Biblical (21 page)

Phantom earthquakes in France and India, both on the sites of major historical quakes, had left people injured and killed. Just like the Boston episode, the effects of major seismic events had been felt, the tremors and shaking of the earth experienced by those present, but again there had been no physical evidence of real seismic activity of any kind.

It was no longer a spook story. Serious efforts were put into establishing exactly what could be causing the effects. The epidemic proposal continued to be put forward: a virus or other agent was attacking the vestibular system of victims. The remarkable coincidence that everyone seemed to suffer attacks of imbalance and auditory hallucination at
precisely
the same moment seemed not to feature in anyone’s thinking.

There were, of course, a hundred crackpot hypotheses generated by the conspiracy theorists, the religious Right and the otherwise deranged. The Illuminati were behind it all, creating the chaos from which to establish their New World Order; aliens were causing it, using mind-control beams to confuse the human population before a full-scale invasion of Earth; God was punishing humankind for turning its back on Him and worshiping the false gods of science; the government had developed a new weapon and it had gone wrong, according to one conspiracy theory, or they had deliberately tested it on Boston, according to another. And there were those who exploited the situation and the gullible: claims were made that the phenomena could be controlled and conjured at will and tickets were sold for live concerts by Elvis, Frank Sinatra and Caruso.

Generally, people went about their normal business, but their faces in the street were anxious and uneasy, as if mistrusting everything they saw.

In the meantime, Macbeth’s Boston schedule went ahead as planned. Colleagues in Copenhagen called to ask if he’d experienced the earthquake; he regretted admitting he had, for it resulted in endless questions about what it had been like and what he thought had caused it.

Casey’s head injury had been as minor as Macbeth had suspected, but he was clearly troubled: Casey was someone whose logic and intelligence made sense of almost any puzzle, but the experience in the restaurant was beyond even his rationalization. He insisted that Macbeth move into his apartment for the rest of his stay in Boston.

“I know you like to have things just so,” Casey said. “But so do I … I think we can harmonize our just-sos for a few days. I don’t know about you, but after what happened the other night, I think we could do with each other’s company.”

Comforted by the thought of moving in with Casey, Macbeth’s reluctance to cause his brother trouble was largely for show and he agreed to check out of his hotel.

*

The woman behind the hotel reception desk was young and attractive, with very dark hair swept back from a pretty face and large blue eyes. He’d spoken to her a couple of times before and when he checked out he picked up again on the way she smiled at him. She was very much Macbeth’s type and in different circumstances he would have initiated a date, but there was too much happening, too many things taking his mind out of the moment. He apologized for checking out early and said he understood if he had to pay in full for the nights he had booked.

“That’s not a problem Dr Macbeth, I’m just sorry you’re having to cut short your stay in Boston.”

“Oh, I’m not really … It’s just that my brother has asked me to move into his apartment till I leave. Things … I mean people …” Macbeth struggled to articulate the thought. “Things are a little different after what happened the other night.”

She nodded understandingly. “Well, perhaps we’ll see you again …”

“I’m sure you will.” He smiled.

“You’ve stayed with us before, haven’t you?” she asked, with that familiar frown of concentrated recall.

“No, this is my first stay in the hotel.”

“Really? I’m sure we’ve met before …” Her frown remained.

“No, we haven’t.” He smiled. “Believe me, I would remember.”

He was about to turn from the reception desk when, over her shoulder, he saw a framed photograph of the dark-haired and bearded man he had seen in the hall by the elevator. Macbeth was relieved that he had been able to deal with the pretty girl and not the man who hadn’t held the car for him.

“The owner?” he asked the young woman, nodding towards the picture.

“My father,” she said. “And yes, this was his hotel.”

‘Was?”

“Dad died when I was very young. My mother has run the hotel since. Twenty-three years now …”

*

The driver of the waiting cab popped the trunk and started over to take Macbeth’s luggage when a pair of sunglasses and a dark suit full of shoulders stepped out of the town car parked behind the taxi.

“It’s okay,” the suit said to the taxi driver. “I’m here to take Dr Macbeth where he needs to go.”

