Hell's Gate

by Dean R. Koontz

  Suddenly, he knew he was going to be sick. He crawled back to the mouth of the cave and hung his head over the lip. When he was done, he dragged himself back to the luggage and tried to find the answers to some questions which had just begun to plague him.

  Instead, he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  Two weeks later, he rose out of deepest blackness through blending shades of purple and blue. As he ascended like a diver from the ocean bottom, he kept searching for something that had been lost, though the loss was indefinable, illusive. As the blue became nearly white, he remembered that there should be a Fourth of July rocket sparking in his leg, sending pinwheel bursts of color shooting upwards into his head. Someone had stolen the rocket, or perhaps it had burned out. He was trying to think what should be done about it when the soft whiteness in his skull turned into little, busy fingers that pried open his eyelids.

  He looked up at a jumble of rocks and earth and was seized with panic that he had been prematurely interred. He came quickly to his feet, bashed his head solidly against the low ceiling, and sat down again A cave Then it all came back: the Victorian house, breaking in, killing It was two weeks later, and he was ready for the next step of the plan. Very good.

  He examined his leg. There was a faint blue-brown discoloration where a gaping, pulsing hole should have been. Nothing more. He flexed his thigh muscles, expecting an eruption of agony. There was none. Everything checked out perfectly. Except

  Except that he had killed a man he did not even know. Except that he did not know who he was. Or where he was from. Or what he might do next. For a moment, he felt depressed, confused. But that same measured, computer-like efficiency that had guided him that night two weeks earlier seemed to rise and beat back anything resembling human emotions. He began to lose the depression, confusion, fear.

  Then he remembered the three trunks. He turned, looked behind where they rested against the real wall of the cave. They were made of burnished blue-gray metal, not unlike aluminum in appearance. The lids were fitted with hinges of the same metal. There were no locks, no places for keyholes.

  He crawled back to them and looked them over. There were no initials on them, no shipping tags. He tried the lids without success. For a moment he sat there, feeling the incomprehension creeping back, the doors of doubt opening in his mind. But that strange, iron part of him clamped down on those sensations and returned him to cool reason. He went to the rucksack, opened it, and looked for clues there. He found the coin that had disintegrated the glass, the medkit, and three separately wrapped packages: brown paper held shut with rubber bands. He laid the coin and medkit aside and opened the first of these parcels. Inside was a bundle of crackling, green fifty dollar bills.

  Suddenly, the iron part of him unwrapped all three packages and began counting. Two of the packages contained fifties, the other contained hundreds. Thirty thousand dollars in all. For a time, he sat, contemplating the money, smiling. But because there was nothing for the programmed part of him to do, the doubts and emotions began surfacing again. Had he been paid thirty thousand to kill the stranger? Was he a hired gun, an assassin? No, he could not very well be a professional killer, for he did not have the stomach for it. He could remember having been ill two weeks ago after killing the stranger. He had vomited just before going to sleep.

  Sleep

  Had he really slept two weeks? He remembered something, scrambled back to the mouth of the cave. The willow trees had bright, green tender leaves. When he had gone to sleep, they were merely studded with buds.

  But in two weeks he should have starved, or died of thirst! And what about the leg? Did the average man heal that swiftly, without complications? Of course not. The more he allowed his mind to ramble through this disorder, the more frightening the mysteries became. And the more plentiful. He realized now that he was being used, that the programmed part of him was operating on some sort of quasi-hypnotic orders. But who was using him? And why? And who was he?

  “Victor Salsbury,” a crisp, even voice said from somewhere close by in the cave. “It is time for your first briefing.”

  Then, in an instant, there was no question of overcoming the iron program. It slapped down on him, squeezed the aware part of his mind back into the far reaches of his brain. He turned, positioned himself before the middle of the three trunks where, he somehow knew, an 810-40.04 computer was housed.

  “Victor Salsbury,” the computer said. “Remember.”

