by Dean Koontz
“They … participate with Noah?”
She shook her head. “No. They don’t care what he does, though they have no taste for it themselves. But you interrupted me before I could tell you the best part.”
“So tell me.”
“I’m better than all of them, better than Paulie or Henry, at setting the hook and reeling in the pretties. Once I’ve identified one who has the look Noah wants, I scheme to meet her. I chat her up. They always like me. We delight in each other’s company. I’m so good at making them like and trust me. I’m petite, almost a waif. I’ve got this pixie face. Who can distrust a pixie?”
“Like an elf, I thought, a pretty elf.”
Victoria fired up a warm and saucy smile and winked at me. For a moment, the mask of pixie innocence and charm was so well crafted that I could see nothing of the demon behind the elfin beauty even though I knew it festered there.
“Sooner than later,” she continued, “we meet for lunch. I pick her up where she works or at her home. We never reach the restaurant. I’ve got a little hypodermic gun. Tranquilizer puts her out almost instantly. When she wakes, sometimes hours later, sometimes days, depending on how far we have to drive, she’s tethered to a post of Noah’s bed, and she learns what she is and what we are.”
Pixie or elf, the sight of her sickened me. “And what are you?”
“Outsiders,” she said, and I thought she capitalized the word. “We’re Outsiders, with no limits, no rules, no fears.”
If what they had was not a cult by name, it was a cult in every way that mattered.
“He’s not your Jim Jones,” I said. “He’s your Charles Manson, Ted Bundy with apostles.”
“Sometimes he lets me watch.” She saw that she revolted me, and she grinned wickedly. “Poor boy, you can never understand. You’re a walking shadow, a poor player. You don’t signify.”
Those words, which she had spoken before, again rang familiar to me.
A part of me still wanted to understand, to find a reason why she had no choice but to submit to Wolflaw. “He must have some hold on you.”
“Love,” she said. “Love for eternity.”
Apparently love of their kind meant never having to say you’re sorry about anything.
As though talking about watching Wolflaw with the women made Victoria’s mouth water, she spat an unusual volume with special force in my face. “The foot will be on your neck within the hour.”
Cleaning off with the now-damp piece of T-shirt, I said, “What foot would that be?”
“The inaudible and noiseless foot.”
“Oh, right, that one.” I wasn’t going to get anything more useful out of her. I balled up the cloth and said, “Be a good girl. Open wide.”
She pressed her lips together. I pinched her pert nose, and she held her breath until she had to gasp for it, and I shoved the wad of cloth in her mouth.
Although her words weren’t clear, I thought she called me a stupid cocker, although I wasn’t sure why being compared to that lovely breed of spaniel should be considered an insult.
She tried to tongue the cloth back at me, but I held her mouth shut. With some pleasure.
I snatched up the last length of cloth and tied it around the lower part of her face as she tried and failed to bite me, knotting it at the back of her head, to prevent her from expelling the wad in her mouth.
Holstering the pistol, I was relieved I hadn’t needed to shoot her. Shooting one woman, even a murderous one, had been traumatic enough to last me a lifetime.
Once, in a burned-out Indian casino, I had watched a 150-pound mountain lion creep up behind a woman who worked really, really hard at being bad; she had been holding me at gunpoint, and rather than take a bullet in the gut and another one in the head, I hadn’t warned her and had allowed the big cat to go at her like a famished pothead chowing down on a triple-patty cheeseburger. I didn’t like myself much—in fact not at all—for doing that, but somehow it was easier to live with than pulling a trigger.
Bound foot and hand, hobbled, gagged, tightly leashed to a water pipe, Victoria Mors glared poisoned darts at me from her belladonna eyes.
I crossed the room, switched off the lights, cracked open the door, saw that the way was clear, and stepped into the basement hall.
I wished that I were Harry Potter with his invisibility cloak and all the other fabulous gear that a young wizard carried with him. But I had a 9-mm pistol, plenty of spare ammunition, and a high-quality hacksaw, which was more armament than I’d possessed on other perilous occasions. Besides, if all you had to do was throw on such a cloak, there would be little fun sneaking into the dragon’s lair, either for you or the dragon.
For a moment, I stood at the closed door to the furnace room, listening. I had no doubt that Victoria was shrieking behind the stifling gag. Even at risk of strangulation, she would be trying to rattle the water pipe. But I could hear nothing.
In the laundry room one last time, I went to the sink and washed my face with liquid soap and hot water.
The really bad woman whom I allowed to be killed by a mountain lion once spat a mouthful of red wine in my face.
Women don’t find me as appealing as they do, say, that singer Justin Bieber. But I take comfort from the fact that Justin Bieber wouldn’t know how to escape from a walk-in freezer after being chained there by a couple of huge guys in porkpie hats. He couldn’t sing his way out of a spot like that; inevitably, he would be a Biebersicle.
Hoping that the tall gaunt man would appear again to explain who he was and what master switch he wanted me to throw, I continued along the hallway, checking rooms. I didn’t find anything interesting until the door at the end.
