Psychlone (22 page)

Shit-eating nigger kill

He opened his eyes and edged back in his chair. In the kitchen entrance stood a tall, thin man, very old—looking older than anyone Tim could remember. His hair was white and long, reaching almost to his collar. He wasn't smiling, but his face seemed to embody humor.

“Timothy Townsend?” the man asked. His voice was resonant, full. Tim thought his accent might be English. “My name is Edward. I've heard a lot about you, and I've decided you need a friend now."

The old man's body seemed so insubstantial that for a moment Tim thought he might be a ghost, like his parents and the fellow named Percher. But he reached out his hand to take Tim's and the grip was warm, strong and dry. When they touched, Tim's headache vanished. Their hands still clasped, the old man spoke again. More than one voice seemed to come from his mouth.

“You have no need of the dead now, Timothy. They are past. Relax and let the hatred flow from you, into my arm. I have ways of disposing of it. Someday you can learn these ways and feel much, much better than you do now. May I have the hatred?"

Almost against his will, Tim shut his eyes again and felt his body tingle. For a second he wanted to cry, and then that was gone, too. The man let go of his hand.

“Who are you?” Tim asked.

“I'm a vagabond, in a way. A hobo, Timothy. I spend my life going from place to place, trying to learn about people and the things inside—and outside—of them. How old do you think I am?” Tim shook his head and the man laughed. “I'm quite old, by your standards. But my teacher lived to be a hundred and twenty years old. I'm short of that by forty years."

“Where did the others go?"

“Excuse me for a moment. I haven't unloaded my arm yet—full of all that stuff you gave me.” He made a face and pulled up his coat sleeve, then unbuttoned his cuff. With three curving motions, he swung his hand. Something snapped like static electricity. “There. Down to the center of the earth, where it won't last long."

“What are they going to do with me?"

“I imagine they want to talk, Timothy. Myself, I want to listen. You've come to tell us what happened in your town, and I'm here to be told. You aren't afraid, are you?"

“No,” Tim said. “What are you?"

“I'm not sure even yet. Let me tell you a story, though. Once, when I was not much older than you—and this was back in the days before there were many cars, and horses drew buggies through the streets, and before the World Wars—I visited my grandmother. She was dying. Her skin was yellow because her liver was failing. She had been a very proper Victorian woman, serious and concerned, but now she was quiet. She was ill and too weak to do much besides lie in her bed and look at the people who came to visit her. My mother said I should say good-bye to her, for she was going to die soon. That scared me. No one in my family or among my friends had died, except a little sister I hardly remembered. When I came to her bed, my grandmother took my left hand. Actually, she just opened one of her hands on the counterpane—where the covers are folded back—and I put my hand into hers. Her fingers were cold, but her palm was almost hot. ‘Edward,’ she said, ‘there are many, many people in this room, and I tell no lies.’ But I could only see my mother and father and a nurse. ‘Listen to their voices,’ she said, and she opened her mouth. What came out of her mouth only I heard, apparently—many, many people laughing and singing. There was also a sound like wind through the trees, and something I didn't recognize until perhaps ten years later—like the noise a radio makes between stations, when the airways are quiet. My mother came forward to make sure Grandmother wasn't frightening me. It was obvious she neither heard nor understood. ‘I've been privy to these sounds ever since I was a little girl,’ Grandmother went on, ‘but I never told anyone, for it wasn't the right time. Now I see you have the same gift, but it hasn't opened the doors to you yet. I can see it all around you. We are privileged persons, Edward. When I die, I won't come back to see you. There's too much to do. But I will expect you to carry on.’ She opened her mouth wider again and the music was very plain, light and dancing as if it came from an orchestra made of crystal. And then she shut her eyes and her mouth and she was dead.” The old man sighed and pulled a chair close to Tim's seat. “Now you hear voices, too, but you don't have the power. Something is forcing itself upon you that has no business in a boy. Am I right?"

Tim nodded.

“I have friends, allies actually—you can't see them, and I rarely do. But they are very strong in me now, because you need their help. Will you accept them, Timothy?"

Tim felt his heart in his throat. He swallowed and blinked back more tears. “But they're my parents,” he whispered. “My friends."