  And he did. He was Victor Salsbury. Twenty-eight years old. Both parents dead, killed in car crash when he was in sixth grade. Hometown: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He was an artist-commercial trying to make it as creative. He was moving to Oak Grove to find a place to rent and make a studio. Thousands of major and minor memories poured into his consciousness. Memories of childhood, of life in the orphanage, of his art schooling, his association with a Harrisburg agency. Now, he had an identity. Somehow, the aware part of him felt, it was not genuine. As if he had been told his past, rather than having experienced it himself.

  “Do not fight the programming,” the computer said to the tiny part of his mind that held emotions.

  But I have killed a man!

  “He would have died a month later anyway,” the computer explained in its authoritative tones. “And his death would have been much more horrible than anything you could possibly have done to him two weeks ago.”

  How do you know that?

  But the 810-40.04 ignored the second question. On the top of the trunk, two squares of the burnished metal began to glow softly, a sweet yellow. Without understanding how he knew to do this, Victor Salsbury reached out and placed one palm flat one each of the glowing spots. Instantly, the next step of the operation was flashed into his brain and printed there for eternity. When the squares ceased to shine, he rose, went to the farthest trunk just as it popped open at a command from the computer. He took out a suit of conventional clothes, dressed, and left the cave. He had orders to follow.

  CHAPTER 3

  He spent most of that morning up the street from the Oak Grove Greyhound Station-a ponderous aluminum and glass and concrete structure whose architecture suggested modern gothic-waiting for the bus from Harris-burg so that, when he walked into Wilmar Realty to proceed with the plan, he could say it was by this means he had arrived. He was kept company by a drunk, a small boy with fire red hair, and three persistent pigeons who were absolutely positive he must be concealing some delightful morsel in his suit pockets. He ignored them all, answered the boy or the drunk with clipped, terse replies when silence could no longer be excused. They soon grew wary of him, his isolation, his even, hard eyes. Even the pigeons seemed to start avoiding him.

  When the bus arrived, dispersed its passengers, and circled the block, heading back for Harrisburg, he got up, moving like a cat, and walked down the street toward the Wilmar Realty Agency.

  He stepped through the plate glass door which shut behind, and relished the cool breath of air-conditioning. Outside, the heat had been nearly intolerable. The place was one huge room almost large enough to hold go-cart races in. It had been partitioned along the rear into five office cubicles, each without a ceiling or door so that one got the ludicrous impression of looking into the toilet stalls in a low class men's gymnasium. The greatest part of the room was an unpartitioned lounge with ashtrays and display boards of Wilmar properties. A receptionist was set before the five cubicles, servicing each. The moment he stepped in, she smiled a plastic smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I'd like to inquire about a house,” he said.

  “Renting or buying?”

  “It depends on what I like.” But that was a lie, of course. He knew exactly which house. He had, after all, killed to obtain it.

  “Why don't you look around?” she said. “Someone will be with you in a moment.” Glittering plastic teeth shone so brightly that they almost made him squint.

  He scanned several display boards, found the Jacobi house on the third. He had never seen it from the front (al
l actions on that night two weeks ago had been initiated from the rear), but he knew it immediately. His mind kept wanting to return to Harold Jacobi, the man he had killed. He had learned the name from the hypnotic briefing with the computer. But the iron programmed part of him forced down any such foolishness.

  “Is that something like what you had in mind?” a gentle voice next to his right shoulder asked.

  He turned, smiled automatically, and said, “Yes.”

  The trapped portion of his mind, the humane part that kept trying to assert itself, reacted much more violently. That part had been expecting a jolly, hard-sell jackass in loud clothes and squeaking shoes and was presented instead with this stunning, lithe, five-foot-five-inch blonde with a dark tan and a long fall of coarse, bright hair. She made the lovely receptionist look like the boy on the corner. Her face was the sort of creamy perfection that made Hollywood starlets scream and break mirrors in frustration. She had stolen her eyes from a large cat. The figure under the face came from somewhere in mythology, though it was not quite obvious whether it was Diana, Venus, or Helen.

