The Shimmer (28 page)

"But the lights weren't the reason Mullen became a religious fanatic," Page countered. "You heard what his brother said. Mullen suddenly needed to believe in God and heaven so he could convince himself that his wife was in a better place and that one day he'd join her there. But the lights are another matter. What they did to him made him furious."

Tori looked as puzzled as Costigan and Medrano.

"They tempted him," Page explained. "They were so alluring that for the first time since his wife died, he felt good. Better than good.

They filled him with pleasure. That's why he kept coming back-because the lights were like a drug. He fought what they did to him.

He bought more religious statues and paintings. He tried to live like a monk and punish himself to prove that he loved his wife, that he was worthy to join her . . . but he couldn't stop thinking about the lights.

They were a pleasure he couldn't stop craving. They made him furious because they showed him how weak he was. We'll never know if he truly thought he could destroy the lights by shooting at them.

Maybe he just needed a target for his rage."

"And then he chose closer targets," Medrano said, beginning to understand. "Targets he could hit."

Page nodded. "Exactly. He decided that the lights were evil and that anybody who enjoyed them had to be evil, also."

"Well, you've sure been getting your money's worth from those psychology courses," Costigan said.

Page felt his cheeks turn red with embarrassment. "I admit it's only a theory."

"One that can't be proved."

"Here's another theory," Page told them.

They waited. Tori looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time.

"Assuming the lights are real . . ."

"A big assumption," Medrano said. "I told you, I've never seen them, and it isn't for lack of trying."

"That's not surprising."

"How so?"

"If I'm right," Page said, "the lights intensify the personalities of the people who try to see them. As a police officer, you're a professional skeptic. That skepticism becomes emphasized out there. You're too guarded to be able to see them."

Page turned toward Costigan. "The man who killed your father was a drunk and a bully. You told me that after he came here, he got more extreme. One theory was that he felt humiliated by losing his job in Fort Worth and having to come to a small town where a relative managed to find work for him. His humiliation fueled his rage. But I don't believe that. The more I'm in Rostov, the more I talk to people and overhear what they say, the more I think the lights mirror what's going on inside us. They make whatever we are more extreme. Harriett Ward says James Deacon was obsessed with the lights when Birthright was filmed here. They reflected his need to be a great actor to the point that when he was supposed to age in the story, he actually did look older."

"But as you say, that assumes the lights are real," Medrano pointed out.

"If they're not real, the idea still works. Under the right circumstances, people who need to see the lights will believe they see them.

They'll project their personalities onto what they're imagining. The result will be the same."

"The man who killed my father never saw them," Costigan said.

"And that made him furious," Page replied. "When Tori and I were here earlier, you wondered if people could be affected by the lights even though they didn't see them. Maybe it's not the lights. Maybe it's being out there in the dark, surrounded by nothing. People become more extreme versions of who they are."

"I saw them," Costigan said from his hospital bed.

They looked at him in surprise.

"The day of my father's funeral. After I left the cemetery, I drove out to the observation area. I needed to be alone, and nobody was ever out there during the day. I sat in my father's cruiser and thought about what had happened to him. I was on the Dallas police force back then. The Rostov town council had asked me to take over for my father and become the new police chief, but I wasn't sure I wanted to be in law enforcement any longer because people are so disappointing and many of them don't seem worth helping. Gradually I became aware that I'd sat there all afternoon, that the sun was going down.

"Cars began to stop. People got out, waiting for it to be dark enough to try to see the lights. I kept sitting there. Then the dark settled in, and a few of the people pointed toward the horizon. I glanced in that direction, and by God, there the lights were. I couldn't believe it. Some nights, when I'd visited my father, I'd gone out there to try to see them, but I'd never had any luck, and now, suddenly, there they were. Dancing, drifting, glowing, merging. The colors were soothing.

"I sat there smiling, and I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, the cruiser's radio woke me. It was my father's deputy.

There was a fight in a bar, and he needed my help. He'd been leaving me alone because of the funeral. Now he apologized for needing backup. I looked toward the dark horizon where I'd seen the lights, but they'd disappeared. I told the deputy I was on my way. I don't know what seeing the lights did to me, but that night, I decided to become Rostov's police chief. I went out to the viewing area other times after that to see if I could find kids with lanterns trying to fool people--some way to explain the lights--but I never found practical jokers, and I never saw the lights again. I'm still not sure they were real. Maybe, as you say, I needed to see them."

"Need," Page said. "Some people need to help others. Some people need to hate. Some people need to fill their emptiness."

Page managed not to look at Tori when he said that.

"Another theory," Medrano said. "But how do you prove it?"

"Tonight I'll do my best."

"How?"

"I want to get closer to the lights." Both Costigan and Medrano looked as if they didn't like what he was saying. "Don't worry--I won't do anything that adds to your problems."

"We," Tori interrupted. "We'll do our best. Whatever you plan to do, I'm going with you."

Chapter 51.

As they stepped from the hospital, Medrano told Page, "I need to get back to the viewing area. I hope you meant what you promised about not adding to my problems."

"Don't worry. I won't go anywhere near you or the crowd, and I won't make trouble by trespassing on anybody's land."

"I'd love to know what you've got in mind."

