by Robert Maxxe
But in the end, she had to keep going. There was Nick to think about, too.
Bad as she felt, Carrie had to smile when she walked up to her store and saw Patrick in a front window, working on a special Thanksgiving display. He had used his Sunday at home to make six small papier-mâché turkeys, and he was placing them now across a band of dirt that ran the width of the window edged by a fence made of matchsticks. Each model bird had a miniature numbered blanket across its back, and was harnessed with thread to a trotting rig made of wire with a toy figure seated in it wearing jockey silks. The little birds appeared to be racing headlong toward a wire at one end of the track above which hung a pennant bearing a sign: THE TURKEY TROT.
Carrie paused in front of the window, and Patrick made an inquiring face. When she applauded, he broke into a preening smile. She went inside and headed for the office, eager to get to a phone. The new display was a poignant reminder of her hope to spend Thanksgiving with Lon and his children. If there was to be a reconciliation, though, the stalemate had to be broken. She must either prove to herself that she was right—or else prove, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that her every suspicion was absurd. The starting point in both cases was to find the people behind the arcade. She still had an idea of how it might be done.
She turned into the office, switched on the overhead light, and then stopped in her tracks.
Placed squarely atop the center of her desk was her shoulder bag.
She snatched it up and made a quick check of the contents. Wallet with cash and credit cards, checkbook, keys, a solid gold compact from Tiffany's that Mike had given her. Not a thing out of place.
She strode out front again, up to the window, bag in hand. "Patrick!"
He peered out of the small door in the window backing.
"You didn't tell me someone brought this in," she said, unable to suppress an edge of accusation.
He blinked at the bag she thrust forward. "I didn't see anyone come in. . . ."
"Damn it, you must have." She explained what had happened to the purse over the weekend.
"I'm sorry," Patrick said. "I guess I was too busy doing the display. When people want me in the store, well, I expect them to knock on the window." He nodded at the bag. "Was something taken?"
"No," Carrie said. "That's not the point."
Though how could she explain what was. Desperate for even the smallest clue to the human presence that must have transported the thing here, Carrie went on hammering at Patrick, venting her frustration in the form of anger. Didn't he pay any attention to the store while he was playing with his damn displays?
Then she saw his expression beginning to crumple.
"Never mind," she said quickly. "It's stupid of me to make such a fuss. Go back to what you were doing." She hurried away to the refuge of her office. Slamming the bag down on her desk, she dropped into a chair and tried to compose herself.
What the hell was she getting so worked up about? Her property had been returned. Hooray. Whoever brought it had seen Patrick was busy, and hadn't cared to spend the time making explanations and collecting thank-yous. So the purse had been left. . . .
Without a note.
Without a calling card.
Just the bag.
She couldn't help feeling it was a warning.
We know you were snooping, and we know just where to find you. Take this back, no questions asked. This time. One more chance.
Carrie sat forward, spilled out the contents of the bag, and examined everything again. Slowly. Were all the keys arranged on the ring exactly as before—or had they been taken off and duplicated? The order was the same, though that proved nothing. Then she emptied the wallet, pulled every card and paper from the plastic sleeves. She sorted through them, taking inventory. It was all there, everything negotiable. But she went on shuffling. Looking now for . . . what? Fingerprints? She wasn't sure. Yet an intuition scratched at her mind. The touch of strangers was on her things, the proof had to be there.
And then she found it. The pictures. Two small photos, one each of Nick and Em. She'd been carrying them for years, though she had stopped showing them, stopped looking at them herself. They had become sort of a charm, kept close to ward off evil spirits. She kept the two snapshots tucked down behind her driver's license.
They were gone.
And we know who your children are.
This was the real warning.
The terror immobilized her.
For almost half an hour. Finally she knew there wasn't really a choice. If she backed down, who else would try to stop the arcade from fulfilling its purpose? Then Nick would be at risk, anyway.
