Psychlone (18 page)

Jacobs chuckled. “What was so provocative about my books?"

“The one about spiritual hierarchies—I forget its name—"

“The Realm of Light and Death.”

“It was so logical, compelling. It infuriated me. All this absolutely ridiculous stuff about ... well, I don't have to repeat it to you. But now I'm not so sure."

“There are no atheists in foxholes ... or Lorobu?"

“We've had lots of psychological problems among the soldiers and staff here. Even the FBI people have felt it. Such a sense of depression and foreboding. Something really awful passed through, whatever it was."

“I know."

“You know what it was?"

“Not exactly."

“Is it unprecedented? You're an expert on folklore. Has anything like this ever happened before?"

“We say this and it so often—haven't we any names? Of course—but they are swear words to the scientists and the liberals, as much as sexual language is to the conservatives. We are talking about a possession of some sort, but no, I know of nothing like it—except perhaps the invasions of nunneries and monasteries, or incidents of mass hysteria."

“Like The Devils of Loudun."

“Yes. But they were not chiefly violent episodes—not so violent as Lorobu. I tell you what—I've coined a word, a rather clever word, for the thing that came here, and probably to Haverstock, also. I don't think it'll be of much value to scientists ... but I call it a psychlone.” He spelled it out carefully.

“Franklin, you're nuts. You may be just what we need to break the ice."

“I don't appreciate being called ‘nuts.’ I'm a crackpot, perhaps—I wear that epithet with honor in some company—but—"

“I mean, we've run out of sane theories. Your ideas have been restated by a surprising number of staff people here. Lorobu has us all spinning inside. Do you understand how horrible it was?"

Jacobs shook his head. “I can't say that I do."

“I was brought here while they were identifying and trying to preserve the bodies. Men, women and children, hacked to death or strangled, sometimes by their own hands. Animals pounded to flat smears. Rooms covered with blood. Some of them drew on the walls before they killed themselves, or were killed by somebody else—the most vile, incredible things. I'll never forget them. What happened here was patently evil. But I still don't believe in the devil, Franklin. You know, I—"

“I don't believe in the devil either. Not in the Catholic concept."

“Yes, I remember. Anyway, I was saying, rather than take you through the trailers first, would you like to see the remnants of what happened? Most of the town has been investigated and the buildings are open to project members. None have been completely cleaned up."

Jacobs put his hands in his pockets and scowled. “I'm not much for gore,” he said, staring intensely at Beckett.

“Then you don't belong on this project, do you?"

“Lead on,” Jacobs said. “May I take notes?"

“By all means.” She pulled a steno pad from one of her smock pockets. “These are all numbered and registered. After you're done with it, return it to me or Silvera. Don't make notes on anything else, or write about the project in any way that's liable to reach the outside world."

“They must learn about it sometime."

“The working philosophy around here is that they shouldn't know what's going on until we do. For the moment, I agree."

Six electric carts were parked near a long trailer marked MDP 4. She commandeered one and they drove across a fresh dirt path to Main Street.

“First we'll go to a respectable family dwelling. It belonged to the Townsends. Have you heard about them yet?"

Jacobs shook his head.

“Their youngest child, a boy, is the only survivor. I suspect the project leaders are going to pick up Tim soon—that's his name, Timothy—and put him through some rigorous testing. Nothing inhumane, but he was under the jurisdiction of the FBI and civilian hospitals until a few days ago. Now he's in Salt Lake City. He may be able to tell us an awful lot, whether he says anything or not."

“I don't like the sound of that,” Jacobs grumbled.

“This is a plague situation, Franklin."

“I'm not used to being ruthless."

“Nor am I. We won't be ruthless, if I have any say, but we may have to be stern. Uncompromising."

“The distinction can be hard to make."

Beckett nodded and turned the cart in to a residential section—a single street lined on each side with five tract homes. The yards consisted of cactus gardens or bare gravel. She stopped the vehicle in front of a pleasant-looking building with a flagpole in the yard and a basketball hoop mounted near the peak of the garage.

The interior of the house was deceptively well-ordered. Beckett showed him the living room with its tile floor covered by a large throw rug, and the kitchen, where plates from the last meal were still on the table and sink. “Everything was peaceful in here,” she said. Then she showed him the family room and bedrooms.

