Psychlone (12 page)

“No!"

The door swung open and the reporter backed away. At first, there was nothing outside but darkness. Then, in the light through the door, Fowler saw a dark, hulking shape, oddly textured. He tried to place the texturing in his memory—where had he seen it before? He stood in the corner of the hallway, just beyond the kitchen, leaning against the wall. Prohaska was placing his hands over his eyes, unwilling to see what was outside. A stream of glowing things poured through the door in a rectangle, like an extrusion of gelatin filled with burning flecks, pushing against Prohaska. Mosquitoes and flies clung to his coat and pants and nestled in his hair. Fowler watched and gasped. The shape outside the door moaned and moved. It had tusks, ill-defined because of what it was made out of—tusks, a flat nose and huge, powerful shoulders. It stood on four thin legs, stomach low to the ground, and two red eyes peered into the cabin, searching, flashing like coals in the wind. They fastened on Prohaska.

Fowler remembered where he had seen the texture before—in the drive. The thing was made of gravel. He shouted to warn Prohaska and ran to close the door. The burning insects struck him like a shower of sparks, stinging his skin. With eyes closed, he braced his shoulder against the door, pushing with all his strength while Prohaska stood dumbly behind. It was a losing battle.

Fowler was flung aside like a toy. The door slammed against the wall. Lying against the couch arm, he saw the boar coil itself to leap. He made a weak gesture to kick Prohaska back, but he was too late. The boar poured through the opening, striking the reporter in the head and chest, knocking him to the opposite wall, muffling his screams as gravel filled his mouth. The pig collapsed into a mound of rock and covered Prohaska as he slid to the floor.

Fowler stood, swayed in shock, then lurched forward. Everything was still. With one hand he shut the door, latched it and locked it. Then he turned to look at the reporter.

He lay on the floor, at least a foot deep in gravel, his face bleeding. Fowler knelt down by him and gently touched his forehead. “My God,” he said. Prohaska's arm moved, dislodging a few pebbles and sending them skittering across the floor.

Fowler rolled the man's head to one side and tried to pick pebbles out of his mouth.

Outside, in the drive, it sounded like a giant foot was stomping their cars into the ground.

Approaching Lorobu on Highway 54, Trumbauer looked at his watch and announced, “Four-ten. Should be there in a few minutes.” Jacobs was sitting across the back seat, holding his leg so it wouldn't knock irritably against a water tin.

“How do you feel, Miss Unamuno?” he asked. She was in the front seat and turned to look back at him.

“I don't feel anything,” she said, puzzled. “It's not at all like it was. I mean, it could just be a normal day and nothing changed. Except—there are a lot of worried people ahead."

“Intuition or psychic or both?” Trumbauer asked.

“Just a lot of worried signals."

“I'm feeling them, too,” Trumbauer said. “Franklin, could you get me a glass of tea from the thermos?"

Jacobs poured the cup and handed it across the seat. “FBI people, I suppose,” he said. “What do we do if it's sealed off?"

“Turn around and go home, I suppose. Maybe the hotel will take a message from that clerk in Washington."

Jacobs frowned skeptically. “I wonder what they've found."

“Road block ahead. Detour,” Trumbauer said.

A soldier dressed in kelly green, wearing dark glasses and a baseball-type cap, waved them over as they approached a wood and sand-bag barricade.

“What's your purpose, please?” he asked, bending down to Trumbauer's level.

“We've come to do research,” Trumbauer said. Jacobs lifted his eyes at the tactless response.

“We've already told you people, flying saucers had nothing to do with this."

“Not about the town directly,” Jacobs said, leaning forward in his seat. The dark glasses stared at him implacably. “We're here to inquire about several people—"

“Inhabitants?"

“We don't know. We have a list of names."

“Can I see identification?"

They took out their driver's licenses and handed them to the soldier, who had called for several others to join him. Three men and a woman, all in the same uniform, surrounded the station wagon.

“Mr. Jacobs, what's your interest in this?” the soldier asked.

“Mr. Trumbauer requested my services."

“Why do you need him, Mr. Trumbauer?"

“I—I—"

“Tell him, Arnold. He already thinks we're crazy."