And the other children, too. All the spacies.
20
"I'm sorry, we show nothing under any of those listings."
Carrie said a glum "Thanks" to the Information operator for southern Connecticut and cradled the phone. End of that trail. She'd thought it was a breakthrough when she remembered the architect's drawing seen at Pooh's cottage—the client's name in the title block. But now she had checked directory listings for "Pace's" in both Nassau and Suffolk counties of Long Island, in all five boroughs of New York City, and the metropolitan fringes extending into New Jersey and Connecticut. She had been given phone numbers for three coffee shops, two dry cleaners, a floor refinisher, an athletic shoe store, and a messenger service. There were, too, Pace University, Pace Gallery, Pace Investment Counselors, and several other enterprises. Carrie had called a few, ascertaining that they were all bona fide businesses with no link to computers or electronics, and no employee named Thomas Peale.
Nothing was listed, however, under Pace's Arcade or Pace's Games or the Pace Electronics Company or Pace Computers or any other permutation Carrie could relate to her quest.
That left one other slim lead. Carrie had hoped to avoid using this one, but now there was no choice—short of hiding in a bush outside the arcade and watching it day in, day out, hoping to spot someone suspicious arriving or leaving. It almost seemed preferable. But at last she flipped through her Rolodex, and found the number. Dialing was like dragging her finger through molten lead.
"Hello-o," chirped the answering voice.
"Peg . . . this is Carrie Foster."
"Carrie! How nice of you to call. . . ." Peg Wessel almost sang it—a song of victory. She had realized instantly that Carrie would only call if she was in dire need of a favor.
Carrie tried a diplomatic preamble. The meeting Peg organized at the high school had been wonderfully informative. She'd hated leaving early, but her baby-sitter that night was on short time. Then she came to the point. The empty chair that had been on the stage—someone said it had been provided for an invited representative of the arcade who had failed to appear. Would Peg be good enough to tell Carrie how to reach this person herself?
Peg's first response was snippy. "You know, Carrie, when I went after that information I had a none-too-easy time getting it. And for all my trouble, most people in town hardly gave me so much as a by-your-leave. . . ."
It was bound to be this way, Carrie had foreseen it. Peg would squeeze the last drop of blood from the situation.
"Though I don't mind admitting," Peg went on, "the place doesn't seem to have caused too much trouble. If it did nothing else, my protest made these people toe the line. You notice they close now during school hours. . . ."
Carrie told Peg she deserved a lot of credit, and steered her back to the question of the arcade's owners.
Then Peg became evasive. Putting her hands on the address might be difficult, she didn't know where she'd stuck it away, had probably disposed of it after the meeting.
There was an odd tone to the stalling, Carrie thought. Did Peg know it might be dangerous to pass along the information? Or was she just getting some of her own back by making Carrie squirm?
"Peg, I really need an answer on this," Carrie said at last. "If you just tell me whatever you know, I'll do some free catering for you."
"You mean t
hat? Whatever I know . . .?" Peg sounded hooked.
"Of course I mean it."
Peg agreed that it might be nice to have a special spread at one of her monthly bridge parties. Would hors d'oeuvres, salad, and pastries for twelve be too much?
It wouldn't, Carrie said. The bribe for this little tidbit of information would, she calculated, add up to over a hundred dollars out of her pocket. Little enough to pay for an exorcism.
Finally, the terms of the deal set, Peg Wessel gave her answer.
"Well, the truth is, Carrie—and I'm telling you whatever I know —that empty chair wasn't really there for anybody. I went to the arcade time and again looking for a manager, someone in charge, but I never could find a soul. Wendy says she always tries to have one of the owners to debate: they're such low-lifes that, if they come, it helps get her point across. But when I couldn't find anyone, Wendy had the idea to put the chair up there anyway. Make them look like the cowards they are. A little showmanship, you see, Carrie." Peg gave a small laugh. "Sorry, if that wasn't the answer you expected, but I told you whatever I know, so I'll rely on you to keep your word."
