The Croning (33 page)

Ring stood and marched past Don toward the helicopter, jaw hard, brows furrowed. Ordbecker covered his smirk with a cough.

Burton said through his lazy grin, “What about you,
God
? Going up the hill to pay your respects?”

“Give me two hours,” Don said. He checked the map he’d borrowed from Smelser, which showed the ranger station—the village had been penciled recently. He tucked in his shirt, nodded curtly to the pilot and the surveyor, and set forth, past the outskirts of the ruins, into the forest, up the flank of sleepy, lovely Mystery Mountain…

5.

The Bobcat Peak Ranger Station loomed atop the crown of a bluff, forebodingly gothic; a medieval watchtower accessible solely by a vertical wooden ladder that ascended to a trapdoor. Its darkened ring of turret-like windows overlooked miles of wilderness. The station was a forest sentinel, weathered and battered by the many storms it had suffered over the decades, mute and grim and implacable.

A house of secrets
. Don wiped the sweat from his brow with a bandanna. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called Noonan’s name, listened to his voice boom from gullies and boulders until it became that of a stranger’s and was lost. A carpet of fir needles lay underfoot, and beneath the tower proper were several dusty crates and a stack of gray and wasted firewood. This outpost obviously didn’t see much action. Probably received an annual inspection and was staffed for a couple of weeks if the weather was dry, or was used as a staging platform for search and rescue operations. Otherwise, deserted as a tomb…

In a way he was relieved to receive no answer as his disgruntled determination had withered a bit in the face of the hike, the remoteness, and the gloomy menace of the station itself. Either Noonan had moved on (the guy
had
to return to camp sooner or later, or hike to a trailhead unless he wanted to starve), or he wasn’t in the mood for visitors. Don didn’t plan on attempting to force his way in either. So, duty dispensed, he tucked the bandanna into his shirt and turned to leave. The trapdoor creaked and dropped open, revealing a black rectangle.

“Hi, Don. Come on up. Tea’s on.” A man’s voice, and familiar, though distorted by the acoustics of the building and the encroaching trees.

Don cursed his luck. He hesitated as the reality of his predicament crashed over him in a sea-cold wave. Was he really planning to blithely traipse his way into the lion’s den? The scientist could be a lunatic, given the way he’d abandoned his work. Could be waiting to brain Don as he came through the door. “No thanks, doc. Why don’t you come down? Chopper will be swinging back around. Everybody’s worried about you.”

Silence extended for a long, drawn moment. The hidden man chuckled, and again the familiarity of it chafed and aggravated. “Best scamper up here, old son. If not…”

“Or what?” Don wished he’d brought the revolver he kept stashed in the footlocker in the garage. A brute, heavy weapon that he didn’t recall the model or make, a gun he’d fired once at the range in Poger Rock, then replaced in the case and forgotten. It would’ve felt comforting hanging from his belt right then.

“I’ve got something very important to tell you. It’s about Michelle.”

Don’s belly tightened. Was that even Noonan? That damnably familiar voice… “Who the hell are you? Show your face!”

The man chuckled again. “Come on. You aren’t safe down there. The children keep pets in the trees. The critters come out of the woodwork at night. Gonna be dark soon.”

Don glanced around, then at his watch which was still behaving erratically. He estimated it was around 11 A.M., surely no later than 11:30. “Hey, Noonan!” No answer this time, no chuckling, just the door, the black rectangle. He didn’t know what to think except that whoever was inside, whether it be Noonan or whomever, knew something about Michelle. Everybody did, it seemed.
Baby, I’ve had it. We’re having a little talk when you get home.
He sighed, felt in his jacket for the folding knife he always carried while hiking. It was proceed or turn tail and wait for Burton in the clearing. Charging headfirst into what was potentially a dangerous situation bothered him less than spending more time with the creepy pilot.

He mounted the ladder and climbed at a measured but swift pace the three stories to the hatch and ducked through. The interior of the station was gloomy. To his immediate left were several more crates similar to those stacked below the platform; in the center of the circular chamber were tables and wooden chairs and a bank of equipment that included a shortwave radio set, reel-to-reel recording machinery, a seismograph, and a telescope mounted on a complicated dolly. The air smelled of must, mothballs, and peppermint. A camp stove hissed upon one of the tables, and a pot of water emitted curls of steam.

