“What’s that?” I demand.
The man lowers his head and trembles as he speaks. “I can’t talk about it, it’s too dangerous. Find Freddy, talk to him. I’ll put you two in touch. He knows more about it than I do.”
I feel frustrated. I have finally managed to steer him to the secret of secrets and now he refuses to tell us what it is. I try pushing him harder but finally have to accept his fear is genuine. It’s not like he is refusing to talk about what happened next, it’s like he can’t.
However, when we’re about to leave, I ask, “At least tell us why it’s called the Cradle?”
He stares at me closely, as if seeing me for the first time, and his face darkens. “You know,” he says. “It touched you. It’s just begun to grow.”
It’s my turn to clam up. I don’t ask what it is. I already know it’s that horrible thing that attacked me in that crummy motel in London.
EIGHT
It’s not difficult for us to find Fredrick Wild. True to his word, Professor Sharp gives us his address and phone number. It appears the two are still on speaking terms. Freddy lives with his girlfriend, Mary, in Santa Cruz, an hour’s drive from San Mateo. We climb in our car and head for the coast. Seymour drives while I sit in the back with Shanti. She keeps giving me uneasy looks.
“Relax,” I say. “We’re not trying to play a practical joke on you. It really is me.”
“If I had any doubts, you got rid of them at the professor’s house,” Shanti replies.
“Was I too hard on him?” I ask.
Shanti is at pains not to offend me. “You did what you had to do.”
“I think you were too easy on him,” Seymour says.
“What makes you say that?” Paula asks.
Seymour rolls down the window, which means he’s about to light a cigarette. “I worry we didn’t learn anything that will help us defeat Brutran and the IIC.”
“We learned how the Array came to be,” Paula says. “I found his talk fascinating.”
“But it’s like he switched boats on us,” Seymour says. “He talks about the Array for an hour but when push comes to shove he says it’s the Cradle that’s the problem. If you ask me, he’s still trying to protect the idea of the Array. It’s his baby, he invented it. I think he’s still proud of it.”
“He did prove the existence of ESP,” Paula says. “He made a major contribution to science. I think he has a right to be proud.”
Seymour lights his cigarette and blows smoke out the window. He glances over at Paula in the passenger seat. “Then why did you jump on him for using his knowledge to predict stock prices? If it had been me, I would have done the same thing.”
Paula gazes out the window at the lovely scenery. The road between San Mateo and Santa Cruz leads us through a rich forest. Yet the beauty of the countryside doesn’t seem to comfort her.
“You’ve all heard the quote in the Bible, “Knock and the door shall be opened.’ As you know, I’ve had experience when it comes to praying to the universe for guidance. And I can tell you that you have to be extremely careful what doors you decide to knock on.”
“Is that why you brought up the issue of intention?” I ask.
“Yes. Like I told him, at first his research was noble. He was trying to demonstrate the hidden potential we all have. But later, when Brutran wanted to use the Array to make money, the intention became self-serving.”
“And that’s bad?” Seymour asks.
Paula hesitates. “It can be.”
Seymour isn’t convinced. “I write novels to make money. Each time I sit to write, I indirectly depend on the universe to inspire me. No offense, Paula, but I’ve never gotten possessed.”
“You create out of your own imagination,” Paula says. “Out of your own soul, if you like. Or, when you worked with Sita to write her story, you spontaneously sought out a writing partner, even if you didn’t know it at the time. But it’s my belief that the Array is designed to tap unnatural powers.”
“What do you mean by unnatural?” Seymour asks.
“There are many doors in this universe,” Paula says.
“You’re saying you have to be careful what higher power you turn to for help?” Shanti asks.
“Exactly,” Paula replies.
“Krishna says the same thing in the Gita,” Shanti says.
“But Krishna is flexible when it comes to who a person worships,” I say. “He said that whatever god a man or woman worships with love, it is the same as worshipping him. I think that line is one of the keys to the Gita. The worship is for the sake of the devotee, not for the sake of the god.”
“I can’t argue with you,” Shanti says. “I mean, you met Krishna, I’ve just read about him.”
She continues to look troubled, and I think I know why.
“You’re wondering why I gave you the evil eye every time you went to talk to Professor Sharp,” I say.
Shanti hesitates. “I assume you knew what you were doing.”
“You worked with Brutran’s Array as little as a month ago. I was afraid he might see you as one of her spies.”
“Is that the only reason?” she asks.
“Yes,” I lie. The truth is, my gut told me to keep her quiet, and I’m not sure why. Shanti continues to look disappointed and I try changing the subject. “Speaking of Krishna, did you happen to bring a copy of Yaksha’s book? I wanted to study it some more.”
Shanti nods. “I have the original in the trunk.”
“The original copy I gave you?”
Shanti hesitates. “I thought I had Yaksha’s copy.”
I smile and squeeze her hand. “I never gave you that one. The Telar have it. But let’s not worry about it now. I’ll look at it after we get to Santa Cruz.”
Seymour isn’t ready to let go of the meeting with Professor Sharp. He glances at me in the mirror. “Sita, you told us you met Brutran twice, and that she was about forty. But everything Sharp told us happened forty years ago. How can that be?”