The driver shrugged, shut the trunk and got back into his cab.

“Are you from the Schilder Institute?” Macbeth asked. “I wasn’t expecting a ride. I’m afraid we’ll have to make a detour – I’ve got to drop my stuff off at my brother’s place.”

“That’s not a problem, sir, and we’ll drop you off at the Institute after, but I’m not from there.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a wallet with an official ID. Macbeth saw the blue capitals.

“FBI?”

“Special Agent Bundy. I wonder if you could help us with a couple of things. We won’t take you out of your way and you will be on time for your appointment at the Institute.”

“Bundy?”

“Yes sir, as in Ted. No relation.” The FBI man smiled.

“What’s this all about? What on earth can I do for the FBI?”

Agent Bundy held out an arm in the direction of the town car. “Maybe we could talk on the way. I’m conscious of your schedule, doctor.”

Macbeth shrugged, allowed Bundy to take his bags and followed him to the car.

*

Macbeth had the same sense of claustrophobia in the back of the Lincoln that he had felt in the police prowler. The windows were tinted dark, which seemed to remove him further from the city they drove through. The driver didn’t turn or acknowledge Macbeth as he got into the rear with Bundy.

“So,” said Macbeth when they were under way, “what can I help the FBI with?”

“Have you heard of someone called John Astor?” Bundy removed his sunglasses and Macbeth could see that he had the most striking color of eyes. Almost like targets, each eye had a narrow band of orangey-brown around the iris, surrounded by a wider band of bright green-blue. It made his gaze disconcertingly penetrating.

“Heard of him, yes,” said Macbeth. “But that’s all. To be honest, I thought he was a bit of an urban myth – him and this mysterious book of his. Why do you ask?”

“But you have no knowledge of John Astor other than these rumors?”

“The name has a significance to me, but it’s not at all connected.”

“Oh?” Bundy leaned forward.

“I had a patient – years ago, when I was at McLean. He was exhibiting symptoms of what appeared to be Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

“And his name was John Astor?”

Macbeth shook his head. “No, that was the name he gave one of his alters.”

“Alters?”

“Dissociative Identity Disorder is sometimes called Multiple Personality Disorder. Some trauma, injury or pathology causes the patient to seek refuge in different identities. Alternate identities or alters. One of his alters used the name John Astor.”

“What happened to this patient?”

“He’s not your man, if that’s what you mean,” said Macbeth. “I’m afraid he died. Suicide. One I lost.”

“I see.” Bundy thought for a moment, holding Macbeth with his striking eyes. “Have you heard of a group of people who call themselves the Simulists?”

Macbeth frowned. “No I haven’t. Why do you ask?”

“But you have heard of Blind Faith?”

“Yes …” Macbeth sighed, making no effort to conceal his impatience. He looked out at a glass-darkened Boston. “I’ve heard of Blind Faith.”

“And, of course, you knew Melissa Collins?”

Macbeth turned from the window. “Melissa? What about Melissa?”

For a moment Bundy seemed to be assessing Macbeth; his reactions. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what? What the hell is this all about?”

“I’m sorry, Dr Macbeth, I thought you would know by now. The mass suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge. Melissa Collins was the leader of the group. She was the CEO of the company they all worked for.”

Macbeth stared at Bundy. He had heard about the suicides, had known they were young people, but being in Copenhagen he had never read the details, names. Melissa? Melissa had been one of them? While his brain processed what Bundy had told him, he noticed a dark stain camouflaged by the diagonal stripes on the FBI man’s tie. Melissa was dead and all Macbeth could think about was what the genetic reason could be for Bundy’s unusual eye color and where he had gotten the stain on his tie.

“Melissa …” Macbeth heard himself saying again. Bringing himself back, he shook his head vigorously. “I don’t believe it. Not Melissa … there is no one I know less likely to commit suicide than her. And I’m talking as a professional psychiatrist as well as someone who was involved with her. Whatever happened, I know she didn’t throw herself off the Golden Gate.”

“I’m afraid there is no doubt about it. No doubt at all. Not only did she jump, she seemed to lead the others to as well. It was witnessed by a police officer and recorded on security cameras. You never suspected her as being potentially suicidal?”

