Psychlone (3 page)

“Justice,” Land said thickly. “Life and death. Matter of. Lieutenant William Skorvin. You saw him."

“What?” Blake asked, stopping.

Land took his right hand from his jacket pocket and aimed it up at the sky.

“Jesus, Kevin, what did you do? Dip your hand in phosphorus?"

Land shook his head. Blake stepped closer. His neck hairs were at full rise this time, but he had to take Land in. It was his job.

Jordan Taggart took a roll of canvas and picked up the frozen lynx carefully. “Hold this end,” he told Fowler. Together they carried it to the woodpile behind the cabin and laid it gently against a log.

“Now watch,” Jordan said, rolling back the tarp. The morning sun fell bright on the woodpile and the cat. Fowler and the Taggarts sat on the back porch of the cabin, saying nothing, keeping their eyes on the reclining animal.

The animal slumped. “There,” Jordan said.

“It's thawing,” Fowler said, a touch of irritation in his voice. That was believable enough—to freeze and thaw.

Then it stood up, all its fur on end, hissed, yowled, and ran into the trees.

Jordan smiled and shook his head. He stretched out his arms and said, “See? Not a crazy old man after all.” He opened the porch door and entered the cabin.

Fowler was stunned. “That's impossible,” he said.

“We saw it."

Henry walked around the back. Fowler stared at the woodpile for several minutes. Then he went to check the equipment set up the night before and see if there had been any change.

The chart recorder was working properly. Everything seemed normal, except for a small peak in microwave activity at about four in the morning. He decided to place the detector's extension just outside the front door.

After examining all the connections, he put a new roll of paper into the recorder and marked the time with a red felt pen. “All set for another day,” he told Henry. Henry nodded.

“What do you think it was?” he asked.

“A frozen kitty,” Larry said grimly.

“How did it stay alive?"

“Sperm do it. Goldfish. Freeze anything fast enough and it might live. Dump a baby into ice-cold water and he might not even drown. His face hits the water—zang! Down goes his breath rate, his heartbeat slows, he goes into suspended animation. His blood system drains circulation from the extremities and concentrates it in the head and chest cavities, where it counts. Drag him up in less than forty minutes and there's a good chance he'll survive."

“What froze it?"

Fowler shot Henry a dirty look and tapped the recorder. “Tell your father we're ready. Any time he thinks it's best to start the recorder—"

“Around sundown,” Henry said. “That's when it usually begins."

“What happened the nights you stayed here?"

“I didn't see anything,” Henry said. “But I heard something."

“What?"

“It sounded like a woman was being murdered right outside the living-room window. Nothing but screams and sounds—I don't know how to describe them."

“What kind of sounds?” Fowler prompted.

“Thunks. Knife-hits. Ripping sounds. I became sick and didn't hear any more. I was in the bathroom."

“Jesus. Both of you are nuts."

Henry smiled. “I won't doubt you."

“If it isn't a ghost, what is it?"

“Sure you're just not trying to humor us?"

“I'm a diehard skeptic."

“And the cat doesn't change that?"

“What in hell does a frozen cat have to do with supernatural phenomena? It's weird, but it doesn't make me a believer. Now answer my question."

Henry shrugged. “We posit no hypotheses. Newton said that about something—"

“Action at a distance, I think. So we wait and see?"

“I suppose seeing is the only way."

Jordan brought in brunch and they ate sparingly.

They played chess and read until nightfall.

Then, at a nod from the elder Taggart, Fowler crossed out his previous mark and put in a new one—6:14:30 sec.—and started the machine.

Fowler was dipping into the first volume of the witchcraft set, skipping over the extensive Latin passages, when Jordan came out of the bedroom in his blue pajamas. Henry was asleep on the couch.

“Nothing yet?” Jordan asked. Fowler shook his head, no.

Jordan put his hands in his pajama pockets and looked up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. “I've been feeling things,” he said. “Haven't told Henry about them.” He looked down at Fowler. “Don't know that I should tell you."

“What sort of things?” Fowler asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.

