Psychlone (21 page)

“It behaves partly like a poltergeist, throwing rocks and stuff, making noises, causing hallucinations. I don't know if poltergeists can cause hallucinations, but this thing can. Delusions. It can move objects and shape them. The cabin has a gravel road. It manifests itself as a boar made out of gravel. The gravel fell on Sam and that's what bruised him."

“Damned thing threw a few hundred pounds of it right at me. My ribs are bandaged, but nothing serious. All the same, I'd like to get revenge."

“Why does it do these things?” Burnford asked.

“Because it hates people, or wants to be alone,” Fowler said. “How can we be sure of its motives?"

“I mean, is it evil or just like a wild animal?"

“More like a wild animal,” Fowler said.

“I feel differently,” Prohaska said. “But Larry's right, we can't be sure."

“What do you think?” Burnford asked.

“When that load of rocks landed on me, I could feel it controlling me, gloating. It hated my guts and it had fun hating me. It may be natural, but as far as I'm concerned, it's evil as hell."

“From hell, you think?” Williams asked.

“No, Larry's right there. It seems to just stay in the valley, like a moose in its territory."

Williams nodded slowly, then picked up his leather folio and brought out triplicate affidavits. “Gentlemen, if you'll sign these, we'll get on with the investigation."

Fowler looked at Burnford. The physicist shrugged. “It's the in thing to do,” he said. Prohaska read the paper and pushed it away.

“No,” he said. “I'd be compromising my duty."

“Mister Prohaska, whether you sign the affidavit or not, any of the information you've given us is secret. For the moment, you have no story. But if you wait a while, you may be the first to write about it. We've gathered a lot of strange people into the project, but no reporters."

Burnford leaned forward and crossed his hands. “I know what you're objecting to. The government has no right to cover up matters of obvious importance to the general public. I had my doubts, too, when they first approached me. But one thing is clear—if what happened in Lorobu and Haverstock is going to happen elsewhere, and if we can learn to predict it, we'll have to evacuate entire cities. Any slipshod handling of information could kill thousands of people."

“I'm not used to this sort of thing,” Fowler said, but he signed his paper with Williams’ ballpoint pen.

“No stories for the duration, from anyone?” Prohaska asked. Williams nodded. “Then I'll sign, too."

“Excellent,” Williams said, putting the affidavits away and clicking the pen. “Do you have a car?"

“A rental. Our cars were destroyed,” Fowler said.

“Then let's go."

The restaurant phone rang and the waitress answered just before accepting their money for the food. She muffled the mouthpiece with one hand and asked, “Anyone named Prohaska here, or Fowler?"

“I'm Prohaska.” He took the phone and listened for a moment. “Howard,” he said, “that was a stupid thing to do. Yeah. We're on our way now.” He hung up and motioned for them to leave. Williams flopped down a ten-dollar bill. Outside, Prohaska swore and stamped his foot on the asphalt. “Goddamn Parkins, he's a Catholic. He went to confession and told his priest. Now he says the priest has gone to the valley. He just learned about it a few minutes ago. Dorothy told him we were at the airport."

They climbed into the car and backed out of the stall, tires squealing as Prohaska twisted the wheel and accelerated for the highway. “Dorothy must be at the hotel, then,” Fowler said. Nobody paid any attention. Williams was busy making notes, compensating expertly for the jolting of the car.

They stopped at the hotel briefly. Fowler retrieved his synopsis of the chart record from the room. Dorothy wasn't there and her luggage was gone. There wasn't time to worry about it. On the way to the valley, he explained the instruments and results to Burnford.

“Microwave increase during all periods of peak activity,” Burnford said. “Absorption of heat from most available sources. Apparently the heat is absorbed across a volume and not a surface. That would make it a four-dimensional absorbing hyper-volume."

“Extra-dimensional?” Fowler asked.

Burnford shook his head. “I'm only guessing."

It was dusk by the time they reached the lookout point. They descended into the valley. The trees darkened the road enough to require headlights. “Who is this Parkins?” Burnford asked.

“A sheriff,” Prohaska said. “Not a very bright one, apparently."

“Religious crisis of some sort, eh?” Williams prodded.

“How the hell should I know? He didn't say much. I didn't even know he was a Catholic."

“Did he say what the priest was up to?"

“An exorcism, he thought."