Twenty-nine
STEPPING THROUGH THAT END DOOR, I SEEMED TO BE in a different building from Noah Wolflaw’s elegant mansion. The large rectangular room had a plasterboard ceiling and beadboard walls, all painted white. Set in two pairs in the farther wall, the four windows were covered by oilcloth shades hung on old-fashioned roller bars.
In one corner stood a wooden cabinet with a metal sink on top. On one side of the sink was a lever-action, cast-iron hand pump to draw water from a well.
A large oak desk backed up to each set of the windows, and on each desk was a work lamp with a green-glass shade. The office chairs were entirely of oak, with hard-rubber wheels on steel-shank castors. They were in fine condition but looked a hundred years old.
On each desk stood also a candlestick phone of brass painted matte black, with the mouthpiece at the top, the earpiece on a cord and hanging from a cradle, and an early rotary dial on the base.
Along the shorter walls were oak filing cabinets and what seemed to be a map chest with wide, shallow drawers. In the open part of the room, two draftsman tables stood back-to-back, with oak stools, and to the right of them was a large oak table high enough that you would have to stand at it to work.
On the tall table lay a four-inch-thick set of blueprints bound on the left. The cover page presented a pen-and-ink rendering of the main house as it would appear when viewed from the west. Under that superb drawing, the name ROSELAND was handsomely hand-lettered. And in the title block at the bottom, to the left, were the words CONSTANTINE CLOYCE RESIDENCE.
This appeared to be the room in which the original contractor and perhaps an on-site architect worked back in the day when Roseland was being built. It must have been the first thing constructed, and the meticulous preservation of the space suggested that Constantine Cloyce, the press baron and silent-movie mogul, intended to create an estate that would have the historic importance of someplace like the Hearst Castle.
The only things this space had in common with the rest of the house were the concrete floor, in which were embedded copper circles etched with elongated eights, and the dustless, ageless quality of a hermetically sealed exhibit in a museum.
As I toured the room, I was suddenly drawn to reconsider the oilcloth-covered windows because I realized there should be none in a basemen
t room. Putting down the pillowcase containing the hacksaw, leaning across one of the desks, I pinched the ring pull and put up the shade.
The view beyond the window stunned me, and I stood paralyzed by disbelief. When I could think to move, I went to the other desk, reached across it, and put up the shade at the second window, as if I hoped to find a different scene or the blank basement wall that should have been there. The same vista greeted me.
In addition to the door by which I’d entered, another waited in what would be the west wall, flanked by the desks. I went to it, hesitated, opened it, and stepped outside.
The long driveway that sloped down from the main house to the county road was gravel instead of cobblestones as it had been before. At the farther end of that long lane, neither a gatehouse nor gates existed to guard admittance to Roseland.
No stone wall encircled the huge property. The land, which had not yet been excavated and shaped to the needs of the construction team, rolled away to neighboring parcels with nothing between but property-line-marker stakes painted white.
The parklike landscaping did not exist. Instead, fields with waist-high grass and weeds were shaded by many fewer oak trees than those that I had walked among in the past few days.
Distracted by this impossible vista, I walked perhaps thirty feet along the graveled drive before I quite realized that I had moved away from the door.
Turning, I looked back and saw that no palatial residence rose behind me, as if Wolflaw’s great house had vaporized.
Two structures were there instead, the first being a clapboard building with a tar-paper roof and four front windows flanking an open door. This must be the construction shack from which I had stepped a moment earlier.
The second, perhaps a hundred feet to the left of the larger building, was obviously an outhouse.
For most people, reality is as simple as a painting, hanging before them in their frame of reference, understood and unquestioned. I live with the awareness that under the apparent painting are countless layers, previous scenes that have been painted over. Any physicist well-schooled in quantum mechanics or chaos theory knows that reality is a beast of mysterious dimensions and potentials and that the more we learn, the more we realize how much we don’t know.
Because that understanding of reality has shaped my life, I am seldom knocked flat by astonishment. In the absence of Roseland, I was still on my feet, but I felt like Wile E. Coyote after he’d been run down by a bulldozer.
The sense that the architect had structured this place by the application of a new geometry with a mysterious dimension, which I mentioned before, was nothing compared to the shock of this latest discovery. Finding rooms connected in ways I didn’t remember, the feeling that there was always more to any room or passage than the eye could see now seemed prescient.
Distant engine noise drew my attention to the west once more. On the paved but primitive two-lane county road, one coming from the south and one from the north, were what appeared to be two Ford Model T’s, black with open passenger compartments.
As they passed each other about where the gates to Roseland would one day be, other traffic appeared in the north. Laden with bales of hay, a horse-drawn wagon clopped and rattled along.
I stood trembling, not in fear as much as in mystification. My heart knocked out hoofbeats, too, but they were faster than those of the draft horse.
Rowing lazily through rising thermals, three ducks sailed low across the land, as silent as the flywheels and rotating spheres under the mausoleum that did not yet exist here.
If man-made aircraft plied these skies, they would be biplanes, not airliners. Here, no ocean had ever been flown across; and no boot prints marked the soil of the moon.
A breeze whispered in from the north. With it came a fear that if the construction-shack door blew shut, some connection would be broken and I would not be able to open it and return to Roseland in its twenty-first-century grandeur.