“The Telar are immortal,” I reply. “How can that be?”
“Are you saying the IIC have tapped into the same secrets as the Telar?” Seymour asks.
“That’s my working theory,” I say. “That’s why I pressed Professor Sharp about what kind of information the group channeled.”
“Which is when he started to clam up,” Seymour mutters.
“That wasn’t a coincidence,” I say. “The two groups have a lot in common. They’re both obsessed with power and control.”
“But Matt made it clear that long ago the Telar lost the secret of their immortality,” Paula says.
“Then how can they still be immortal?” Shanti says.
“They’re immortal and their children are immortal,” Seymour says. “They’re born that way. But they can no longer make other immortals. They continue to benefit from their original secret, they just don’t know what it is.”
“It’s strange how they could have lost it,” Shanti says.
“Is it?” I ask. “Over time, people forget almost everything.”
“Let’s return to Cynthia Brutran’s age,” Seymour says. “She doesn’t look sixty-five like we’d expect, but she has aged. She’s no longer twenty, and I don’t know a woman who would willingly add twenty years to her face.”
“What does that tell you?” I ask.
“That the IIC have figured how to slow aging but not how to stop it.”
“Which tells you they’ve probably only begun to scratch the surface of the Array’s power,” I say.
“Or the Cradle’s,” Seymour adds. “I still wonder why they named it that. It was obvious he didn’t want to tell us.”
“Maybe they use babies somehow,” Shanti says.
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it. The way Sharp spoke about the Cradle, it was like it was connected to the Array, but also separate from it.”
“I got the same impression,” Paula says.
“I think we should take a closer look at what Krishna to
ld Yaksha about the Telar,” Seymour says. “Krishna didn’t bring up the fable of the Hydra by chance. It’s got to be related to the Telar’s and the IIC’s arrays.”
“Assuming the Telar used to have one,” Paula says.
“I think that’s a safe assumption to make,” Seymour says. “I can’t be the only one who was reminded of the Hydra story when Sharp was talking. He kept saying that the more people he had to work with—the more heads, in other words—the more accurate his results were. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
Shanti laughs. “Hey, I used to be one of the kids they called up for answers. What are you going to do, chop off my head?”
“It was Krishna’s idea, not mine,” Seymour says cheerfully. Everyone in the car knows how protective he is of Shanti.
“You’re forgetting that in the Hydra fable,” I say, “Hercules couldn’t destroy the monster no matter how many heads he chopped off. It just kept growing new ones.”
Shanti gives Seymour a playful shove and then puts her hands around her neck. “I guess I’m safe for the time being,” she says.
Freddy’s girlfriend, Mary, isn’t surprised when we knock on her door. Apparently Professor Sharp called ahead of time and warned her and Freddy we were coming. Nor does Mary appear to mind our visit. She invites us in and immediately offers us dinner. It is near midnight, an odd time to eat, but that does not seem to bother anyone. With the exception of me, our gang is starving. I just downed two pints of blood, after heating it in a steel thermos with a Sears blowtorch. Like I planned, the ready supply is saving me a lot of grief. I keep the blood out of sight in the trunk, in a cooler packed with ice.
Mary has made a large pan of vegetarian lasagna, which suits Shanti, who’s from India and never eats meat. Mary explains that Freddy is out for a run, but she doesn’t bother waiting for him to return. She starts serving us as soon as we’re settled in the living room. Once again I find the greeting unusual. Mary is exceptionally friendly. But it seems her nature, I don’t feel like she’s trying to put us at ease for any devious reason.
“This is fantastic,” Seymour gushes as he digs into the food. “You should open a restaurant.”
“He means it,” I tell Mary. “Seymour’s from New York and knows all the finest restaurants. He’s hard to please.”
“I’ve already tried that,” Mary says. “A restaurant requires constant care. It’s worse than a man. I loved the cooking and treating people to a fun night out, but I had no life.” Mary notices how little food I have on my plate. “Teri, is that all you’re eating?”
“I don’t like to stuff myself before I sleep.”
She appears to study me for a moment, and I do likewise. Even though I have yet to meet the man of the house, I know Freddy is a lucky guy. Mary is not only a gracious host, and kindhearted, she is an exotic beauty.
Her hair is a bright blond, cut short, and her brown eyes are clear and sharp. She has amazing skin. She’s naturally white but she’s somehow managed to bake herself brown in the sun without picking up any wrinkles. Close to thirty, she’s on the short side but has a lush figure. She moves the way I used to, in my old body, with a smooth confidence that makes all eyes go to her. She appears to be a natural leader, and yet her dress could not be more casual, jeans and a T-shirt. She wears no bra or underwear, and I know that Seymour notices, and approves.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asks me.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say.
Mary loads her plate and sits on the floor beside me. There’s only a small couch and a single chair in the living room, and the others have taken over them. I note the absence of a TV, but am intrigued by the number of paintings on the walls. Mostly abstract art that borders on the psychedelic. Mary explains that they belong to Freddy, and given what Professor Sharp told us about the man, I’m not surprised.
“Freddy must have a vivid imagination,” I say.