“I don't believe it,” Burnford said. “Ordinary priests don't do that sort of thing."

The car's lights reflected off tail-lights ahead. Prohaska slowed.

“How far from here?” Williams asked.

“A hundred yards."

“Park behind him and let's go.” The car stopped behind the sheriff's car and they got out. “Which way?” Fowler pointed to the gravel road leading to the right.

“Apparently Howard didn't want his car banged up again,” Prohaska said. They walked the first dozen yards quickly until they reached the stream. It was flowing freely, though there was evidence of ice. Fowler and Prohaska hesitated.

“Where's Parkins?” the reporter asked.

“He must be in there."

“And the priest?"

Williams pointed to fresh tire tracks leading up to the creek. “Looks like he drove right in."

“Howard!” Prohaska called. “Do you hear anything?"

“Nothing,” Burnford said, shaking his head. “Well?"

“This is its boundary,” Fowler said.

“Do we cross or not?"

Williams stepped back and jumped across the eight-foot stream lightly. “Come on, gentlemen,” he said. “We won't learn anything by being cowards."

They followed suit, Prohaska landing with one ankle in the water. He shook it and stared angrily at Williams’ back as the man walked ahead. “He doesn't believe there's anything dangerous here, does he?” Burnford turned and smiled.

“He knows his duty. That's to protect me, under all circumstances. So he goes first."

“Damned stupid for us to even be here,” Prohaska said. His foot squelched as they followed. “Howard!” he called again.

“Is it an air demon, or a ground demon?” Burnford asked. “I know it's a funny question, but—"

“Ground demon,” Fowler said. “Caliban without Prospero."

“No relation to Ariel then, hm?"

Fowler shook his head.

“'Graced not with human form,’ as the bard said,” Burnford tried to quote.

“I didn't know you were into Shakespeare,” Fowler said.

“I'm not."

“And he misquoted,” Williams said. “It's ‘honor'd not with a human shape.’”

“Quiet,” Prohaska said, getting down on one knee at the top of the rise. He motioned for them to do likewise. Faint moans came from the vicinity of the cabin. They advanced slowly, crouching, feeling a peculiar pressure all around them. With the last tree trunk out of the way, they saw the cabin and a small green Volkswagen, the priest's car.

One man, dressed in black with arms stretched out, stood just in front of the porch. He was oddly still. Straightening reluctantly, they approached the Volkswagen. Williams looked without evident concern at the two smashed cars parked nearby.

The sheriff was kneeling on the gravel beside the Volkswagen, hands clenched. He was crying and praying. “What's with the priest?” Burnford asked.

Williams approached the still man and Parkins got to his feet quickly, screaming, “Don't touch him!” Fowler grabbed Williams’ shoulder and jerked him back. Frost covered the priest's hands and the back of his neck. Fowler circled and saw the man's face was caught in a grimace of fear, his eyes white with rime.

“What's the matter with him?” Burnford asked.

“He's frozen,” Prohaska said, taking hold of Parkins’ arm. “Let's get out of here."

“No, wait,” Fowler said. “This happened to an animal the first morning I was here. It thawed and was okay."

“That's ridiculous,” Burnford muttered.

“Prohaska, see if the sheriff still has that tarp in his car,” Fowler ordered crisply. He repeated his warning to Williams. “Leave him be. Don't touch him."

“Come on,” the reporter urged Parkins, pushing him down the road. Williams walked to the front porch and pointed at a wooden crucifix lying on the steps. “There's gravel all over here. And he must have thrown this. I wonder if it did him any good.” He bent to pick up the cross.

The forest reverberated with a deep, bass roar. Fowler's body hair and scalp prickled. Burnford flinched and backed away. “Jesus Christ!"

“Didn't help, I guess,” Williams commented dryly. “You think the boar was here, and he threw the cross at it?"

“I don't know,” Fowler said. He bent down to look at the priest's legs. The priest wasn't as stable as the lynx, standing on two legs instead of four. The toes would be under great strain. Anything—

The trees shivered and twisted with the next roar. This time the sound ended in a high-pitched, animal scream of pain and rage. Burnford walked backward, away from the cabin. He spun quickly and looked at the forest, eyes wide.

The priest began to wobble. Fowler instinctively reached out to grab him. His hands connected with the man's suit and burned with cold. The arm cracked and came away in its sleeve. Fowler let go in horror and turned away as the body hit the gravel. The head snapped and rolled.

