The Reality Conspiracy (42 page)

But she cried, "No!" so plaintively he almost believed her.

"Did someone else put something up there?" He asked the abhorrent question in his most matter-of-fact and grandfatherly manner. On some quiet level he was appalled at the crazy antics some young people got into these days. However, in this case he wouldn't permit himself to consider the possibility of parental abuse. Rich and Rena Michaels were fine young people. Among the best in town.

"No, oh no!" She gasped and he could see the white skin above her silky pubic fuzz pulsate as if with a muscle spasm.

As he manually encouraged her to dilate, he spoke in low comforting tones, "There now. You're going to be okay, dear. We'll just have a look now and see what's hurting you."

Under his intense lamp he could see a triangle of some foreign black substance within the pink and bloody folds of skin.

With a deft turn of the forceps he was able to grab . . . something.

When he tugged, she screamed.

With the forceps locked on their target, he applied a liberal amount of K-Y to the vaginal opening. Then he pulled again.

Kimberly wailed.

If it were not for the spiky fins, the eight-inch trout would have slipped out as easily as it must have slipped in. Incredibly, it was still twitching.

Even now, six hours later, the memory turned his stomach.

He passed the last square of concrete sidewalk without noticing. When he felt the uneven gravel path under his wingtips, he knew he was a quarter mile from home.

There was a spike of cool air in the early June evening. The momentary fear of a storm passed when Sparker glanced up at the cloudless blue of the sky.
Going to be a beautiful night
, he thought.

He quickened his pace, eager to see his wife and the pitcher of martinis he hoped she would have waiting for him. He could sure use a drink.

He had instructed the bewildered and embarrassed parents to drive the little girl directly to the hospital in Burlington. No doubt there were some minor internal injuries. Nothing serious, he assured them. Still, he wondered how they would explain the problem to the admitting people.

That's sure one for the textbooks
, Sparker mused as he heard a soft plop behind him.

He stopped, turned, looked around, but saw nothing.

Returning to stride, his house came into view. Again he noticed how the big maple tree in the front yard appeared to be dying. Too many leafless branches; too many limp leaves. Gonna have to take the chainsaw to it, he thought, before some storm drops it on the house. A pity, too. Beautiful old tree. Going to cut back on shade for the porch.

Then he consoled himself thinking of all the firewood the tree would yield.
PLOP!

The sound came from right behind him.

He turned to look as something solid struck his shoulder.

"What the—?"

A twitching eight-inch trout tumbled from his shoulder to the ground where it joined its flip-flopping companion. Then another fell, striking the road with a fleshy thwack!"

"Holy Moses!" Sparker said as he bent to examine the fish. He watched its gills open and close along with its mouth.

Plop. Plop-plop
.

More fish landed around him. They smacked the ground like clapping hands.

Standing up straight, he squinted into the clear sky.

Far, far overhead, more fish looked like distant dirigibles where they appeared—just appeared—out of nowhere. Then they fell, slowly, strangely slowly, seeming to gain speed as they descended.

Holy shit!

They struck the walk, the grass, the blacktop. They were all around, twitching and flopping.

"Jesus Christ in Heaven!" Sparker said, quickening his pace.

As he passed the big maple tree, he saw motion some three feet over his head. At first the alien animal looked like some odd variety of snake crawling out of a hole in the trunk. But no! A second look told him it was the head of another trout, a big one. Crazily, it was half-embedded in the solid wood of the tree, as if it had just . . . materialized there.

Sparker couldn't believe his eyes. The old man fairly ran across his yard, eager to show his wife what was happening.

Hobston, Vermont

T
he priest's house was dark and old.

Like the scales of a giant lizard, cedar shingles so brown they looked black covered the rectory, the church, and the walkway that connected them. A sign shaped like a coat of arms hung beside the church door. It said:

St. Joseph's

Roman Catholic Church

Established 1867

Someone had painted over the priest's name, and the paint, like everything else on this Hobston street corner, looked ancient.

Father Sullivan appeared at the entrance the moment Karen and Jeff pulled into the driveway. By the time they were out of the car, the priest had walked halfway across the lawn to meet them.

Karen noted his casual attire: blue jeans and a drab sweatshirt. His gray hair was thick, highlighted with yellow the color of tobacco stains. He looked fit, but older than she had expected. In his sixties, at least.

And there was something more. He looked familiar, as if she had met him before.

"I'm glad you came," he said, holding out his right hand. Karen took it, smiling shyly. All her life she'd been intimidated by clerics. To her they were the spiritual elite, privileged to know something she didn't. Something about life, and afterlife. Something about reality and happiness. But, she reminded herself, she'd come here, not because William Sullivan was a priest, but because he was a psychologist.

Jeff introduced himself.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear about your daughter, Jeff. I know the police can't help much in a situation like this. No matter what their instincts tell them, they have to wait a day or so to confirm a person's absence. Of course, I'm ready to help immediately ill can."

Jeff shook Sullivan's hand, then he followed the priest and Karen to the rectory.

With Sullivan holding the door, they walked single file into a tiny dark mudroom with coat hooks on either side. A second door brought them into a spacious living room where a mullioned picture window looked out at the darkening backyard.

Karen noted worn burgundy leather furniture around a fireplace. On both sides of the brick chimney bookshelves—mostly empty—rose floor to ceiling. Woodwork and exposed beams were stained a dark brown. The fading walls were off-white.

Directly above her head, melted stubs of candles lined a cast-iron chandelier.

A lovely old place
, Karen thought: definitely a man's domain, a cozy hybrid of library and hunting lodge. No! She had it now—the place suggested an old world men's club. It lacked only the fragrance of cigars, brandy in snifters, and a scattering of white-haired men in tweed coats, pouring over newspapers.