“He’s always been intuitive,” Mary says. “I’m sure Professor Sharp told you that.”
“He didn’t mention it,” Seymour says. “Was your boyfriend an actual participant in Sharp’s studies?”
Mary nods after biting into a slice of garlic bread. “That’s how the two got together. The professor was randomly testing students at Berkeley when he stumbled onto Freddy. Sharp said he had the highest degree of ESP he’d ever recorded.”
Seymour smiles. “Don’t tell me. He scored better than thirty percent with Dr. Rhine’s standardized ESP deck of cards.”
Mary chuckles. “I can see the professor is still trying to keep Freddy a secret. No, Freddy scored a lot higher than that.”
“How high?” Shanti asks.
“He would guess correctly over eighty percent of the time.”
Seymour frowns. “But we just listened to an hour lecture on how weak and impractical the ESP signal is when it comes to the individual.”
“I suppose that’s true. Except when it comes to Freddy.”
“I’m surprised Sharp didn’t tell us about his abilities,” Seymour says.
“Are you?” I ask. “The whole basis of his research was his discovery of the array. If he went around talking about Freddy, people would have just wanted to go to him and get a personal reading.”
“Are the four of you students of parapsychology?” Mary asks.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “Right now we’re researching the firm that a few of Professor Sharp’s graduate students founded after they left Berkeley. Infinite Investment Corporation, IIC. Have you heard of them?”
Mary’s expression darkens. “Freddy knows all about the firm. He might even still be connected to them legally. But he’ll have nothing to do with IIC, and my advice to you is to stay away from them. They’re not nice people.”
“Because they’re rich and successful?” Seymour asks.
“Because they’re ruthless. Freddy used to date their leader, a woman named Cindy Brutran. I met her once. It was like meeting the serpent that killed Cleopatra.”
I find Mary’s choice of simile interesting.
“So Freddy never talks to any of them?” I ask.
Mary shrugs. “He talks to Cindy on the phone now and then. But that’s for personal reasons. He has nothing to do with the company.” She turns to Seymour. “Professor Sharp said you want to write a book about them.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t. They won’t let you publish it.”
“I’ve published a number of books. I doubt they could stop me.”
“I’m giving you a friendly warning. I hope you heed it. I’m not a gloom-and-doom sort of person. But I feel obligated to tell you that you’ll regret it if you don’t listen.”
“You must have a reason for your concern,” Seymour says.
“Talk to Freddy when he gets back. He’ll tell you the whole story.”
The man of the hour arrives minutes later, hot and sweaty from his run. Before showering, he greets each of us individually. Freddy appears as polite as his girlfriend, and in his own way he’s just as striking. He has lost the hippie look Sharp mentioned, but he’s kept his long maroon hair, which drapes over the hood of his sweatshirt. And it doesn’t take a vampire’s eyes to see that he looks no older than thirty, the same age as Mary. He reminds me a bit of Matt, with his handsome features and large dark eyes. But he is on the thin side, jerky in his movements. It’s like he’s seen things in his life he wishes he could forget. The man is friendly, yet he looks like he needs a friend.
He has Mary, though, wonderful Mary. She should be enough.
Freddy showers and returns dressed in black pajamas. After fetching a plate of lasagna and garlic bread, and a cold beer, he sits beside Mary and me on the floor. Mary isn’t into sports, but Freddy is a track fan and he’s excited to talk to me about the Olympics. He says he’s got a video of my gold medal race on his iPod.
“I even recorded your trial races in London,” he says.
I smile. “It’s nice to meet a true fan.”
“They train all day,” I say. “They don’t do anything else.”
“Do you think that’s their secret? I can’t say I agree.”
“You think it’s the altitude advantage.”
“Altitude can only help you so much. And don’t forget that plenty of American and European runners are living at altitude year-round and they’re still getting their butts kicked by the Kenyans and the Ethiopians, especially in the marathon. No, I think the answer is genetic. They’re better runners because their ancestors were great runners. They had to be to survive. There are more wild animals in Africa than any continent on earth.”
“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” I say.
“You can’t deny the evidence. You were the only white person to win an endurance race in track.”
“I got lucky,” I say.
Freddy’s interest in track makes for an excellent ice breaker. Too bad it’s all he wants to talk about. It grows late, and Seymour and Shanti start to yawn. I try steering the conversation toward IIC with no success. Near two o’clock in the morning, Mary bluntly informs her boyfriend that we have stopped by to discuss the IIC. Freddy doesn’t flinch. He offers to talk about his college days tomorrow.
“We would appreciate anything you can tell us,” I say.
Freddy nods as he stands, although I notice his jerkiness increases the instant Mary mentions the IIC. “That will be great,” he says. “To tell you the truth, I’m flattered to have a famous person in my house.”
“I’m far from famous,” I say.
“Get off it. I’d rather meet you than Madonna or the Dalai Lama. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you guys stay here tonight? We have an extra room at the end of the hall, and we’re almost finished remodeling our guesthouse. It’s out back beside a well that supplies us with incredible drinking water. You’ve got to taste it.”
“Which means you’ve got to stay,” Mary says.
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