F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (41 page)

 
          
And
suddenly you're a little girl again.

 
          
"Daddy
—
"

 
          
The
counterman grins. "What'll it be? The special?" What's the matter?
Julie thinks. Doesn't he hear me? He's acting as though the words are lost,
taken by the wind.

           
"Daddy, it's Julie. I'm
—
I'm your
—
"

 
          
But
the counterman turns away. "Okay, then, that's it
—
you want the special, with the works. You're gonna like
it." A quick glance over his shoulder. "No, you're gonna
love
it."

 
          
This
talk
—
it's so confusing, the way
he sounds like he's from
Brooklyn
. That's not your father.

 
          
"Daddy,
it's me. Don't you see who it is? Please, I'm
—
"

 
          
But
he's fixing "the special," scooping something off the grill, then
slowly turning back to Julie.

 
          
"Here
ya go!"

 
          
He
hands her something. Julie reaches out and takes it.

 
          
"Daddy..."

 
          
Something
in a bun. Something heavier than a hot dog. She looks down.

 
          
In
the bun is a hand
—
grilled, scorched, its
fingers twitching.

 
          
And
now
she
screams
—

 
          
The
sound of your scream has to fill the manor, but you don't give a damn.

 
          
Another
severed hand
—
what the hell does it mean?

 
          
You
see your father looking at you, grinning.

 
          
"Want
some mustard on that? Goes real well with mustard."

 
          
Your
stomach tightens with nausea as you drop the obscene thing on the counter and
back away. The hand topples from the bun and lies on the counter. You wouldn't
be surprised if it scurried away on its own.

 
          
You
father shoves it back into the bun and says, "Not
hungry?"

 
          
He
raises it to his lips and takes a big bite, then closes his eyes in gustatory
ecstasy.

 
          
"Mmmmm!
Delicious!"

 
          
You
keep backing away until the boardwalk railing bumps against the small of your
back. You hear splashing in the surf behind you.

 
          
Something
else touches your back, something wet.

 
          
You
jump and turn but suddenly your body is encircled, your  pinned to your
sides. Whatever's got you is cold and slimy and very strong. You don't have to
look to know what it is but you turn your head anyway.

 
          
The
kraken again, looming out of the black water, its many tentacles ranging back
and forth across the sand. You see one giant, glowing eye studying you with
cold detachment.

 
          
It
let you go the last time, but still...

 
          
The
Exit button
—
you try to point to it but
your real-world arms are as trapped as their virtual counterparts.

 
          
You
thrash about, your heart racing, your pulse pounding in your brain as terror
grips you as tightly as the tentacle. There's nothing virtual or simulated
about your fear. It's as real as anything you've ever experienced.

 
          
You
feel the slimy suckers squirm against your skin as they open their mouthlike
appendages to free the small hooks. A hundred needles pierce your skin, slowly,
digging in. You yelp in pain but there's no one to hear. You're all alone with
this thing.

 
          
"Sam...
God, Sam
—
!"

 
          
And
then you're moving, being dragged along the sand. You try to dig your heels in
but the sand doesn't hold. You hear loud splashing behind you and know the
black water is closer. You twist your head around and see the kraken sliding,
jellylike, off the shore and into the deeps.

 
          
"Sam!"
you scream. "I know you must have hated me at times, but I'm here to help!
Don't do this, Sam! Please!"

 
          
You
feel that icy, oily water swallowing your lower half, then your chest, and
—
all too fast
—
your head.

 
          
You
close your eyes against the slimy feel of the water against your face. You seal
your lips, but still you can taste the thick foulness.

 
          
And
you can't
breathe!

 
          
Down,
down, down, the pressure building.

 
          
You're
going to drown! A part of your brain knows there's air all around you in Sam's
room but you can't get any! Panic surges through you. Your heart hammers in
your chest as the water pressure hammers against your ears. You'd scream for
help but if you open your mouth that filthy water will fill it.

 
          
You
open your eyes and see the glowing chains of phosphorescence running along the
kraken's flank, swirling in intricate designs as it carries you ever deeper.
Almost beautiful.

           
You look back toward the surface
—
all dark
—
then below. A Sight below,
bright, growing larger, burning like a quasar. The kraken drags you to it,
pushes you toward it, thrusts you into the heat, the intolerable brightness.

 
          
And
suddenly the water is gone. You gasp, cough, suck air. You can breathe again.

 
          
As
the black water clears from your eyes, your surroundings swim into focus. No
kraken. No black sea.

 
          
You're
airborne.

 
          
You've
been thrust into a new, deeper level, but one even more devastated than the
previous two.