“I feel like an ant in a nest,” Jordan said. “And this ... whatever we're looking for ... it's like another kind of bug. And ... I don't know ... there's a stick coming down, stirring everything up. Us, the other bug, just a big stick coming down. To stir everything up. A very big stick.” He paused, still looking at Fowler. “Does that make any sense?"

“I don't know,” Fowler said. “It might."

“Doesn't come every night,” Jordan said, turning around and walking back to the bedroom. Fowler closed the book. He reached over to the recorder and made another mark, writing 9:45:24 sec. on the moving graph paper.

At ten the fire had died down and the living room was getting cold. He put a blanket over Henry and checked the readings on the thermometers. The outside temperature was steady at forty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Inside the cabin it was sixty-three. No increase in the level of background microwave radiation.

A mosquito had gotten into the cabin somehow and was flying around in front of him. He swatted at it and sat down after selecting another book from the shelf.

The mosquito repeated its attack several minutes later. He tried to focus on it, reached out with an open palm, and closed his fingers, tightening them and gritting his teeth. “Got you, you bastard,” he muttered. He brought his hand down and opened it. No sign of squashed insect.

At ten-thirty, Henry came awake and looked around, blurry-eyed, finally fixing on Fowler in the chair. “Anything?"

Fowler shook his head. “I'm getting lots of relaxation.” He held up the paperback. “Ghost stories don't bother me any more. Used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid. Guess I'm immune now.” He unwrapped a bar of chocolate and took a bite.

“Overdosed,” Henry offered. “Want some coffee?"

An hour later, Fowler was skimming through a Frank Edwards book, alternately shaking his head and laughing. “Must take lots of split crockery to make a living off books like these,” he said. Henry turned away from the front window and let the curtain fall back.

“You believe in God?” he asked.

“Something far away and unconcerned with us, maybe. A personal God, I doubt it."

“My father says he believes in God, but that God doesn't mess around in this universe much, like you say. Division of labor and all that. He read about demiurges."

“So we should pray to the subcontractor."

“Something like that."

Fowler checked the microwave reading and saw it had risen slightly. “I should have asked you earlier—do you have any relay stations in the area—you know, TV or phone company towers?"

Henry shook his head. “I've never seen any."

“Well, there's a small increase in the microwave background. Could be the radar of a plane flying over, could be a relay station."

“Or...?"

“Or maybe we're getting hotter. All warm objects radiate microwaves. Feeling toasty?"

“Not me,” Henry said. “Dad doesn't even have a microwave oven."

After disposing of some coffee byproducts in the bathroom, Fowler opened the front door and looked out at the quiet, calm night. “Want to take a short walk?” he asked. Henry made sleepy noises. “Just out to the main road. I want to stretch my legs and clear the cobwebs."

“No, thank you,” Henry said. “I wouldn't recommend it."

“Because of spooks?"

Henry smiled enigmatically. “Call it a hunch. Besides, someone might have opened the door to their microwave oven and be out there roasting porcupines."

“A weak attempt at humor,” Fowler criticized pompously, “indicating fraying nerves and too much coffee."

“I'll watch from the window."

“And sing funeral dirges for me."

“If need be."

Fowler picked up his coat and closed the door behind him.

After walking around the cabin and stopping by the woodpile, he took the gravel-covered path to the main road. Getting out of the smoke-stuffy interior cleared his head. With his hands in his jacket pockets, breathing the clean, cold air deep, he felt at peace, happy that humans could be silly sometimes—else why would he have come to the wild, rejuvenating woods?—and contented with his lot in life.

He looked back in the direction of the cabin and thought of what Henry had meant to him in the past, and how they enjoyed companionship now but seldom sought each other's company. For a moment he could imagine himself sixteen, seventeen, finishing high school, worrying about college, living with his parents. He shook his head and smiled. Living one life was like changing souls every decade, entering the realm of a new person. Henry had done the same thing, and now they were bound together only by memories. They'd have to forge new ties to feel the same way they'd felt as kids. Marriage, Fowler supposed, was similar, which might explain why he and Marissa had broken up.

He shivered and decided to return. The gravel crunched under his boots, the only sound in the stillness. Then, off in the trees, a bird he'd never heard before mourned softly. He stopped and smiled at the strangeness of the sound.

