Ash Wednesday (25 page)

"It's just another investigation, Clyde," Weinberg added. "Discover the source, define the needs, relay what relief is necessary to the people of the region, and that's it."

"Good enough on the needs and relief." Thornton sighed. "The source is what's got me bugged."

"That's what the rest of the team is for. Jackson and Pruett are the best we've got. You merely reinterpret their data into a social scenario."

"Terrific," Thornton said softly. And less than six hours later, barely enough time to pack and grab a little sleep, he was landing at Harrisburg International Airport, preparatory to his two-hour drive to Merridale.

When he saw the white, sleeping cooling towers of Three Mile Island, he smiled, remembering the NRC's Harold Denton a few years back, during the crisis. Denton, an unknown, faceless bureaucrat, had become an instant hero in those first few days of near-panic. Maybe if he were lucky, he could do the same. Think of it—Clyde Thornton on the cover of
Newsweek
. He grinned and pulled his seat belt snugly over his paunchy waist. Behind him, Jackson and Pruett extinguished their cigarettes and went on theorizing in guarded tones until the Lear touched down.

Walking down the dingy yellow hallway of the terminal, Thornton was worrying about finding the car rental station when, rounding a corner, he saw ahead no less than twenty newsmen and photographers. At first he looked behind him to see who was following who would be worthy of such a welcome. But there were only Jackson and Pruett, plodding along behind with their cases of instruments they had not trusted to the small luggage bay.

"Dr. Thornton?" one of the reporters called above the raucous blur of sound.

Thornton nodded, confused, and immediately several lights shot on, momentarily blinding him. A dozen voices started to ask questions at once, and on millions of TV sets viewers saw a nondescript, slightly overweight man blink tired-looking eyes as if to exercise the dark patches beneath. Before he could say a word, droplets of sweat seemed to leap out from his skin and hang on his brown bushy moustache and unfashionably long sideburns, as though they were suddenly exhausted from their futile effort to mimic youth. Then the eyes looked about fearfully and the man relaxed somewhat, discovering himself flanked by the flat-faced Jackson and Pruett. Such was the national television debut of Clyde Thornton, FDMA.

"Please," he croaked, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Please! One at a time."

"Dr. Thornton," said a middle-aged woman with a piercing voice, "Myra
Santel
,
Newsday
." Thornton squinted, then realized it was an introduction. "What do you expect to find here?"

"A rental car," he replied, surprised by the sincere chuckles that echoed off the concrete walls.

Even Myra
Santel
smiled. "Seriously though."

"Uh, just looking for some answers, that's all."

"Think you'll find them?" someone cried from the back.

"We intend to try."

"Any theories so far, Dr. Thornton?"

"A lot of theories, but nothing positive."

The questions started to come all at once, and Thornton smiled and held up a hand for silence, which fell slowly. He nodded to a well-dressed man at the side, who asked the next question, which he skillfully and calmly answered. His lucidity and imperturbability were remarkable, considering that Clyde Thornton had never before in his life been interviewed. In fact, not once had anyone paid the slightest bit of attention to Clyde Thornton, Ph.D.

But now they were, and Clyde Thornton liked it. He liked it very much indeed.

~*~

If Thornton's arrival at the Harrisburg Airport was warm and friendly, Alice Meadows's immediate reception at the Merridale train station was entirely the opposite. It wasn't as though she hadn't been warned. When she'd boarded the connecting train in Philadelphia, the conductor had said, "All those with Merridale tickets, may I have your attention please. Unless you live in Merridale or have some sort of business there, local authorities will not permit you to leave the train at that station. If that is the case, Amtrak will have to charge you the additional fee to
Pennbrook
, the following stop on the line, plus an additional three dollar on-board sale service charge." He had repeated the message, and by the time he was finished, several passengers had sourly gotten off the train. Nearly all had cameras, and one carried a portable tape recorder. When the conductor punched her ticket, he asked her if she had heard what he'd said.

She nodded. "I have friends there."

The trip from Philly took two and a half hours. She tried to read a Dick Francis mystery, but found she could not keep her attention on the book's surprising twists, so she put it in her handbag and watched the scenery change from warehouses and factories to smooth flat farmland, all tinted a dusty yellow by the car's less than immaculate windows. She drank several cups of coffee, but even so the motion of the train rocked her to sleep.

When the conductor called, "Merridale," she awoke with her heart in her throat, as if the sudden awakening had also made her aware of why she had come back, what she was looking for. She scuttled for her coat, her purse, her bags, but stopped when the conductor went on. "Just stay in your seats, please. Local officers will talk to Merridale passengers before permitting you to get off the train."

Bob Rankin had been two years behind her in high school, but she recognized him anyway. His police badge gleamed as if he had shined it for this particular occasion, and she thought involuntarily what a handsome man that skinny kid who had had a crush on her had become. Rankin talked to two other passengers before getting to Alice. One he let off after a brief conversation, but the other, a young man, he would not permit to leave the car. Their words grew louder until she could hear from where she sat. ". . all this way for nothing?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but unless you have some sort of written evidence, I can't let you off."

"Look, I got
relatives
here."

"Names?"

"Uh . . . Smith. Name's Smith."