  She smiled, though it was a slightly unsure smile. Plainly, she expected a greater reaction from men than the iron Victor Salsbury was giving her. “Were you renting or buying?” she asked, flashing even, white teeth.

  “That depends on the property, Miss-”

  “Oh, sorry. Lynda Harvey. Just Lynda, please.” But even as she said it, she wondered whether he would unbend enough to call her by her first name. He gave her the chills, so formal, cold, like a hollow man. She had watched the pulse in his throat when he had turned to look at her-a standard way of judging a man's reaction to her-and had seen no change. That was highly unusual!

  “Victor Salsbury,” he replied.

  Very well, if he was going to be so businesslike “The Jacobi estate calls for a sale, no renting provision.” Even the factual statements sounded mellow, full, sensuous coming from her honeyed lips. He did not seem to notice. Strange, he did not look queer.

  “What's the asking price?”

  “Forty-two thousand.”

  He did not wince at the price tag as she had expected. Instead, he nodded sharply and said: “Fine. Let's take a look at it.” He had considered taking it without being given a tour. But considering the odd circumstances around Harold Jacobi's death, he thought that might be unwise. The iron Victor was irritated with the facade he had to erect, but knew it was necessary to arouse as few suspicions as possible.

  She arranged for one of the other salesmen to take a call she was expecting, left a memo with the receptionist, grabbed a big straw purse from the desk in her cubbyhole office, and came briskly across the floor to where he waited by the front door. “Your car or mine?” she asked.

  “I came by bus.”

  “Mine's right behind the place. Come on.” She said it in the tone of a woman used to leading men around a bit. Not domineering, but efficient and brisk.

  Her machine was a copper colored Porsche with a white canvas top. Together, they put the top down. Two blocks from the Wilmar Realty Agency, he relaxed, uncramping his long legs as best he could. She was a good driver; she accelerated smoothly, cornered sharply on the edge between too slow and too fast. Her maneuvers were swift and clean, and she did not let other drivers bother her. Soon, they were off on a pleasant country lane fringed on both sides by trees so that, for a great deal of the drive, they were swathed in cooling shadows. He did not notice the scenery. He stared ahead, only anxious to get the play-acting done.

  “It's a lovely old place,” she said.

  “Yes. So the picture would indicate.”

  She looked over at him, then back to the road. He was the first man in a long time who had unsettled her. There was something creepy about him, yet something attractive she could not define.

  “You haven't asked the standard question,” she said.

  “What's that?”

  “What a woman is doing as a real estate agent.”

  “I suppose a woman could do as well as a man,” iron Victor said, still staring ahead.

  She had been expecting a lead-in to conversation. With this cool, almost unconscious rebuttal, she bit her lip, cursed him silently, and drove on.

  Several minutes later, she pulled the Porsche off the lane, brought it rapidly up a long, curved drive toward the front of the Jacobi house. She stopped before the front steps that led to a glassed-in front porch.

  “Do you know the history of the house?” she asked. “To some people, it might make a difference about buying or not buying.” Despite the fact that he angered her, she could not be less than honest with him.

  The sunlight broke through the windscreen and caught her yellow hair, sparkled in it, made her green eyes grow larger. For a moment, he was unsettled. The hidden, confused part of him swam upward, shoved out the iron Victor. He said, “I heard someone was killed here. Could you tell me about it?”

  They left the car, walked into the porch, to the front door. “It wasn't a big surprise to the town,” she said as she unlocked the door and pushed it inward.

  “A murder wasn't surprising?”

  They moved into the entrance foyer, a charming nook. The soft Victor, struggling for control of the body he shared with his iron counterpart, suddenly felt a deep self-loathing as he tried to imagine the kind of man with this sort of taste, the kind of man he had murdered. The carpet was green, dark and rich like oak leaves. The walls were buff, with a dark wood closet on one side and an original Spanish oil on the other.