The smell still lingered—an indefinable mix of blood and fear, like an abattoir. Dark stains arced across the walls and ceilings like splatters on a Pollock canvas. Jacobs had seen the dead and dying before, and thought himself inured to the idea—but this evidence of slaughter made him feel faint.

“The little boy saw all this?"

“He must have. He was found with blood all over his hands."

“What was the sequence of events?"

“As close as we can tell, the first one to be killed was James Townsend, the father. Georgette Townsend then committed suicide, but not before she tried to kill Timothy."

“How did the boy face it and stay sane?"

“We can't be sure he is sane. He acted normal afterwards—with the usual signs of buried memories and trauma—but—"

“Did he participate?"

“We don't know. He doesn't either—not that we could tell. Hell, I'm saying ‘we'—the FBI and state police did most of the investigating then. We were brought in a few days after. Timothy was in the control of a state hospital before we could ask him questions."

“Horrible,” Jacobs said. Horrible and fascinating—death, destruction, the hidden interiors of the human mind, the human body. The incredible fragility of life, the vulnerability of man's sack of fluids and bones....

“Enough of this,” Beckett said, taking him by the arm. “Mrs. Townsend blew her head off with a shotgun in the bathroom. Timothy escaped about the same time, probably before, and was found wandering down Main Street by a highway patrol officer."

Jacobs wished either Trumbauer or Miss Unamuno could be with him, to see if the house carried any residue of the events. A capable seer could differentiate between the slowly fading imprint of violence and evil left by such an act, and the true presence of the souls of those involved. Such violence, imposed from the outside, could be disastrous to a confused personality.

Beckett watched him from the front door. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, breaking his reverie.

“I was...” He hesitated. “I'm not sure you'd appreciate my ramblings yet."

“'Yet’ ... I like that. You think our metaphysics will get quite a scrambling, don't you?"

“I'm more worried that mine will. I've been writing about parapsychological phenomena for so long, but I've never had to put my ideas to a crucial test."

“You may be one step ahead of us. At least you recognize the possibility. We're still kicking in the dark. Come on. More houses, more grue."

The next house up the street was worse. Obscene drawings covered the walls of the rooms. Jacobs stared at the chalked outlines of five bodies, three obviously of children. White dust spotted conspicuous tabletops, sliding glass door surfaces, doorknobs and the few drinking glasses left whole on the counter. “Family of five, the Frenches,” Beckett said. “The FBI dusted for prints before concluding the family killed each other.” Cheap chrome chairs with patent-leather cushions were scattered across the kitchen. The odor was stronger here, a smell of burnt metal and rotten oranges. With a start, Jacobs realized he knew the smell—not from experience but from descriptions.

“The hell with being circumspect,” he said sharply. Beckett turned to face him, looking expectant. “If we're going to work together, we can't be afraid of each other's opinions. Do you smell something strange here? Not blood—not death?"

“Yes,” Beckett said. “Like smelling salts, only different."

“That is the smell of evil. Don't laugh—not until I can find a less melodramatic choice of words.” He looked around the kitchen and dining room, wide eyes absorbing the mayhem. He was trying to reconstruct what it must have felt like. “I need Trumbauer here,” he said. “He could tell us a great deal. When something drastic happens to a human being, he leaves a residue almost anyone can sense—a residue of disgust, despair. Hatred. Whatever. It's interpreted by the lowest levels of our minds, those connected with the olfactory sense. Whether we actually smell the residue or pick it up some other way I don't know—but it's here. The smell of evil, fear, the urge to destruction."

Beckett nodded. “I can't deny what I smell. So what did happen here, Franklin?"

“Passover,” Jacobs said. “Something horrible flew over, much worse than any angel of death. Look at this symbol here.” He stood by the wall between the kitchen and the garage. A few holes had been kicked into the plasterboard above the floor and the dark of the garage was visible. Above the holes was a large, wide eye, drawn in what appeared to be feces. Under the eye were obvious dancing flames.

“Yes?” Beckett asked.