A bit of glow fell to the ground in front of him, twitching on the gravel. Bending over, he saw that it was a deerfly lit up like an ember, but frosty green instead of orange. He squatted, fascinated. Where had it come from? It was obviously dying.

The wings darkened and curled. The body shrank. Suddenly the glow vanished, leaving only a dark husk wafting back and forth on the gravel.

Then another fell. A constellation of mosquitoes seemed to materialize and fall around his feet. A moth two inches wide, red as a burning coal, swung about and dropped on his boot. He kicked reflexively and the insect fluttered onto the gravel. “Henry!” he shouted. Someone else had to see this.

His eyes began to sting. Looking at the drive, Fowler felt a shifting somewhere beyond his line of sight, a reorganization. The gravel took on new meaning. In the aimless mix of small rocks he found geometric patterns, then pictures—and finally forms that moved. He swayed, looking down at the grainy image of a wild boar. The moth glowed red again, providing a staring eye for the animal. The thing's head swung up, vague tusks connecting with his boot, and he felt a sudden spasm in one calf muscle. His legs wanted to pitch him down to the gravel. No, he thought, not just down but through it. All around him, insects fell from the sky in shimmering bead-curtains. “Henry!” he screamed. “Mr. Taggart!"

The cabin door opened. (But it was over the rise and out of sight.... ) He was on one knee, supported by a hand on the gravel, and the gravel was pulsing, ready to suck him down. Henry ran toward him, arms outstretched. In one hand he carried a meat cleaver.

Fowler tried to stand but the half-seen boar lunged again and his other leg crumpled. He fell back on his butt. Beneath him the gravel parted, waving out like water in slow motion. Everything seemed to take an endless time. Henry stood by him, meat cleaver raised at the sky. There was something darker than the night hanging over them, a rainbow of hues beyond the black, like the mysteries on an exotic butterfly's wing. Henry sliced at the hypercolored rainbow. Cold air fell on Fowler in a shower of distinct but dry drops.

And then it was over. He was standing by the intersection of the drive and the road, sweating ice-cold under his arms, feeling his stomach and guts tied in knots. Perhaps for the first time, he screamed, then caught himself.

It was a dream. He'd fallen asleep standing up. That had to be it. Back to the cabin. Not running. Then, running.

Cynthia Furness looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and liked what she saw. Then she scowled and shut her eyes. All these impure thoughts. She was so pretty, though. And Michael wasn't around enough. So impure to think of pleasuring herself.

She put on her bra and stopped, turning off the bathroom light and the blower to listen for Michael making dinner in the kitchen. Then the dark became pleasant by itself. She reached down and touched her pubic hairs lightly. Less guilt not to see herself.

Michael had taught her how to do this, had done it for her the first time.

She closed her eyes and it was no different, just as dark, but she couldn't even see the crack of light under the door.

Then she jumped, almost screaming. Her eyes flew open. There was something with her in the bathroom. Her hand fumbled over the switch. She couldn't find it. But her fright was already subsiding.

She could see it in the mirror. Her breath slowed.

It was a long ways away.

“Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Come for me. It's life in death."

In the kitchen, Michael was listening to the six o'clock news from Albuquerque, which was half over. He wanted to hear the sports scores. He didn't like the announcer much, but he put up with him for the list of teams and figures. He was thinking about buying a football franchise some day. Maybe he would become New Mexico's next sports tycoon.

The television set dimmed. Michael swore and dropped the tenderizing hammer on the steaks he was preparing. He tried to bring the set back to life, but it was gone. Then the kitchen light went out. He jumped and swore again. Through the window, he could see that every light in the neighborhood was off. “Goddamned road crews,” he said. Then he wondered whether road crews would be working this late at night. Didn't the town have old emergency generators, from when they had made their own power? He waited in the dark for a minute, hoping everything would come back.

There was a footstep behind him. He turned and saw someone standing in the kitchen doorway—just the hip of someone actually, blocking out the Everlight digital display on the living-room clock, but leaving one number visible—6.