Burnford retched. “Let's get the hell out of here,” Fowler said, choking. They stumbled and ran down the road. Behind them, a cloud of darkness rose above the cabin, grasping at the last of the daylight. Oily rainbows swirled. Like Lot's wife, Fowler had to look back. He almost fell head-long on the shadowy road.

Over the trees, surrounded by sparkles of deeper black, was a massive crow's head with a red eye like a dying sun. The beak pointed straight up, half-open, and a green glow rose out of it.

They jumped into the creek up to their knees and splashed to the opposite side. Fowler dragged Burnford from the water and they crawled across the road, their breath coming in harsh whistles. Behind them, the bellowing grew louder.

“Now we've done it,” Williams said, standing over them.

When Jacobs answered the door, rubbing his eyes, a stiff young man in khakis handed him an envelope.

“You're to be dressed in five minutes, sir. We have a car waiting to take you to the helicopter pad. We're getting you to the airport as soon as possible."

“What's this all about?"

“Colonel Silvera's orders, sir."

“What time is it?"

“Five a.m.” The man backed away, turned sharply, and walked down the hall.

“Where will I meet you?” Jacobs called after him.

“Oh, yes, sir,” the man said sheepishly. “In front of the inn. With your luggage."

Jacobs shut the door heavily and went into the bathroom to bring himself fully awake. Ten minutes later, he lugged his suitcase down the corridor and the stairs and across the lobby. Silvera stood by the Army staff car. “We have something right up your alley, Mr. Jacobs,” he said. “You're going to Albuquerque, where you'll join Mr. Trumbauer and Miss Unamuno on a charter flight for California."

“I expected to be going to Haverstock."

“Not yet, perhaps not at all. We need you elsewhere."

The car's driver helped him load his bag.

“Good luck,” Silvera said as he shut the door.

Trumbauer was trembling with excitement. They walked across the concrete to their small passenger jet, escorted by four soldiers. “Are they going to use us, or just drop the whole thing?” he asked Jacobs.

“Haven't they told you anything?"

“Nothing,” Miss Unamuno said tightly. “We've been kept in a hotel room under close guard. I've lost my job by now, I'm sure."

“We're going to California. I think, for the moment, they plan to use all of us. I don't know why."

“We're experts,” Trumbauer said, triumphantly. “We're the only experts they have."

“I don't know,” Jacobs said. “I have the feeling we've just touched the tip of the iceberg."

“Do they accept our ideas?” Trumbauer asked.

“I don't know.” He shook his head—no further questions. They climbed the ramp and were seated in first class. The rest of the plane was empty. As the door was sealed, the guards talked quickly and formally to two stewardesses. They nodded, pale-faced, obviously upset at the hurry and secrecy.

The engine noise increased and the plane began to roll.

Tim ate his dinner slowly, measuring each bite. The tall black man read a newspaper on the other side of the table, but Tim knew he was being watched closely. The old stucco house was cool, but not cold. The furniture was spare but pleasant. Judging from his father's experience with property, Tim decided the house was rented, and recently, too. It was too clean and uncluttered to have been lived in long, too bare to have assumed the personality of an owner.

“Good stuff?” the black asked, nodding at Tim's plate. Tim said yes quietly and scraped the final few bites onto his spoon.

“Enjoy yourself and don't be nervous, son,” the man said. “Everything's going to be fine."

“I'm not nervous,” Tim said.

“We've brought someone to help you."

“I want to go home."

“I know. We'll talk about that later."

Tim heard a car drive up and park in front. The curtains on the windows were drawn. He couldn't see the people getting out, but he heard three doors slam. He should have made his move earlier, if he wanted to make it at all. Against one man he might have a chance. Against four—nothing.

The black stood to answer the knock on the door. He walked out of sight, into the hall, and Tim tensed. Then he relaxed. It was no use. They'd have him before he could climb the fence in the backyard. His eye surveyed the entire house. There was nothing he could use as a weapon—no heavy bookends, no knives and only the plastic fork he had been given to eat with. The plate was Melmac—almost impossible to break. He could shatter a window and get some glass, but he'd cut his hand doing that. The voices insisted he do something, but there was nothing to do. A dull throb made him shut his eyes and squint.