The windows were shuttered except for a bank with an eastern exposure whence filtered dull hazy light. A man stood silhouetted against that bank of windows. He said, “Glad you could make it, Don.” Barry Rourke’s voice, clear now that the men were in proximity.

“Barry. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” Rourke was pale, his eyes sunken. “And you are here because I called you here.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slouched over to the bubbling kettle. His back to Don, he took a pair of mugs from a cabinet and poured from the kettle.

“Did you say there are children here? Pets?”

“Yes, yes—actually
servitor
is closer to the mark than pet. Heh, as guard dog is to poodle, or minnow to shark. The Crawlers, the Limbless Ones; call ’em what you will, you don’t want to meet one. Stay near me, you’ll do okay.”

“I think you’d better start from the beginning,” Don said. He’d recovered from the scramble to the ridgeline and the subsequent climbing of the ladder, but now his breath came short and heavy and sweat soaked his shirt. He took a breath and considered his options. Obviously the man had cracked under the pressure. Likely things weren’t rosy at the Rourke mansion; maybe he had a gambling debt or was being blackmailed by a lover. The possibilities were endless. Whatever the cause, it didn’t require a medical degree to assess Barry Rourke as a mental case.

“Ask me anything,” Rourke said. “I’m the answer man, tonight only.”

Don said, “Are you in trouble? It occurs to me after the government spooks and all the secrecy surrounding this project that AstraCorp is pulling the wool over someone’s eyes. I’ve seen these kinds of shenanigans. People cutting through the red tape any way possible. Are you trying to screw the BLM? Did you find native burial grounds and can’t decide whether to hide the fact? It’s only money.”

“Ha! And exhibit A Miller remains poor to his dying day while the banker and the merchant die of gout on their yachts. Seriously, though. I’m pondering how to do this delicately. It’s easiest to tell you that I belong to an order. A cult. This cult has taken in interest in you and your wife as we have certain members of Mocks and Millers for so many generations it would blow your mind like the heaviest dose of Windowpane you ever did.”

Don kept the tension from his voice and smiled glibly. “Okay. The spooks at the reception were keen on grand conspiracies. Tell me about it, this cult of yours.”

“It has been around since prehistoric times, when men gibbered in caves and dragged their knuckles. We venerate the Great Dark, the things that dwell there.”

“Lovely. Satanism is big with the kids these days, I hear.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. This is a lot to swallow. You don’t seem…”

“Don’t seem the type? Don’t you know anything about the world besides plate tectonics and substrata? The rich are master cultists. We’ve the means, motive and opportunity to indulge our wildest peccadilloes.”

“What I was going to say is that you seem to have such a stick up the ass it kind of surprises me to learn you’re a closet hedonist. What do you call yourselves anyway?”

“The cult is nameless. Chief among our deities is one known as Old Leech. Worship of Old Leech is the primary activity of the Terrestrial sect. This worship was transmitted to us by a race that exists on the rim of the universe and spreads like a mold crawling across meat. We call this race the Children of Old Leech. They dwell in the depths and the shadows, they inhabit the crack that runs through everything.”

“Aliens with an alien divinity,” Don said. “
Chariots of the Gods
is Michelle’s favorite book.”

“Aliens? Why not? Vampires, demons, devils. Hobgoblins of a thousand cultures.”

“I have to admit this is some strange territory,” Don said. He hastened to add, “Not saying I don’t believe you.”

“Look, Don, it’s all true. The Rourkes, the Wolvertons, the Mocks, others in this state and across the world, all serve the Great Dark, each in his or her own way; some with enthusiasm, some with reluctance, but completely and without mercy. I can’t explain everything. You don’t want me to explain everything. Our cult is monolithic with tentacles in every human enterprise throughout history, into
prehistory
.”

“Ah, like Amway.”

Rourke smiled a real smile and laughed. It was only then that Don noticed the man was dressed in a stylish terrycloth robe and slippers à la Hugh Hefner, precisely as if he’d stepped out of the house to check the mail. His hair was mussed, and up close he appeared unwell—pallid, blotchy, exhausted. A jaundice victim. Tics and twitches raced across his cheeks and jaw. Rourke said, “Even we don’t screw with Amway.” He sighed and his eyes were oh, so cold. “Man, you don’t know when to let sleeping dogs lie. Always meddling. You simply
had
to go hunting for Michelle in Mexico instead of listening to sage advice and spending a couple extra days drunk at the hotel bar. Got crosswise with some real hardcore disciples. Those feds at the reception who were milking you for intel—couldn’t just walk away, huh? Exactly the sort of shit that’s marked you goddamned Millers since the days of yore.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“Like it or lump it. We’ve got important matters to discuss. You are a mosquito trapped in the sap of a sundew. Your existence hangs in the balance.”