 
          
Below
you stretch the remains of an endless forest that once must have been verdant
and beautiful. But now the trees
—
all
the trees
—
have been flattened. Stripped of every trace of green, they
lie in concentric rings, all their denuded crowns facing away from the center
of those rings.

 
          
You
thought you'd be used to devastation by now, but this is truly appalling.
You're reminded of photos you've seen of the mysterious
Tunguska
explosion in the early part
of the century, or the hillsides around
Mount St. Helens
after it blew.

 
          
And
in the center of these countless rings of millions of lead, uprooted trees sits
a mountain. Or rather, half a mountain. Its top is gone, obliterated by an
explosion of unimaginable force. A thin plume of smoke trails upward from the
flattened, cratered top, and a small, ominous rivulet of golden lava, not much
different from the color of the boardwalk you rrod only moments ago, trickles
down its craggy flank. And matching over it all, a dim full moon.

 
          
This
is it, you realize. The last level The source of all the damage sits before
you. You see a rocky path leading up to the crater top.

 
          
That's
where you'll find the answers.

 
          
Sam
brought you here, she brought you down to this last level, to the smoking
remnants of a mountain that must be climbed. You know that. And you're ready.

 
          
You're
beginning your glide toward the mountain when you feel a tug on your shoulder.
You gasp and spin around. No one there. Another tug, and a voice, muffled by
your headphones.

 
          
Someone
in the real world wants you.

 
          
Frustrated
and annoyed, you click EXIT.

 
          
Oliver
Goldsmith: "O
Memory! thou fond deceiver."

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

1

 
          
Julie
lifted the goggles and looked around. Eathan's face hovered above her, his
expression grim. He looked as though he'd been sleeping. His eyes were
bloodshot, his normally handsome face drawn and haggard.

 
          
How
long had he been there? Had he seen himself in
that
memory? Had he seen
his brother's wife?

 
          
"Sorry.
But I wanted to let you know that they almost captured O'Donnell."

 
          
"Liam?"
she said, then caught herself. "Liam O'Donnell?"

 
          
"The
one and only. They spotted him on Fylingdales Moor but he escaped."

 
          
"Then
he's still nearby." He'd lied to her about leaving.

 
          
"Yes.
I'm going down to the police station in Bay to post
a
reward for the
bastard's capture. If I could just get my hands on him for two minutes . .
."

 
          
Julie
laid a hand on his arm. "I know you cared for her."

           
He nodded. "I didn't have many
people in my life besides you and Samantha. But after the two of you left,
I..." He looked away. "
Alma
was special."

 
          
"I'm
sorry."

 
          
He
straightened. "Want to come into Bay with me?"

 
          
"No.
No
—
I don't think so."

 
          
"We're
going to get him," Eathan said, heading for the door. "I want to look
this man in the eye and ask him what he did to Alma
—
and Samantha."

 
          
I've
already done that, she thought. But she only nodded as he left the room.

 
          
Julie
leaned back and stared at Sam's still form. Liam was still free and nearby. On
the surface it meant one more danger to Sam.

 
          
But
the real danger to Sam was inside, devouring her from within.

2

 
          
After
making way for Sam's physical therapists to do their daily work, Julie
retreated to her room and lay on the bed, pondering her next step with Sam.

 
          
The
more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that something lay
buried
—
maybe hopelessly so
—
in Sam's memoryscape. Sam's unconscious seemed to be reaching
out, pulling her deeper and deeper.

 
          
Maybe
the answer was inside the volcano.

 
          
The
memory had to be so deeply buried that Julie would never find it by chance.
She'd have to know exactly where to look.

 
          
What
could it be? What memory could be so awful that Sam would bury it so deeply? Would
it show her what Liam did to her
—
if anything? Or was it
something else completely?

 
          
And
again Julie thought of the mention in the newspaper article about the fire
starting in the basement.

 
          
Had
she been playing with matches that night?

 
          
Or
had Sam tried to imitate her
sister's experiments, setting
the blaze? Was that what she'd repressed?

           
Shaken, Julie bolted upright and
crossed the room to the door. She stepped into the hall, looking up and down
its length, wondering where to go. She wanted to run. She almost wished she
were a jogger. She could go out and find a path across Fylingdales and run
across the moor until she forgot these gut-twisting thoughts. But she knew her
lungs would give out long before her endorphins kicked in.

 
          
She
thought of the box in Sam's closet. As much as she wanted to see its contents,
she knew she'd need a screwdriver or the like to pry it open. She felt the key
in her pocket and glanced down the hall to the closed door to Eathan's study.

 
          
Why
not? What other treasures lay hidden in that locked file cabinet?

 
          
Maybe
more information about the fire ... maybe something to ease this gnawing fear.
Eathan was still in the village, and she’d hear him drive up.

