered him a sheet of the notepaper. Wanamaker took it reluctantly.
Carlos, standing close by, said, "Hey, Snipe, I seen somethin'"—he nodded to his left, toward the area where the corridor branched off to the left and right—"over there. You want I should check it out?"
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