  “This murder wasn't surprising. Harold Jacobi lived here in Oak Grove, but made his living off some crooked little sidelines in Harrisburg.”

  “Oh?” Iron Victor was getting the upper hand again.

  “Yes, Harrisburg is big enough for small time crooks. Three hundred thousand with suburbs is big enough to breed high priced call girls, numbers, some discreet big money card games. Nothing to get the Federal Government on dear Harold's tail, but sufficient to make enemies among the competition.”

  They walked into the living room, which was every bit as tasteful as the foyer. Again, guilt unbalanced his mind enough to allow soft Victor a moment in control. “He must have been a sensitive man, though.”

  “Harold Jacobi was about as sensitive as a cow flop!”

  With his programmed self momentarily repressed, he was able to laugh. “I take it he made a pass at you.”

  “No. Not overtly. He was my uncle, you see. It's embarrassing to have such an uncle. He was always trying to do things for me. All the passes were covert. Just Dear Uncle Harold wanting to help his niece. Except that his hand was always straying to my knee. Things like that.

  Anyway, he left this house to me, so I should show some respect. If he just hadn't been such a bore of a man!”

  “But the decorations are so well done.”

  She grinned as if at a private joke. “He had the Fabulous Bureau do it.”

  “Fabulous Bureau?”

  “You should have heard of them. They're from Harrisburg. A new interior decorating firm. Two nice young boys. Very dear boys, if you know what I mean. They came out here in a mauve Cadillac and spent a month of eight-hour days, flitting about like birds. They ate most of their lunches in the restaurant where I eat That's how I came to know them, though it wasn't my feminine charm that won them. Just a mutual interest in art. Despite what you might think of their sort, you'll have to admit the Fabulous Bureau fellows did a fabulous job, eh?”

  The unprogrammed Victor could not resist telling her, as the computer had informed him, that he was an artist. She was impressed, as he had hoped. He was afraid she would ask him to draw something on the spot, the cliché request made of all artists. Somehow, he felt that if he tried to draw a person, it would look like a tree. A tree would look vaguely like a person; a house like a barn, a barn like an automobile, and automobile like God-knew-what.

  Then, as his guilt lessened over the murder of Harold Jacobi, he felt the steely, cool alter-ego surging upward. Everything shimmered. He moved, again, like a robot.
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br />   They toured the house with little conversation, though she tried to initiate some several times and seemed puzzled that, when he was so close to coming out of his shell, he had suddenly drawn back into it. The drive back to town, to arrange financing terms, was stilted and uncomfortable as far as Lynda was concerned. Iron Victor Salsbury only stared straight ahead.

  The vice-president of the major local bank was hesitant about giving a mortgage to an artist without a full-time job. He softened considerably when Salsbury produced thirty thousand in cash, proceeded to pay twenty thousand on the house, and deposited five thousand in savings and four thousand in checking. His gold-plated, silver-dollar heart thumped almost audibly at the sight of so much money, and he concluded their conference with a lecture on the dangers of carrying so much money around on one's person.

  At his request, Lynda helped him buy a car, a slightly used MGB-GT, bright yellow with a black top. The programmed Victor Salsbury did not care what sort of vehicle he had; the other part of him liked the honeybee bug. He wrote out a check for the full amount, waited while the suspicious salesman checked it with the bank, came back all smiles and closed out the deal.

  After that, Lynda returned to her agency, and he went to buy groceries. A complete, standard list of purchases was programmed into his mind, and he chose the articles like an automaton, moving mechanically up and down the aisles. It was a quarter until six in the evening when he reached the Jacobi house, now the Salsbury residence. He put the groceries away, made a supper of eggs, ham and toast. He opened a cold beer automatically, as if this was the thing to do, part of the front he had to put up. The average man would sit down on his porch with a beer of a spring evening. To preserve the illusion of naturalness, so did he. The view from the stoop was a breath-taking panorama of green Pennsylvanian hills. Deep inside his mind, the soft Victor appreciated that scene and said, softly to himself, “Well, let's see what happens next.”