I might be stuck here in a world with no penicillin, no polio vaccine, no Teflon cookware, no John D. MacDonald novels, no music by Paul Simon or Connie Dover or Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, no comfortable athletic shoes, no Velcro.
On the other hand, here I would find no reality TV, no TV of any kind, no nuclear weapons, no road rage, no talking on a cell phone in the movie theater, no tofu turkey.
In the end, as much might be gained as lost—except that this far in the past, most of the friends I’d ever made and loved hadn’t been born.
Hurrying inside, I pulled the door shut against a past in which neither I nor my parents had yet been conceived.
I went to the interior door and opened it. Beyond waited the basement hallway, yet when I turned to look at the windows, I saw Roseland still unrealized.
The construction shack was above ground, the basement below grade. One existed then, the other now. Yet somehow they were linked spatially and chronologically. As an air lock on a spaceship served as a transition chamber between the atmosphere inside the vessel and the vacuum of outer space, this room connected one moment perhaps ninety years past with the present.
I closed the door to the basement, returned to one of the desks, and sat in the antique office chair to calm my nerves and to think.
Generally speaking, just as Sherlock Holmes reasoned his way to solutions with the help of his pipe and violin, I am better able to mull over a complicated problem when I am frying. But I lacked a griddle, a spatula, and something to cook.
After a while, I searched through the desk drawers but learned nothing except that whoever worked here had been obsessed with order and neatness. I learned the same from the drawers of the second desk.
When I returned to the blueprints on the table, I saw more in the title block of the cover page than had interested me previously. The impressed seal of the architect. His name—James Lee Brock—and his address in Los Angeles. Under the architect’s name were two words and a name—MECHANICAL SYSTEMS: NIKOLA TESLA.
All I knew of Nikola Tesla was that he was called the Genius Who Lit the World, and that as the nineteenth century turned to the twentieth, he had nearly as much to do with the electrification of civilization and the associated industrial revolution as did Thomas Edison.
And on my first day in Roseland, chatting with Henry Lolam at the gatehouse, I learned that Constantine Cloyce had been interested in cutting-edge science and in the supernatural, having been friends with an unlikely spectrum of people that included the psychic and medium Madame Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, and at the extreme other end, the famous physicist and inventor Tesla.
Finding Madame Blavatsky’s fabled name on the blueprints would have been strange, but it was nowhere to be seen. Whatever might be going on at Roseland, I suspected now that it might have nothing to do with the supernatural and everything to do with science. Weird science, but science nonetheless.
In the wide, shallow drawers of the map chest, I found many sets of mechanical-systems plans, all signed by Nikola Tesla. Among them were drawings of—and engineering specifics related to—the spheres, the flywheels standing on the bell-shaped machines, the intricate arrangements of gears I’d seen in the subcellars of the mausoleum, and much more.
I felt pretty sure that I knew the identity of the tall, gaunt, mustachioed man who had spoken to me on three occasions. Mr. Nikola Tesla. Considering that he died decades ago but wasn’t a lingering spirit like any I’d previously encountered, I knew who he was but not what he was.
Thirty
NONE OF THE DRAWINGS OR ENGINEERING DETAILS ENLIGHTENED me as to the purpose of all this exotic machinery. In high school, I was a member of the baseball team, not the science club.
With a renewed sense that time was running out, I retrieved the pillowcase sack with the hacksaw. I returned to the basement hallway, closing the door behind me.
To my right were narrow, enclosed service stairs. I assumed the stairs in the wine cellar went up to the kitchen, but I had no idea where these might lead.
Like ev
ery floor and stair tread in this house, these were as tight as if they had been built yesterday. Not one creak betrayed me as I ascended two flights to the main level with the intention of going to the second floor, where the boy was imprisoned.
As I reached the ground floor, however, I heard heavy footsteps above me, descending. Alarmed, I opened the landing door, slipped out of the staircase, and dashed across the immense foyer to another door that, for all I knew, led to a meadow in the Pleistocene epoch, where a herd of mastodons would stomp me into mush.
It was a coat closet.
From the size of the closet—hangers and rod space for maybe two hundred coats—I inferred that Constantine Cloyce intended Roseland to be the social locus along this part of the coast. In its early days, the estate might have been just that, but perhaps not for long.
Out in the foyer, a door was flung open with such force that it banged hard against its stop, and footsteps slapped across marble.
A second door opened almost as violently as the first, and other footsteps sounded as Mrs. Tameed said, “I smelled ozone on the second floor.”
Paulie Sempiterno, who had apparently crashed into the foyer through the front door, said, “I started to smell it halfway back from the gatehouse.”
“Then it’s not localized.”
“We don’t know for sure yet.”
“I know,” Mrs. Tameed declared.
“It could be just a few eddies.”
“No, it’s finally full tide,” Mrs. Tameed said, except that between the full and tide, she inserted a crude but alliterative word that I won’t repeat.
“But we haven’t had one in years,” Sempiterno said.
Suddenly I smelled ozone.
They must have smelled it in the foyer, too, because they spat out four crude words, two each, alternating one word at a time, as if they were in a cussing contest.