A thick sheaf of papers materialized in the air in front of Rankin. "First name?"

While the man tried to guess what conceivable first name the Smiths of Merridale might bear, Alice's attention was distracted by the low hum of voices that had slowly filled the car.

“. . . see them?"

"I think so . . ."

"Yes, yes, yes,
look
—"

"Oh, my God . . ."

She noticed what her concentration on Bob Rankin had not let her see before: nearly all the other passengers' faces were pressed to the windows, staring out at the town slightly below. Their eyes were wide, their expressions slack-jawed, awed murmurs coming from every mouth. She looked herself then, and saw, far away and very faint in the bright sunlight, patches of pale blue like transparent, oblong bubbles. Fascinated, she stared at the unmoving things, realizing for the first time that it was true. She had not come for nothing after all.

Then, in the brush a few yards from the track, she noticed a much closer human shape. It was prone, and the upper part of its torso was covered by weeds, but the part from the sternum down was visible. The abdomen was split in two like a ripe fruit, and milky loops of intestine were floating in the pool of blood the chalice of the body cavity had formed.
Blue blood
, Alice thought with a chill, and looked away, swallowing heavily and hoping there would not be many that looked like that.

Farther up in the coach, the false Smith had finally surrendered to the inevitable and sat back defeated, while Bob Rankin moved down the aisle toward Alice. She held up her hand and smiled. "Bob?"

He didn't recognize her, and could not hide his surprise that she knew his name. "I'm sorry, miss . . ."

"Alice Meadows," she said. "Been a long time."

His eyes lit up. "
Alice!
" he said. "I'll be darned. Good to see you."

"Thanks, Bob." She cocked her head coquettishly. "You going to let me off?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Uh . . . where you staying?"

"I wasn't sure. Merridale Inn maybe."

"Uh-unh." He shook his head. "Filled up. Reporters, scientists—you name it."

"So soon?"

"Look, why don't you go wait for me on the platform. We'll figure something out." She did as he asked, and in a short time he reappeared, preceded by an older man, who started to cry as he walked down the station steps, and a heavyset younger woman, whose speed belied her weight. "Miriam
Eberhart
," Rankin told Alice when the woman had disappeared. "Came back to be with her mother. Her mother's alive," he added uncomfortably. "I don't remember the old fella, but he has some proof he lived here years back. On Cherry Street. Came back to see if his wife was still here."

"Is she alive?"

"I don't know. Suppose not." He looked at her. "And what about you, Alice? What are you back for?"

"Would you believe . . . to study reactions of people? For roles?" He frowned. "I didn't think so."

"Tim?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not sure," she said, but the way her face went pale told Rankin the truth.

"Well, at any rate we have to find you a place to stay. Both motels are booked solid, but I was thinking what about with Kay and me?"

"Oh, Bob, I couldn't—"

"Sure you could. We've got an extra room with its own bath, and Kay would love to see you again."

"No, she must think I'm awful. I haven't written for a couple of years, and—"

"It'll be all right, really."

Alice thought for a moment. She and Kay Weaver had been best friends in high school, even though Kay had been a year younger. They had met when both acted in
Oklahoma!
in Alice's junior year, Alice as
Laurey
and Kay as Ado Annie. When Alice had moved to New York, they'd remained in touch, and Kay had stayed at Alice's apartment several times, though Bob, whom Kay married a few years after graduation, never came along. "He's still got a crush on you, Alice," Kay would say, laughing, "but he
hates
cities." Kay always cheered up Alice on her visits, and for Kay it was like being recharged: an annual jolt of New York City rhythm to enable her to get through another year of Merridale. But five or six years back Kay had missed one of her yearly trips, then another, and another. And finally the letters and phone calls slowed and died. Even so, Alice had thought of Kay often, and it was not until today that she knew how much she had missed her.

"Okay," she told Bob. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble. "

"No trouble at all," he said, beckoning to the police car and picking up her two pieces of luggage. "I hope you don't mind if we don't go to the house right away. Frank
Kaylor
wants me to check a few of the roadblocks first." He put the suitcases in the backseat and joined her in the front.

"Roadblocks?"

"Yeah." Rankin spoke loudly enough to be heard over the engine. "Got eight roadblocks up all around the town.”

“People are trying to get in?"

"Sure. Just like that guy on the train. Curiosity seekers, freelance writers, photographers. It's amazing. It's barely been a
day
, Alice, and already the ghouls are descending. I figure by tomorrow
someone'll
be selling T-shirts and souvenir beer mugs." They drove in silence for a while. Rankin checked the roadblocks and found that the volunteers manning them were doing a satisfactory job. "Glad this happened on a weekend," Rankin said as he finally turned the car toward his house. "Lots of people to help." He told Alice then about the schools and stores and factories closing the day before, the way people had gathered in the square, about Marty Sanders (Alice didn't remember him), and by that time they were home. It was a neat little bungalow on Poplar Street, and Bob honked the horn lightly. Alice shivered as she looked at the pale shapes scattered here and there like transparent leaf bags on some nearby lawns. "There aren't any inside our house," Bob said, sensing her discomfort. "Kay's getting braver," he added. "Got some shades up."