She jumped when the grandfather clock chimed the half hour. Seven-thirty.

"Come in, please," Sullivan said. He walked toward an odd door frame, maybe eight feet wide, enclosing a series of dark, tightly stacked horizontal slats, almost like wainscoting.

Puzzled, Karen asked what it was,

Sullivan's face brightened. "It's a door!" He demonstrated by reaching to the floor and lifting it as if it were a window shade. The horizontal slats vanished into the ceiling'. "This house was built for the church over a hundred years ago," he explained. "The man who built it made his fortune manufacturing rolltop desks. This may be the world's first and only rolltop study."

"That's terrific," Jeff said, but his features showed little enthusiasm.

Sullivan said, "Why don't we sit in here?"

They chose two old, comfortable chairs that smelled faintly of mildew. Sullivan took a place behind a big mahogany desk. After a volley of pleasantries the priest leaned forward and went directly to the point. "Jeff, after talking with Karen, it seems the three of us have a lot to discuss. If you don't mind, I'd like you to start. Please tell us everything about this . . . somewhat questionable employer of yours."

Karen liked the way the priest was so direct: it was probably the best thing for Jeff. She watched him moisten his lips with the tip of his tongue. He cleared his throat and started talking. "Well . . . a little more than three years ago, about six months before my wife died, I accepted a research position at the Massachusetts Technological Academy. In fact, they recruited me. I was with IBM at the time, but I was bored and eager for a change.

"I didn't know what to make of them at first; see, they wanted to hire me as a UFO investigator. The minute I realized they were serious, I went for it. I mean, hey, I've always had a real . . . curiosity . . . about flying saucers. I loved to speculate about, you know, visitors from other planets, the possibility of a totally alien technology, all that kind of thing."

The priest nodded.

"The money was good, the assignment was intriguing, and, well, it was almost magic: one moment I'm a drone at an IBM plant, then. Voilã! I'm a UFO investigator for a highly secret, government-funded research program.

"First off, I had to pass a security clearance. Then take an oath of secrecy. Lots of top-secret mumbo-jumbo. But hell, I didn't care about that, I just wanted to get the straight scoop on UFOs. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't anyone?"

Father Sullivan nodded noncommittally, never breaking eye contact as Jeff continued. "Their security made IBM look like kindergarten. They wouldn't even let me talk about my job. But that was okay, I didn't have to worry about my friends thinking I'm a crackpot.

"At first everything was fine by me: suddenly I've got access to all these government files on UFOs, dating all the way back to Project Blue Book. Earlier, too. You may be surprised to learn that our government has been tracking UFOs in a structured and organized manner since Calvin Coolidge was in the White House. That's the early 1920s."

Sullivan raised his eyebrows.

"And here's something else that appealed to me: the freedom. Mostly I'd be traveling or working out of my home. They gave me a computer terminal, a fax machine, an expense account, credit cards, clerical backup, pretty much anything I wanted. Every two weeks or so I'd go into the office and meet with the director, Dr. Ian McCurdy. Quite recently Skipp—that's McCurdy's nickname—gave me the grand tour of the Academy's covert installation while he explained about some of the other things—secret things—they're involved in. That was the turning point for me."

Karen watched Jeff fidget and hedge. She suspected he was trying to decide how best to introduce the topic of magic. He outlined the computer's data base of arcane knowledge, the artificial-organic processing unit, the worldwide staff of researchers and data entry people. When he was well into his description of the horrifying videotaped execution, he had still avoided the word.

She noticed how Father Sullivan paid close and uncritical attention. He would nod, prod with a gentle "Go on. . . ." and smile benignly at appropriate places. She liked the way the priest conducted things. Even his appearance seemed to encourage trust and confidence. Father Sullivan looked like a stereotypical Irish priest from a TV show. His silvery hair and heavy-browed eyes made him appear distinguished and wise. A strong jaw suggested a real no-nonsense quality about him, that if needed he could offer physical, as well as spiritual, protection.

But gosh
, she wondered,
why does he look so familiar?

"So as I understand it," Sullivan said, "your Dr. McCurdy pushed a button in Boston and somehow executed this unfortunate man in California?"

"That's right, Father. We brought the videotape. Karen has it in her purse. You can see for yourself."

"Frankly, Jeff, your description of this . . . atrocity . . . is vivid enough for me. I guess I'm lucky not to have a VCR or television set. But please be sure I believe you. So, how do you think this execution was actually accomplished?"

Jeff sat up very straight in his chair, his back rigid as a post. Crossing his arms over his chest, he set his jaw and spat out the word—"Magic."

Sullivan didn't crack a smile.

Jeff looked uncertainly at Karen, then back at Sullivan. "You . . . you believe that, Father?"

Sullivan massaged his chin with a big-knuckled hand. "Until we have a more precise word, yes."

Karen and Jeff traded glances.

"Don't forget, Jeff, you're talking with a priest, a person who has devoted his life to a world of invisible forces, mystical experience, and the survival of death. You're also talking with a man—and a woman—who've devoted their careers to the mysteries of the human mind, its frailty, and its apparently awesome power. Sure I believe you. And now I'm going to ask that you believe me."

Sullivan told them about his trip to Canada, the decade-old exorcism, and the kidnapping of Father Mosely. He paused only long enough to light a cigarette. "Within the last few days," he said, "I'm starting to believe that the world of the human mind, and the unseen world of mystical powers, may be more closely related than anyone—but perhaps the most advanced occultists—has ever believed. Apparently something incredible happened in this church. Ten years ago, some horrible confrontation turned Father Mosely into a human vegetable yet, impossibly, kept him from dying. Does that sound like magic, too, Jeff?"