Carrie was too disheartened to complain about being gulled. "Just let me know the day before your next bridge party," she said and hung up.
What now? If nothing else, this blunder could count for something as a lesson. Being spurred along by her private demons had so far cost only money and time. Manageable expenses. But if she kept going, the costs might get worse, much worse. Carrie didn't feel far from the brink where both love and peace of mind might be irrevocably lost.
Still, when it came to Nick, she couldn't suppress a natural instinct to protect.
That night after dinner she tried to stop him from going out. He resisted, of course, pushed her to explain.
"I don't see enough of you these days. We should have a family evening occasionally."
None of it washed. At last she was forced to admit it was the arcade: she felt there was something wrong about it.
Nick refused to listen then, and the argument deteriorated. Soon they were butting heads, ranting at each other, hate emanating from both of them, as thick as the stench from battling animals. In the midst of it Carrie wondered how much was the inevitable clash of wills that came with adolescence, Nick's first cry for release, her own inability to let go. Could that be what really lay behind perceiving the arcade as her nemesis?
She was shocked to hear herself threatening to lock Nick in his room.
"That's child abuse," he charged. "There are laws against that."
It might have been funny if it weren't so desperately sad. She was reduced finally to begging.
"Please, Nick. Don't go there tonight."
"And what about tomorrow, the day after? Do I have to give it up forever because of your crazy bullshit?"
There was no answer. Authority was forfeited when exercised without coherent reasons. So what next? Put him in leg irons like those deranged people you'd read about when you scanned a National Enquirer while waiting on a long check-out line at the A&P? PARENTS KEPT CHILDREN CHAINED IN ATTIC NINE YEARS.
She gave up in defeat. Went into the den, lit a fire, and stared into the flames, regressed into melodramatic visions of herself actually staring into the fires of hell.
Nick went to his room, did his schoolwork, and came down again. With saving grace he shouted, "I'll be home at nine," and left.
Not long after Emily padded into the den, face washed, already in her nightie, and asked if they could play a game together. Carrie melted. After looking through a selection on a shelf, they settled on Boggle, a word game.
Carrie's mind was anywhere but on the game, which called for shaking up a box of cubes with letters on each side and, after the cubes settled in a grid, picking words out of the pattern. Lon. Spacescape. Dana. Pace's. She couldn't find the pattern in her life, let alone in a tiny box of letters. Zal. Torp. Oriz. A make-believe language crowded the other words out of her head.
With delight, Emily won in a runaway.
Carrie took her up to bed, begged off reading a story, and returned to the den to tidy up. The Boggle box was on the coffee table. She took an idle glance over the letters left from the last turn, discerned a couple of words she'd missed before, and put the box back on the game shelf.
At that moment, one word surfaced in her thoughts.
Pace's.
A vestigial reflex from playing with Emily: in some corner of Carrie's brain the letters were still being juggled.
Turn it around, and what did you get?
Space.
Which was also the background for the arcade's game. Pace's Spacescape. Rearrange that a little and you got it in triplicate.
Space Space Space.
Almost like a voice calling out.
Was there a meaning? Space was more than the medium for the game's fantasy. Space was at the heart of its hold over the children.
But was there a clue to its secret purpose?
Carrie sat down and concentrated. Maybe if she analyzed what the game had accomplished up to now, she could extrapolate a direction, a plan.
The children had been organized, regimented into groups.
Had been given a means of communicating privately.
Exposed repeatedly to certain patterns and demands on their reflexes. Conditioned. Trained . . .?
It occurred to Carrie that there were machines used by the military, in training, that simulated battle conditions. Suppose Spacescape was a device that prepared the children to fight future space battles. Perhaps it was part of a secret government plan aimed at a day when a contingent might have to be sent forth to wage such battles. Already there were frequent mentions in the news that space was the latest focus for the arms race between the superpowers. Why not "program" the children now, make them ready to sign up? How far in the future lay the time when they would be needed?