“I represent a group of people with unusual abilities,” Trumbauer said. “Psychics, actually. Miss Unamuno here has the ... uh ... ability. And we—that is, the people I represent—were all brought down ill at the same time.... “He stopped and swallowed. The dark glasses registered no change in expression, but seemed to convey disdain.

“Go on,” the soldier said.

“They were all made sick by what happened in Lorobu,” Trumbauer finished.

The soldier nodded and walked around the car to talk to his companions. Trumbauer glanced back at Jacobs and shook his head. “We're in too deep,” he said. “They won't have anything to do with us."

“Too deep?” Jacobs asked. “We're concerned citizens. There was a time when that meant something."

The soldier returned and took off his dark glasses. His eyes were blue and he was really quite young, Jacobs saw—no more than twenty-three. “Were you planning on driving around the town? There's a detour."

“I don't believe so,” Trumbauer said. “Our business is in Lorobu."

“Lorobu is closed off for now. No admittance. I'm sorry you had to come all this way. If you'll give me your list of names, I'll let you—"

“Sorry,” Jacobs said, waving his hand. “If anything turns up, we'll get in touch.” The soldier shrugged and backed away as Trumbauer turned the station wagon around.

Janet Unamuno sat silent as they drove away. “They don't even know what's happened,” she said a few minutes later. “They think it's an act of terrorism. That somebody gassed the whole town."

“He was thinking that?” Trumbauer asked. She nodded. “Maybe he wasn't in on it."

“I'm treating for dinner,” Jacobs said. “You've all been very good sports."

“We'll stop over in Santa Rosa,” Trumbauer said. He glanced up in his mirror and frowned. “Or maybe we won't.” Jacobs turned and saw a Jeep pursuing them about a mile behind, lights flashing.

“Slow down,” he said. Trumbauer slowed the station wagon and pulled over to the side of the highway. The Jeep parked in front of them and a man and a woman in kelly green got out. The woman took a position by Unamuno's side as the man stood near the driver's door.

“Mr. Franklin Jacobs, please,” the soldier said.

“I'm him,” Jacobs said, getting out. The soldier backed away nervously.

“Are you the Jacobs—the Mr. Jacobs who inquired about a list of names, specifically—” And he read off the first three names of Unamuno's roster.

“I am."

“Could you please come with us? Just turn around and head back for Lorobu. We'll follow."

“My call to Washington must have aroused some attention,” Jacobs said as Trumbauer brought the car around.

“Then maybe they do know more,” Trumbauer said.

“Or maybe they suspect us."

“No,” Janet said. “They're scared, but not of us."

They were flagged through the barricade and escorted down the main street.

Except for the men in white body suits and scattered soldiers in kelly green, Lorobu was deserted. Barbed wire had been placed around the town, even around the outlying shacks common near desert communities. Portable generators had been set up near mobile command trailers, and their noise provided an aural backdrop to the emptiness.

The Jeep pulled alongside and the woman told Trumbauer to park his car in front of the Lorobu Inn.

“How are you feeling?” Jacobs asked Miss Unamuno.

“A little frightened, but not sick."

“Then it's gone,” Trumbauer said. “I don't feel anything unusual, except the emptiness and the nervousness."

The young soldier opened the car doors for them and asked them to come into the inn. They walked by the restaurant entrance, which was sealed with an official notice of quarantine, into the hotel lobby. A staff sergeant was stationed behind the front desk. He snapped to attention as a Colonel came down the stairs and approached the group of three.

“Hello,” the man said cordially, offering his hand to Trumbauer, then to Jacobs, and finally to Miss Unamuno. “I'm Colonel James David Silvera, in charge of research here in Lorobu. I understand you're interested in recent events here.” He was in his forties, with wiry gray hair and a weathered olive complexion. His nose was a match for Jacobs'.

Trumbauer introduced himself and the others. Jacobs examined the lobby casually, noting the line of portable bulletin boards, new television monitors, and a pile of electronic gear neatly stacked by the old elevator. “Sir,” he said, “is this all top secret?"

“Yes, Mr. Jacobs, it is."

“Then you can't tell us anything."

“I wouldn't say that. We feel very obligated when citizens express an interest in our work.” He brought a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and opened it. “You requested information on a list of names, most of them military personnel at one time or another."