"You'll get a full report tomorrow morning."

Medrano gave him a penetrating look and went down the steps toward his black-and-white Highway Patrol car.

Page and Tori remained on the steps, heat drifting off the concrete.

"Guess what," she said. "I'm beginning to understand you."

Page turned toward her, conscious of how the scarlet of the lowering sun emphasized her red hair.

"It took ten years of marriage," she said.

"I hope this isn't going to be a bad thing you're talking about."

"No, it's good. Yesterday you said that the way you distract yourself from the pain you see is by concentrating on small details."

"It's true."

"The idea is that the big picture can be overwhelming, but small portions of it can be handled--they become manageable," she said.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Well, if that's the case, I'm learning from you. Yesterday and today I focused on the little things. Then after a while, what I focused on wasn't so little. It was you. You're a really smart guy."

Page tried to make a joke. "You didn't already know that?"

"You're using the lights to distract you from my cancer. You're treating this like a criminal investigation."

"Which it is," he admitted. "Though there's more to it than that.

But it helps me get through the moment and prepare for Tuesday."

"It's taking your mind off what we both don't want to think about.

I'm using your investigation in the same way. As long as we've got this to do, I think I can be steady." She considered him. "The way you ask questions. The way you assess people and make them do what you need. Yeah, you're a really smart guy."

"I have the feeling you're using my own tactic. You're trying to find out something."

"What are we going to do tonight? How are we going to get closer to the lights?" At once Tori smiled--one of the few times he'd seen her do that recently. "I get it. You said we won't be near the crowd and we won't be trespassing.

"We're going to use your plane."

Chapter 52.

"What I need is another riot or a shooting to get this story back on track," Brent said as Anita drove.

"Why not an outbreak of bubonic plague?" she offered with muted sarcasm.

"Look, I know everybody thinks I'm an asshole." Brent studied the barren landscape as they passed. Cattle were spread out, eating the meager grass. "But you have to admit I got sensational overnight ratings for us. It's all about the tone. The weird stuff about the lights needs to sound like it's important--like it's actually news. If CNN is going to keep paying us to run with this, everything needs to sound believable, even if it's the weirdest shit I ever came across."

"Then why are we driving out to the observatory? Last night you said something about extraterrestrials. I hope to God you were joking."

"Yeah, it was a joke. Look, I'm winging this, okay? I'll know what I need when I see it. Besides, I don't understand why you're complaining. Do you have anything better to do?"

"Aside from earning as much extra money as I can, nope. And I don't know what gave you the idea I was complaining."

Anita stopped the van at the side of the road. Dust swirled as Brent studied the sign.

U. S. GOVERNMENT OBSERVATORY

RESTRICTED AREA

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

"Friendly," he said. "Let's get some shots of me standing next to it."

Stepping out into the intense sunlight, he walked through the blowing dust and positioned himself beside the sign. Determined to continue his rugged look, he didn't bother trying to swat any of the dust from his suit. With his tie open and his collar unbuttoned, he raised the handheld microphone to his mouth. The mike had a transmitter that sent audio directly to Anita's camera, but for the first time since coming to Rostov, he realized that he couldn't think of anything to say.

She held the heavy camera on her shoulder, focusing on him. It had a so-called shotgun microphone attached to the top. Projecting like a barrel, the microphone could register nearby sounds, but not as clearly as the one Brent held.

After a long moment of silence, she looked out from behind the camera.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asked.

"Sarcasm isn't welcome."

"Your fans are waiting."

"Hell with it, then. Let's drive up to the observatory and see if anything looks interesting. I can come back later and do the intro at the end."

"Drive up? I don't think so." Anita pointed toward a metal gate that stretched across the lane that led to the observatory. The gate was locked.

"I guess we head back to town." She moved to load the camera back into the truck.

"Maybe not." Brent walked to the opposite side of the gate.

"What are you doing?"

"Ever been on a farm?"

"I went to a zoo once."

"My grandfather owned a hundred acres in Ohio. I used to go there for two weeks every summer. I remember the day when he drove his tractor out to a field but a gate got locked by accident, and he didn't have the key to open it. I'd never heard anybody swear for that long a time." He smiled at the memory while he examined the gate's hinges and nodded. "Give me a hand, would you?"

She set down the camera and walked over. "Your grandfather found a way to get through?"

"Grab the gate on this end and help me lift."

Anita shrugged and got a solid grip on one of the metal poles.

They pushed upward. The hinges had metal circles that fitted over small metal posts. It took only a little effort to raise the circles from the posts and push the gate inward. Within minutes, they managed to make just enough room for the van to slip through.

"I guess the government hired somebody local to install the gate.

But they forgot to tell the guy that the gate protected an observatory, not a pasture."

"Maybe you didn't read that part of the sign where it says trespassers will be prosecuted," Anita said.

"We'll just say we found the gate off its hinges and worried that another terrible thing had happened. We decided it was our duty to investigate." He paused and looked at her. "But don't let me force you to do anything you're not comfortable with. Do you want to stop?"

"No way," Anita told him. "Ever heard of a cholla?"

"What's that?"

"A type of cactus. That was my nickname in high school."

"Because?"

"If people messed with me, they felt like a thorn got stuck in them and festered."