Or could it be that not our government, but a foreign power had conceived Spacescape as a way of covertly undermining the children's future usefulness—
She was on her feet now, pacing the den as she brainstormed. She glanced at the phone a couple of times and thought of calling Lon. She needed a sounding board.
But she had only to imagine saying any of this aloud and she knew he'd have no patience for it. It would all sound like the ravings of a lunatic.
A sound behind her, a footstep on the threshold of the room, made her jump. She whirled around, arms up as though to defend herself.
Nick stood there. Immersed in her speculations she hadn't heard the front door.
He studied her frightened posture. "You all right, Mom?"
She lowered her hands, breathed deeply. "Yes."
"So am I," he said. He walked over, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and went upstairs.
She sat down again, and put her head in her hands.
Crazy?
Maybe.
21
For the next two days she and Lon didn't talk. She felt it was her place to make the overture, and kept wanting to call; but she knew the explosive subject of the arcade would have to surface. Nothing could be done until the stalemate was broken—her point proved, or forever buried.
By way of apologizing for his rude rebellion the other night, Nick seemed anxious not to aggravate Carrie further. For two nights he didn't go to the arcade. She heard him up in his room, strumming his old acoustic guitar, singing his own songs as in the old days.
That only underlined the nagging thought that her feelings about Spacescape were her private problem, blown up out of nothing.
If she asked herself why the game should obsess her, the only answer she could give herself was that it could be an excuse to avoid a serious relationship with Lon. Holding him responsible for the game, and Nick's friendship with Dana, might be her subconscious maneuvering to drive a wedge between them. The real fear, perhaps, was of loving deeply—and then being abandoned, as had happened with Mike.
Wednesday night she called her friend in t
he city, Pam Underwood. Pam's husband was a prominent psychiatrist, and over the years his dinner-table conversation had educated her somewhat in the vagaries of human behavior. They spoke for more than an hour, during which Carrie told Pam in detail about the new man in her life, and the problem that was keeping them apart.
Pam's opinion was along the lines Carrie had already considered herself.
"An identity crisis is what Norman would call it," Pam said. "Over the past three years, sweetie, you've carved out a niche for yourself as an independent woman. Tie up with this man, and you think maybe you'll have to go back to living in a man's shadow, give up your hard-won independence. It's not incidental to your fears, maybe, that Lon's bad marriage was to a woman who wanted her own career. So you could be looking for a way to stay safe. The man in question makes computers—they're a big proud part of his identity. So: you want to kill the relationship, give yourself a reason not to fall in love? You found it all in the arcade."
Carrie sighed. It sounded reasonable, possible. And yet. "I know all about Freud and the tricks the mind can play. But it still seems odd. I mean, okay, deep down I'm afraid of committing to a new man, I'll buy that. But why the hell turn that into being afraid of a machine?"
" 'Committing' yourself is a nice dainty way to put it," Pam replied. "In plain talk, love, with Lon around you're going to be back in the sack a lot, screwing your brains out—and, based on what you told me, maybe even enjoying it more than you did with Mike. That stirs up guilt, which in turn creates a desire for punishment. Now, if you think your libido doesn't have its own fabulous logic for connecting those feelings to a computer game, then just think about this: What's the name for the jigger on the front of those games that controls all the moves?"
"A joystick," Carrie answered.
"I rest my case," Pam said.
On Thursday she realized that Thanksgiving was coming up in a week, and it would be a perfect situation for bringing the two whole families together the first time, starting off the possible alliance of houses on a festive note. She resolved to call Lon at home late that evening, when the kids were all in bed and the right intimate tone could flourish. She didn't see any reason the whole arcade issue couldn't be smoothed over. As for Nick and Dana, bringing the families closer would provide a natural opportunity for gentle guidance.