“All of them,” Miss Unamuno said.

“Where did you get the list?"

Jacobs looked at Miss Unamuno.

“I gave it to them,” she told the Colonel.

“Were you acquainted with any of these men?"

“Of course not,” she said. “I believe they're all dead."

Silvera nodded. “Who gave the list to you?"

“The names were conveyed to me by—” She hesitated. Silvera waited, then smiled and said, “Don't worry, Miss Unamuno. Nothing will seem very strange after a few hours in Lorobu."

“By the spirits of the men themselves. I think. I'm not positive. I was very ill."

“What made you ill?"

Trumbauer broke in. “Lorobu made many psychics in New Mexico ill, Colonel."

“Yes. I can see that. Over eight hundred people dying in one day. Very traumatic."

“That wasn't what made them ill,” Jacobs said wryly. “Colonel, we're being frank with you. In exchange, I hope you can confirm or deny some of our suspicions."

“As much as I'm able. My office is upstairs.” He turned to the staff sergeant and requested that the mess truck provide them with sandwiches, coffee and milk. “That's all we have for now, I'm afraid. The restaurant is closed down.” They followed him up the stairs.

Silvera's office was a converted guest room. Some of the rooms were sealed off, others were being used as offices and storage areas. Silvera explained that all the soldiers were billeted in tents on the other side of town, or in the Holiday Inn farther down the road. “It was almost empty when this happened,” he said. “Frankly, I think the rooms here have more charm."

The room was in western style, with furniture made of tamarisk and decorations consisting of a weatherbeaten oxen yoke, some unidentifiable piece of flattened mining machinery, and an old saddle standing near the door on a converted parking-meter pipe. Silvera's office equipment barely intruded—a portable steel desk, a file cabinet, and several new telephones, only two of which were connected. The wires ran out the window, presumably to a field-communications trailer nearby. A portable typewriter squatted lightly on the desk. He sat down on one of the twin beds and offered a chair to Miss Unamuno.

“Perhaps you should begin first,” he suggested.

“First, a question,” Jacobs said. Silvera nodded. “The list that we gave you—are those names by chance classified?"

Silvera nodded again.

“Is Lorobu connected with secret government tests?"

The Colonel shook his head. “No. Lorobu was not wiped out by nerve gas, secret Army plagues, or anything of the kind."

“Fine,” Jacobs said. “Arnold, I think we should tell the Colonel all we know."

When Trumbauer finished the story, the sandwiches and drinks arrived and they ate quietly. Silvera made notes on file cards and stacked them neatly on the bedstand. It was dark outside. A big truck pulled in behind the inn, its lights briefly illuminating a wall beyond the window.

“We know very little, ourselves,” Silvera said after wiping his lips with a paper napkin. “We're in the position of police investigators who have no clues and no hope of solving the case. They've been known to call in psychics, so why can't we? Well, in this case we're concerned with more than a single murder, or maintaining press security to prevent copycat crimes. Since you've come up with something that matches what little evidence we have—"

Jacobs raised his eyebrows.

“—I think you're fairly legitimate. I'm going to make a request that security checks be run on you, and that you be given clearance to help us here."

“I already have a security clearance,” Jacobs said. “I was in the Navy."

“Good. That'll expedite things. For the moment, since you probably already suspect something, I'll give you this much information. Some of the names on your list we've already investigated. Several were recorded around the town by former citizens."

“Recorded how?” Trumbauer asked.

“I thought you might have read it—it was reported in a newspaper back East. One name was written all over the inside of a shack where a wino lived. Others were scrawled in phone booths, doors, desks, chairs, all sorts of places. Apparently the people in Lorobu were receiving something similar to what you picked up.” He looked at them quizzically. “Is that what you think?"

“Did the people on the list live in Lorobu at one time?” Miss Unamuno asked.

“Only one,” Silvera said. “The first name—Lieutenant William Skorvin. He lived here in the thirties. Went into the Navy in 1941, became a pilot, and was killed in World War Two."

“How was he killed?” Jacobs asked.

“My orders are to prime the pump a little—to see if you have anything more of interest to offer. But let's wait and see if you're cleared."