That definitely sounded like a threat to Don. “Where’s Noonan?” The unasked question being:
What have you done to Noonan?

“I’m fairly sure that Burton ate him. Or the servitors did.”

Don couldn’t think of a response to such an outlandish statement. He stared at Rourke’s back in stunned silence, helplessly awaiting the punch-line.

Rourke said, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Burton is…well, he’s not really Burton…He’s one of
them
, a Dark One, dressed to appear human. Cheap facsimile, though. How the hell you got onto a chopper with him is beyond me. I mean, Jesus, Don. Didn’t you see his
face
?” He ran his hands through his hair, and his shoulders trembled. After a few moments he collected himself and brought Don a mug of tea that smelled too strong, too sweet.

Don sniffed his tea. “Good grief, Barry. Fear tactics and propaganda I expect from government attack dogs.
You
really disappoint me. Are you doing your part to fight the Cold War? My wife on a list somewhere because she had drinks with the wrong professor in the 1950s? Or she accepted funds from a flagged trust? Are you bastards after us because my grandfather pissed somebody off during the Boer War? What the hell is it with you people?”

“Dark Ones aren’t people.”

“Right; they’re a bug-eyed alien species who vivisect cattle and abduct people on lonely highways and subject them to anal probes and such.”

“Would you care to know what their idea of fun is?”

“The Dark Ones?”

“Right, them.”

“Screwing with my life? Administering anal probes?”

“They worship a deity that ate the fucking dinosaurs, several species of advanced hominids and the Mayans. Opened a gate and slurped them through a funnel.”

“I’m not going to say that you’re crazy, because I don’t wish to belabor the obvious. Let’s try this: put on a coat and follow me down to the river. We’ll chuck some rocks, take in the sights, wait for Burton to fly us home. Whatever booby hatch they stick you in, I promise to visit once a month. We can shoot the breeze and play cribbage. Or backgammon. I got the feeling you’re a backgammon man.”

Rourke smiled sadly. “Tell me, how bad has it gotten—the memory loss, the blackouts? You convinced it’s early dementia? That’s not what’s happening. I bet you’re healthy as an ox with a memory like an elephant. You’re a smart fellow, too. No, no, Don. You aren’t addled. The masters have this effect on people. They exude an aura that kills little patches of brain. It’s like radiation poisoning of the mind. After a few exposures, your memories begin to rot and fall out. You’re not really going senile, but isn’t that what you’ve feared?” He sipped his tea, then quickly stepped forward and blew a cloud of steam into Don’s eyes.

A gong sounded in the recesses of Don’s consciousness and sent bats winging toward the light. He dropped the mug. The scent was that of Bronson Ford’s miracle weed, albeit steam rather than smoke. Its effect was much more visceral. Don understood this wasn’t marijuana; it was a more ancient, more primitive extract, a hallucinogenic of frightening potency.

A kaleidoscope of images fractured in his mind’s eye: Frick and Frack hunting him at the Wolverton Mansion; naked men dressed as horrors from Aztec mythology menacing him with axes and knives; a ruddy young man in a ridiculously tight sweater stepping into a dolmen; Kurt, bronzed and middle-aged running through the woods, screaming, screaming; Bronson Ford, bloated to gigantic dimensions plucking Don from the floor of a dim museum gallery in one huge paw—

He blinked and his hands were leathery and gnarled; the hands of an old man; and his clothes hung on his shriveled and stooped frame. Were there a mirror, Don knew it would reveal a few wisps of white hair on a bald pate and a face carved like a bust from granite. His knees buckled and he collapsed into a wooden chair, still gawping at his withered hands, and as he watched they shifted back to their customary musculature, then shriveled again. The oscillation reminded him of acid tracers. “Please, help me. Tell me what’s happening.” He could scarcely whisper. The room undulated as though it was a heat mirage.