“You know they're not in control,” Edward said. “They need help as much as you do."

“How can you help?"

“These people are from the government. You know that. You're a smart lad. All together, we are going to free your parents and friends, and free you. I'm not sure just how yet, but we're certainly going to try. Do you hear the voices now?"

“No,” Tim said.

“Good. Some of it is already happening. Do you believe I'm your friend?"

“Yes."

“Then let's go into the living room and have a long talk. This time, I'll listen."

BOOK THREE

The lookout had been converted to a landing pad for helicopters. The highway had been blocked off for a five-mile stretch, where it meandered around the valley, and Jeeps patrolled regularly. The road into the valley was empty. Except for a special truck, which had been allowed in three hours before, no vehicles or humans were in the valley.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Fowler nervously checked his watch, sitting in the back of an Air Force personnel van. He was going to be allowed to use the phone in about fifteen minutes. He was miserable.

Dorothy had apparently returned to Los Angeles. He could guess at some of her reasons, but why she was running away from him, and not just the valley, he didn't know. When the possibility of losing her became clear, he realized how much he needed her. Not someone like her—but Dorothy herself. His misery came because he couldn't remember ever telling her that, and now it might be too late. For the first time, he actively hated the thing in the valley. This was the second relationship it had snatched—was snatching—away from him. When he thought of Henry Taggart his eyes grew moist and he wanted to curse. But he kept silent.

Across from him, Prohaska sat reading a newspaper, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Burnford and Williams were playing chess in the next seat forward. He leaned over the seat and watched them.

Snow was predicted for the evening. It had been clear enough the night before, when five officials in plain civilian suits had watched the beast present its display. Tonight, the rumor was that real experts would be called in. To Fowler and Burnford, that meant more civilian contractors. Both doubted the military or government kept active experts on demons and psychic phenomena on the payrolls. The persistent rumor that the President would also be present had been quashed by the presiding General Machen late in the morning. The President didn't dare risk exposing himself to a potential farce.

A major tapped on the outside of his window and Fowler looked around. The man indicated his phone was ready. Burnford glanced up at him as he walked down the aisle. “Don't be long,” Williams said. “We're going into the valley in an hour."

Fowler walked to a small communications truck with his escort. The back doors opened a crack and a hand passed out a small headset and mike. The major took it and asked Fowler what the phone number was. “The guy inside will get it for you,” he explained. Fowler told them and waited while hums and buzzes crossed the line. “You know the routine by now, don't you?” the major asked. Fowler nodded.

“I'm not to say anything meaningful. No clues or hints. All is calm, all is quiet."

“That's why we're calling this operation Silent Night,” the major said, grinning. “Don't mind me. I'm a pro at this sort of thing, like a doctor."

“Sure,” Fowler said. The phone at the other end started ringing. After four rings, Fowler began to lose hope. But the receiver was picked up and Dorothy answered.

“Dot,” Fowler said, “hello from where I sit."

“Hello, Larry,” she said, sounding tired. “I had to leave."

“Listen, everything's in control up here. I'm fine, we're in good hands—"

The major nodded approvingly.

“—and everything's going to be fine. Why did you run away, honey?"

“You can't guess, not after all the things I said? I'm sorry, Larry—"

“What things? Dot, you just left."

“About being upset. I couldn't take it. I've never been through anything like that."

“Neither have I."

“And I don't intend to ever put up with such delusions again. It was unreal. I can't take that. Maybe you can, but I just can't."

“But you left me up here, not just—not just the cabin."

“I have to think things over.” Her voice was unsteady. He put his mouth closer to the mike, trying to find some semblance of privacy. The major casually looked the other way.

“Honey, why did you leave without talking to me?"

“You're all wrapped up in it. You wouldn't listen. You would have done the same thing you're doing now, try to get me to stay—come back—and I can't."

“I don't want you to come back—not for this, I mean. For me, yes. I would have told you to go."

“Sure.” Her voice was flat, almost nasal.

“Honey, you're not being rational."

“Rational? I'm not being rational? Larry, you laughed about it. I saw you and I couldn't believe—you laughed at it! Jesus, if that's rational. Here we all were going crazy, seeing things, and you were the worst of all. What can I tell you, Larry? I never saw you like that before."