“The spirit in hell,” Jacobs said, his index finger following the outlines a few inches above the surface. “The eye that sees, the soul, in eternal agony."

“Something out of hell, then."

Jacobs whirled and stared at her, his face reddening. “No! This is no silly, simple possession by devils. A child drew these, and may also have kicked the holes. Why? Trying to escape—and giving up. But a child would know nothing of these symbols. They are sophisticated, enormously old cultural symbols—but they are not the ones a child would use."

“Would a simple child use shit to draw with?"

“Yes—if there was nothing else, and he—"

“She. Two daughters."

“If the child had to express what she felt, or undergo something even worse than death."

“You're not very clear, Franklin."

“Perhaps because I'm very unsure of myself. Look at the other drawings—foul, adult stuff, scrawled at an adult level. But down here, within the children's reach, more elemental drawings.” He walked into the living room and pointed to a series of pictures on the brick fireplace. “At five or six feet, this.... “A hideous fanged mouth was ready to swallow a smear just barely identifiable as a vagina with a baby's head poking out. “And below, along the floor, these.” Stick-figures with limbs falling off, eyes menaced by fire, a crude head splitting down the middle, the edges of the cut jagged liked torn paper.

“They must have drawn these before they killed each other,” Beckett said, staring at the walls and fireplace, face pale.

“They must have cut themselves beforehand to do it,” Jacobs said. “They used blood, urine—if this is urine—and feces."

“We also found chocolate syrup. They used everything they could find."

“Why? Perhaps they were trying to communicate what they saw and felt, knowing they were doomed."

“Very melodramatic."

“Mrs. Beckett, I appreciate healthy cynicism in its place. But you must take me seriously, listen to my experience, or none of this will be passed on—and they meant it to be. In their insanity, they knew something bad was happening to them, and they were trying to convey what it felt like."

“But not what it was."

“They didn't know any more than we do."

“Did Silvera tell you about the names found in other houses?"

“Yes."

“Did he tell you where those names came from?"

“No."

“What reason did he give?"

“He didn't want to prejudice our observations,” Jacobs spat. “I think perhaps the Army doesn't want to know what happened here."

“Well, I know where they came from. I'm not supposed to know—I'm only a civilian contractor—but considering all this, the source may be important."

“Yes?"

“Let's go outside first.” In the gravel yard, with a cold desert wind blowing down the empty street, Beckett stood looking at the ground, hands clenched tight in her pockets. “I thought I was used to it,” she said. “I'm not. It's horrible, what happened in there...."

“Who were they?"

“They were bomber pilots ... some were, anyway. They were all prisoners of war taken to Japan for internment. They were held in Japanese cities."

“Which cities?” Jacobs said. A spark seemed to leap in his mind, vaguely lighting a huge mass of unconnected ideas.

“Hiroshima and Nagasaki,” Beckett said.

Jacobs’ mouth dropped and his eyes became round.

“I found out because there was a clipping in an old paper in a junk store in Albuquerque. The names were released last year, but nobody seems to have made the connection except myself—and the Army, of course. They've known all along. I have a habit of wandering through junk stores. I find it soothing. My husband thinks I'm just acquisitive."

“How did they die?"

“When the bombs were dropped, they were about a quarter-mile from ground zero. In Hiroshima, that is. I'm not sure where they were in Nagasaki. There was a fairly large prisoner-of-war camp there."

“Then they were Americans, killed by atomic bombs."

“As far as I can check, yes."

“And now they are coming home."

Tim stood in the bus terminal, trying to decide how to buy his ticket. It was possible the man behind the grimy brass bars wouldn't ask him any questions and he wouldn't have to lie. But if questions were asked—how would he answer?

Then he knew. He stood in line, fingering the wad of bills in his pocket, trying to look inconspicuous. Soon the police would be looking for him. Perhaps they already were. If they stopped the buses to look for him, or alerted bus stations in Provo, Gallup or Albuquerque, that was the end of it. But he hoped he had an hour or so head start before the police became too active. He watched the clock and examined the televised bus schedules, snapping his fingernails nervously in his sweater pockets. He hoped the buses were warm. It was dumb not to have taken a good coat. It only proved he wasn't grown up yet.