“No, of course not. Melissa was the most well-balanced person I know, and the very last person to take their own life.” Macbeth thought about what he had just said and how it echoed almost exactly what Casey had said about Gabriel Rees.

“When was the last time you saw Melissa?”

“About three years ago. Before I went over to Denmark. We … well, we went our separate ways. She took up a research post in Los Angeles. I had no idea she had moved to San Francisco or had set up a software company, so when I heard about the Golden Gate thing, I simply didn’t put it together.” Macbeth shook his head. “I just can’t believe it.”

“And at that time, the last time you saw her, was she involved with any particular group?”

“What kind of group?” Macbeth found himself blaming Bundy for his own confusion. None of what he was hearing made sense. He was also confused by his own lack of grief, but
he knew that would come. Eventually. The world reached John Macbeth in arrears, through the delaying relays of his weird internal wiring.

“I mean, did she have any particularly strong religious affiliations, or involvement with belief groups? Particularly fringe belief groups.”

“Melissa involved in a cult? That’s crazy. She had no time for religion, mainstream, fringe or otherwise. As far as I’m aware, she was an atheist. No … If that’s the story behind what happened to her, I don’t believe it.”

They were on the other side of the Common now, Boston still flat and smoked-glass dark.

“We have evidence that she was involved with a group that meets many of the criteria of a cult,” said Bundy. When he spoke, the FBI man seemed empty of expression or emotion. Maybe a lack of affect was trained into you at Quantico.

“What? You think Melissa was involved with Blind Faith?”

“No, not Blind Faith. Did she ever mention John Astor to you?”

“Astor? No, not that I can remember. I don’t think either of us had heard about him at that time. It’s only over the last few months—”

“Did she ever mention either Samuel Tennant or Jeff Killberg?”

Macbeth thought for a moment then shook his head. “Who are they?”

“One of the people Melissa was working with in San Francisco was called Deborah Canning. Canning is also from Boston – do you know if Melissa knew her before she moved to California?”

“If she did, she never mentioned her to me. Now, could you tell me why you’re so interested in Melissa if it’s a case of simple suicide?”

“Twenty-seven young people throwing themselves off the Golden Gate Bridge at the same time could never be described as simple suicide,” said Bundy. “The California Highway Patrol
are still investigating the event. My interest lies in the circumstances behind it.”

“So why do I get more than a whiff of the Homeland Act?”

“There are a number of toxic cults out there at the moment; some are potential threats to national security. I’m simply looking into any possible connection between what happened in San Francisco and certain persons or groups of interest. To be honest, there’s probably none, but we have to go through the motions.”

Macbeth nodded, even though Bundy did not strike him as a through-the-motions type.

“Ah, we’re here …” Bundy said with a smile that made no effort to reach his strange eyes. Macbeth could see they were outside Casey’s apartment building. “We’ll wait for you while you drop your stuff off, then take you to the Schilder Institute. It’s the least we can do for taking up your time.”

“You didn’t take up my time and you saved me the fare. But I’ll take a cab to the Institute. I’ve got a few things to do here first.”

“If you’re sure, Dr Macbeth. In the meantime, thanks for your time and help.”

*

After he got out and the silent driver placed his bags at his feet, Macbeth watched the town car glide down the street and around the corner. As he did so, he reflected on the fact that he now stood exactly outside his brother’s apartment, even though he hadn’t told either Bundy or his driver where Casey lived.

It was two weeks and one psych visit after the incident in the street.

Karen still performed her doorway rituals; still led a perfectly normal life outside those abstract moments of ceremony. Dr Corbin expressed no concern about what had happened in the street, explaining that her OCD made her no more prone to delusions or hallucinations than any one else; what she had seen was either a real girl who had simply stepped back onto the sidewalk and out of sight, or it had been a simple case of pareidolia, where the brain adds a visual two-and-two to make five. We all do it, he said.

Nevertheless, the episode troubled her. She had lain in bed recalling the imagined little girl and the real man who pulled Karen to safety – trying to work out where she had seen him before and how she had known what his voice would sound like before she heard it.