“Maybe it was guts, some kind of crazy bravery. Did you think of that? I was coping. If I hadn't laughed, I would have gone mad, had a heart attack or something. We weren't seeing things, Dot, not the way you mean.” The major looked at him sharply. Fowler ignored him.

“I just couldn't take it. You laughing. I was scared shitless."

“You think I wasn't?"

“But you believe it was there! I saw you believing,” she said, her voice reaching a high peak.

“Dorothy, a lot of important people are waiting to make sure. Some have already seen."

The major raised his arm and made a cutting motion. Fowler nodded and held up his hand. “I can't talk about it now. I want to. I want to show you you're not taking this right, that being scared is fine, but ignoring it is foolish. I can't ignore it."

“You know I'm into firm things,” Dorothy said. “I want solid realities. I couldn't put up with parochial schools. They always wanted to show us what Hell was like and I couldn't take it. So I left. All those people suffering, just so I could have a pretty, fatherly God. That was too much. And for the same reason I can't handle this. I'm sorry. I have to go now."

“Wait, Dot. Think about it. Remember that I love you. Remember! I love you."

“I'm thinking, but ... oh, shit, Larry. Leave me alone. Let me get this all straightened out and don't try to mess me over."

“I'm not trying—"

“I have to go now.” There was a pause and Fowler expected a click. Instead, she said, “Larry, come back, soon."

“I'll try.” Then she hung up. He handed the set back to the major. “You aren't going to put a guard around her, or anything silly, are you?” he asked.

“No plans, as far as I know,” the major said. “We checked her out. She's safe."

“Yeah,” Fowler said. He thanked the man and walked back to the bus. A gray-and-white helicopter was landing on the lookout, raising dust. He shielded his eyes and climbed into the bus.

“Any luck?” Prohaska asked, folding the paper.

Fowler shook his head. “I don't know."

“Keep at her,” Burnford said. “I like that girl."

Fowler returned to his seat and watched the passengers disembark from the helicopter.

Jacobs and Trumbauer ducked to avoid the last turns of the blades. Miss Unamuno, dressed in a wool skirt and plain black blouse, stepped down gingerly and followed them away from the craft. A marine in kelly green conferred with the pilot, who started the motors again. The marine backed off and the helicopter lifted into the air.

Jacobs and Trumbauer walked to the edge of the lookout and peered into the valley. The marine escorted Miss Unamuno to the edge.

“Is that where the cabin is?” Jacobs asked.

“Yessir,” the marine said.

“When are we going down?"

“In forty-five minutes, sir."

“What's down there, son?” Jacobs asked.

“I don't know, sir. Follow me, please.” He took them to the bus.

Burnford and Williams stood up as the new group entered. Fowler watched sullenly, slouched in his seat. The marine made introductions and then left. Jacobs approached Fowler, bushy eyebrows knitted together.

“Mr. Fowler, you're the man who found it first, aren't you?"

“No,” Fowler said. “The first two are dead."

“I see. Can you tell us what it was like?"

“Be patient, Mr. Jacobs,” Williams said, pushing a pawn. “We'll get there soon enough."

Burnford pounced on a bishop left unguarded and Williams groaned. “Never play chess with a physicist,” Burnford warned. “We're skilled at getting grants and staying on faculties and research groups. Chess is very similar."

“We were supposed to go to Haverstock,” Trumbauer said to no one in particular. Williams looked up, annoyed at him now. Trumbauer was puzzled. “Gentlemen, I've been—we've been subjected to secrecy ever since we got involved in this mess. When are we going to stop behaving like children playing spy games and start figuring out what happened?"

“My sentiments exactly,” Jacobs said. “You—Mr. Williams—how do you government people expect us to help when we're ignorant?"

“I don't expect anything until the rest arrive,” Williams said. “I've already warned a few of you—I'm a red-taper from start to finish. Everything is protocol and planning. After tonight, we'll put you all in a room and see what comes out. Until then, please sit down and be bored and restless. Mr. Burnford is undoubtedly going to win this game, and one of you can play him after."