 
          
Minutes
later she had her head in the second drawer. Much of it was correspondence from
the early seventies with the life-insurance companies after the fire, plus the
fire-insurance company, settling the mortgage, selling the property where the
house had stood.

 
          
The
collected minutiae of the aftermath of a tragedy. But why lock it up?

 
          
Unless
he had nowhere else to put it.

 
          
Julie
flipped through the rest of the hanging folders. More twenty-some-year-old
correspondence. God, didn't Eathan throw anything away? A quick glance at the
last folder
—
so thin she thought it might
be empty
—
and she'd begin on the third
and last drawer. A flash of white in the bottom caught her eye. She reached in
and pulled out a double-folded piece of paper, sealed with a piece of ancient,
yellowed Scotch tape.

 
          
She
didn't hesitate. The tape practically fell off.

 
          
The
first thing she saw when she opened it was the
Mill-burn
Valley
Community
Hospital
heading,
hob Report
was
under that. Then the name Nathan Gordon and the words, "Sperm
Analysis":

 
          
Sperm
Count:                                 14,000,000
sperm per cc.

 
          
Motility:                                         20%

 
          
Viability:                                        20%

           
Morphologic
Forms:                   
30% normal

 
          
Diagnosis:                                     
Functionally sterile

 
          
Sterile?
How could Nathan be sterile? He was the father of twins. This had to be
wrong. You don't get a sperm count unless you're concerned about your fertility
or you've just had a vasectomy. She checked for a date and stared in shock when
she
saw it.

 
          
A
month before we were born!

 
          
Their
father knew he wasn't sterile
—
his wife was pregnant with
their first child
—
or in this case, children.
Why would he have a vasectomy before his wife delivered?

 
          
Clearly
he wouldn't. He'd wait until the pregnancy was over and the children delivered
live and intact, and
then
he'd have the surgery. But never
during
pregnancy.

 
          
Unless...

 
          
Julie
nearly dropped the report.

 
          
Unless
he suspected someone else might be the father.

 
          
Oh,
God no!

 
          
But
if Nathan Gordon wasn't their father, who was?

 
          
Immediately
a name popped into her mind.

3

 
          
Eathan's
face went white as he stared down at the sheet of paper on his desk. Finally he
looked up at her, his voice barely audible.

 
          
"Where
.. . did you . . . get this?"

 
          
Julie
stood on the far side of the desk, trembling inside. She'd agonized all
afternoon over how to broach the subject with him. It meant confessing to
trespassing in his most private sanctum, but she had to bring this out into
the open. >he had to
know.

 
          
She
pointed to the locked wall cabinet. "There."

 
          
"No!"
Eathan slammed his fist down on the desk, rattling his pen set and sending
paper clips flying. And then both fists clenched. "No!" His eyes
blazed at her. "How could you? How could you break my trust like this?
Sneak in here and rummage through my private files like a common thief?
I..."

 
          
His
fingers curled into claws, and for a moment Julie feared he might leap across
the desk at her. She cringed and took a step back.

 
          
"I'm
sorry," she said. It sounded dumb and lame but it was all she could manage
right now.

 
          
"Sorry?
You seem to be saying that a lot, lately. Well, sorry doesn't
—
what's the expression
—
cut
it, Julia. In fact, nothing you can say will make up for this unconscionable
invasion of privacy. I want you out of here. Out of Oakwood. Tonight."

 
          
"No,
Eathan. You can't mean that. We're losing Sam. And if you were hiding this, I
thought
—
"

 
          
He
pounded his fist on the desk again. His face had lost its pallor and was now
flushed with anger.

 
          
"I
do mean it! I will not share my house with someone I cannot trust! Get
out!"

 
          
"Eathan
—
"

 
          
"Out!"
He pointed to the door. "Get
out!"
She had never seen him this
angry. His fury was terrifying.

 
          
What
could I have been thinking?

 
          
"All
right," Julie said, moving toward the door. "I'll go. But I just want
you to answer one question."

 
          
"No!
Leave."

 
          
He
wouldn't look at her. Did he know what she was going to say? Was that it?

 
          
"Are
you my father?"

 
          
Eathan's
arm dropped to his side.

 
          
He
kept staring down at his desk, then dropped into his chair and buried his face
in his hands.

 
          
Julie
watched him a moment. He was frozen. Was it such a terrible thing? It would
explain so much.

 
          
When
he didn't move or say anything, she stepped closer.

 
          
"Eathan?
Are you all right?"

 
          
He
remained motionless, his face hidden by his hands. Julie moved around the desk
until she stood over his shoulder.

 
          
"Is
it true, Eathan? Are you my father?"