Submerged (24 page)

Janet shook her head. “You’re talking
crazy.”

“You have to be crazy to understand this
place. Let me show you something.”

Perry took a few more steps.

“You wanted answers, Sachs. Now stop and
listen.”

“We’ll fall farther behind,” Carl
objected.

“You can’t get any farther behind,” Zeisler
said. “It will only let you get as close as it wants you to.”

“It?” Gleason asked.

“First things first.” Zeisler bent and scoped
up a handful of sand. “What am I holding?”

“Sand,” Perry said.

“You sure?”

“Cut the games, Zeisler. I’ve been patient
with you long enough.”

Zeisler frowned. “Most people your age have
shed their youthful impatience. Don’t say it. I know. You’re
worried about your father.” He studied the pile of light brown
grains in his hand. “What do you know about sand?”

“Most sand is made of silica,” Perry said.
“It’s the result of erosion or chemical agents that break down
large masses into smaller ones.”

“Would you say sand is basically tiny bits of
stone?”

“You could put it that way,” Perry
admitted.

“Sand is an incoherent mass of mineral
material, usually quartz. In short, tiny rocks.” Zeisler slapped
his hands together and rubbed. He opened his hands. Perry saw
powder where once there had been a tiny pile of sand. Zeisler then
clapped his hands, and a cloud of dust filled the air around his
hands. He opened his palms, revealing a thin layer of dust as fine
as talcum powder.

“How did you do that?” Janet asked. “You
crushed the sand with your bare hands.”

“We don’t have time for childish magic
tricks,” Carl said.

“It’s not a magic trick.” Perry picked up a
pinch of sand and rubbed it between his fingers. He could feel it
break down, changing from granules to powder. He continued to rub
until the powder felt like oil between his fingers. “What am I
looking at here?”

“Ah, now there’s a valid question.” Zeisler
smiled. “My answer is simple. I don’t know for sure, but I have an
idea.”

Perry picked up more of the material and
mimicked Zeisler. He rubbed it in his palms until it degraded into
a powder. He let the powder slip through his fingers until just a
thin film of brown remained on his hands. He studied it. It felt
like greasy baby powder.

Then it moved.

It took every fiber of Perry’s will not to
brush the material off his hands. Instead, despite his instinct, he
watched it move on his palms. Jack and Gleason gathered around.

“You okay, pal?” Jack asked.

“Look,” Perry said. The powder continued to
morph, becoming more dense in some areas of Perry’s hand and
leaving bare others.

“It’s spelling something,” Gleason said. “How
. . .”

Zeisler stepped forward. “Now that looks
familiar.”

It should,
Perry
thought as he gazed down at the letters “A.S.—H/S” formed in his
hand.

Only Zeisler seemed unimpressed. “This Mr.
Barrett we’ve been following isn’t a man. He’s an image of a man,
just like those letters in Mr. Sachs’s hands.”

“But he walked, he talked,” Carl said.

“And he disappeared, only to reappear later.
I don’t know where the real Barrett is, but I know where his
doppelgänger is headed.” Zeisler pointed. “Just like I said before.
He’s leading us there. To the house.”

“I don’t understand,” Perry said.

“Let’s walk. I’ll fill you in.” Zeisler
started forward. “I’ll start at the beginning.”

1974

Henry had stayed two steps behind Nash as
they followed McDermott’s trail. If his mind were an engine, it
would be in danger of overheating. He had seen enough to know he
hadn’t seen enough to know. He was questioning everything he saw.
If he went by appearances, he was walking a jungle trail, a trail
that had been a desert floor several minutes earlier. How such a
thing could be was beyond him. He forced himself to focus on the
task at hand: finding McDermott.

“This is a strange land you’ve brought me to,
Nash.”

“I can’t argue that. Just remember you
volunteered—” Nash dropped to a knee and held up his right hand,
clenched in a fist. Henry dropped to a knee. He strained to hear
what Nash heard but came up empty. Then he heard a gentle crunching
sound . . . the sound of a boot step.

A shot was fired, then a stream of automatic
fire. Nash sprinted off the path and into the jungle with Henry
close behind. The gunfire sounded like firecrackers going off in an
endless stream.

“Keep your head down,” Nash ordered.

Henry did, but he couldn’t evict the
knowledge that he was hiding behind trees and shrubs that weren’t
really trees and shrubs. Maybe they would provide protection. Then
again . . .

“It sounds like more than one gun,” Henry
said.

“That can’t be,” Nash whispered. “McDermott
was the only one of our crew carrying weapons. All he has is the
M16 and his Colt sidearm.”

“Oh, well, as long as that’s all he has.”

“I mean, he’s the only one who can fire a
weapon, so where’s the other gunfire coming from?”

“Beats me. Maybe—”

Another burst of gunfire interrupted
Henry.

“Gomez, have you got a bead on the hostiles?”
It was McDermott.

“Gomez?” Henry asked.

McDermott fired another stream of rounds, and
from the distance came a responding burst. “Henderson, spread out.
I want to lay down cross fire.”

“He thinks he has his team with him,” Nash
said. “Not good.”

“What are the odds that he’ll run out of
ammo?” Henry asked.

“It’s possible. His clip holds thirty rounds,
and he’s carrying one more. His Colt carries seven rounds. I doubt
he packed an extra clip for it. At least I didn’t order him
to.”

Another round of fire, then the sound of
return fire. Then a scream that chilled Henry’s blood. “I’m hit.
Medic! I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“How could he be hit?” Henry asked. “Who
could be shooting back?”

The jungle disappeared in a rain of sand. A
second later, sand shot skyward. Once again it was the Mojave
Desert. A moment earlier, Henry had hunkered down behind trees and
bushes. Now he hunkered down in the wide open sand plateau. A short
distance away, McDermott lay on his back. He wasn’t moving.

Nash glanced around, then dashed to
McDermott’s side. Henry sprinted along with him, waiting for the
sound of gunfire and the impact of a small bullet traveling at
great speed. But there was no gunfire, and Henry felt no burning
bullet wounds.

Nash slid to his knees. “McDermott. Stay with
me, man. Stay with me.”

From the minute Henry had met him, Nash had
been re-served and unemotional as a stone, but now he showed his
humanity. McDermott wasn’t breathing. A red hole rested on his
combat vest directly over his sternum.

Henry pressed two fingers to the soldier’s
throat. “No pulse.”

Nash worked his mouth as if he were about to
say something, but nothing emanated.

Then Nash began to swear in whispered tones.
“Right through the heart.” He shook his head. Grabbing the M16
lying by McDermott’s side, he stood and spun around. “Where are
you?” he shouted into the dark desert. “Show yourself, you cowards
. . . .”

“Nash,” Henry said.

“I’m gonna finish what McDermott
started.”

“Nash,” Henry said, “he wasn’t shot.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sachs. Look at the oozing
hole in his chest.”

“You need to see this, Nash. Look.”

The man turned, and Henry saw unbridled
hatred in his eyes. “What?”

Henry pointed to the wound. “He’s not
bleeding.” Then Henry reached forward and ran his fingers along the
wound. The hole disappeared into dust. There was no wound, no hole,
and no blood. “It’s the same kind of powder we found on the Joshua
tree and on the house. It’s the same stuff the sand turns into when
you rub it in your hands. The wound’s not real.”

“You’re saying he’s not dead?”

Henry checked for a pulse again, then placed
his ear near McDermott’s mouth. He detected no breath. Henry
un-strapped the vest, then unbuttoned the man’s shirt. “No entrance
wound; no sign of trauma at all.” Just to be sure, he placed his
ear on McDermott’s chest, hoping for the rhythmic
thumping
of a beating heart. He was disappointed.

“If he wasn’t shot, then what killed him?”
Nash asked.

“I can’t be sure. Maybe an autopsy could tell
us. My guess is, his mind killed him.”

“What?”

“He thought he was in Vietnam. He believed it
enough to imagine he had men in his squad. If he believed that he
was shot, his body might respond as if it had been.”

“You saying he was scared to death?”

“Not exactly. Look, this isn’t my field. I’m
guessing here. All I know is that McDermott is dead, but there is
no wound. We heard him yell he was hit and cry out for a medic.” As
Henry stared at McDermott, the image of the red hole reappeared in
his mind. “You know more about death by gunfire than I do. Do you
think a man who has taken a round dead center in the chest could
yell anything?”

“Maybe.”

“It doesn’t matter, Nash.” Henry stood.

Nash stepped to the fallen man and studied
him, then handed the M16 to Henry. “Here. You carry this.”

“What are you going to do?” Henry took the
weapon.

“I’m not leaving him here.” Nash looked in
the direction they had come when they first entered the chamber.
Then he bent, took hold of McDermott’s vest, and pulled him into a
seated position. After that he stooped, reached around the lifeless
body, and took hold of McDermott’s belt. In a fluid motion and with
more strength than Henry thought Nash capable of, he pulled and
lifted until McDermott hung over his shoulder. Henry had seen
pictures of soldiers carrying the wounded this way.

“I’m taking him out of here,” Nash said.
Henry could see the strain on his face. “Tell Sanders what
happened.”

“You can’t carry him all the way out,” Henry
argued. “Even if you make it to the entrance point, you have two
miles of awkward stairs to climb. Note the word
climb
. It’s all uphill.”

“I can’t leave him here.”

“The house is closer. We’ll take him there.
Maybe we can rig a better way of moving him. At least you’ll have
others to help you.”

“I guess that makes more sense.”

“Come on. It’s still a bit of a walk.” Henry
moved toward the house. He could see it in the distance. He had no
idea how far away it was. The place seemed to defy scale.

“Hey, Sachs,” Nash said. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For coming out with me. You didn’t have to
do that.”

“I wish it had turned out better.”

“So do I. I wonder what’s going to happen
next. It’s a dangerous place where your thoughts can kill you.”

Chapter24

Matthew Barrett was
standing
on the front porch of a Victorian-style home
staring at Perry and the others as they approached. He still looked
drenched. “The house,” as Zeisler called it, was incomplete. The
front of the structure showed white posts, a railing, a pitched
roof, and a turret with its pointed, dunce cap-like roof poking
skyward. But that was only the front of the structure, and Perry
could see it for the facade that it was. The back of the building
was nothing more than a gray square box. It was as if someone was
dressing the cube as a house and quit when halfway done.

“When I first saw this place,” Zeisler said,
“I was taken by the beauty of the home. Then my rational brain
kicked in. We were walking through what your dad identified as the
Mojave, and here was this grand house. It was the only structure in
the place.”

“It doesn’t look like much now,” Jack said.
“I guess the owners failed to keep it up. That’s going to impact
resale value.”

Perry looked at Jack. “Thinking of
moving?”

“Not here, pal. Seattle suits me fine.”

They moved forward. Five yards from the
porch, Carl could contain himself no longer. He ran to the man on
the porch. “Mr. Barrett?” he called, stopping at the foot of the
stairs. “I’m Deputy Subick, Carl Subick, and we’ve been looking for
you. Your family is very worried.”

“He just doesn’t listen,” Zeisler told
Perry.

Janet overheard. “He’s doing his job.” She
brushed by Zeisler.

“She doesn’t listen, either.”

“I’ve seen some bizarre things, Dr. Zeisler,”
Perry said, “but I can’t wrap my brain around what you’ve been
telling me. You’re saying that none of this is real.”

“Oh, brother.” Zeisler moaned. “Apparently
you don’t listen, either. I never said it wasn’t real; just that
what you’re seeing isn’t what you think it is. We’re looking at a
real entity, but he’s no more Barrett than the boots you’re
wearing.”

Perry and the others stepped behind Carl and
Janet. Zeisler had spent the last fifteen minutes telling of his
experiences thirty years ago. He had not told the whole story.
Perry was sure there was more to come.

“Mr. Barrett?” Carl climbed the first step.
He was moving slowly. “Are you injured?” There was no response.
Carl moved up the stairs to the porch. “You need to talk to me, Mr.
Barrett.”

Barrett turned to Carl. “Help me.”

“I will.” Carl reached out to lay a hand on
Barrett’s shoulder. “I’m going to make sure you get home.”

But as soon as he touched Barrett, Carl
yanked his hand back as if he had been hit by a bolt of
electricity.

“What’s wrong?” Janet hurried up the
stairs.

“Help me,” Barrett said again. Then he turned
his head and looked at Zeisler. “Zeisler Doctor.” Barrett raised
his head. His eyes dissolved, his face melted, and a second later
only a pile of granules remained where Barrett had stood.