Worse Angels

by Laird Barron

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Your eye . . . Good lord.”

  “Oh, this?” I touched my cheek below the shiner. “I’m not walking around with a black eye, then I haven’t gotten out of bed.”

  “Young man, you have a potentially serious medical problem. Beasley?”

  Beasley went away and returned with a penlight and a black medical bag.

  “Lean in a bit, yes, hold there. Follow the light.” Dr. Campbell shined the light into my eyes from right to left and I tracked the motion. “Well, this can’t reveal any grand truths. Beasley, we should put him in the scope.”

  “He wouldn’t like the scope,” Beasley said.

  “Who does? I’d wager the farm he’s been irradiated or subjected to—” He clicked off the light and studied me gravely. “I’ll need the box. First the box, then we’ll decide.”

  “I’m not getting in the scope, whatever that is,” I said.

  Without comment, Beasley handed him a palm-size ovoid device with a yellow lacquered enamel shell. Dr. Campbell shakily passed it over my head and torso like a security tech with a wand. The device ticked and emitted an occasional electronic squeal.

  “Is that a Geiger counter?” I said, aware that it wasn’t. General stress eroded my composure. I was getting jumpier and more irritable.

  “No. Please remain silent or you’ll disrupt the survey.” Dr. Campbell finally set the device aside. “Mild concussion. Courtesy of the blow to the head you’ve taken in the last twenty-four hours. Your watch is a cheap manual windup. Did your digital watch malfunction? It did, of course it did. Power drain. This is a recent development. You’re investigating Sean’s death, which presumably means you’ve ventured near the Jeffers site. Explain what transpired.”

  I told him about the supercollider track, the sounds of klaxons and motors, and the sensation of a wave of electricity passing through my body.

  “You were in the unfinished sector. Rest assured, there are almost certainly a multitude of subsections, some capable of housing equipment and conducting experiments far from prying eyes.”

  “The locals who’ll talk believe black ops are ongoing,” I said.

  “This was not your first encounter,” Dr. Campbell said. “An electromagnetic wave accounts for much. Don’t fret; the side effects of your exposure will dissipate in due course. Other readings are mystifying. You either resonate on a variable frequency intrinsically or some trauma is the cause. Has anyone subjected you to hypnotic regression? Have you been bombarded by infrasound?”

  “Infrasound. A year ago.”

  “Projected by a human or animal? Was it acoustic—a fabricated device or a naturally occurring phenomenon such as wind moving through a sound garden of porous stones?”

  “An Aztec death whistle is the closest object I can compare it to. It emitted an almost human shriek.” Then I explained it was a weapon employed by the Croatoan.

  “The serial killer?”

  “The same.”

  “In the days of antiquity when I consulted with Zircon Corporation, their R&D department kept close tabs on the police action in Vietnam. Rumors persist that this ‘Croatoan’ was created in partnership by our intelligence services and military contractors. What were the effects of his device?”

  “Paralysis. Terror. I’ve heard it’s capable of more severe effects.”

  “Loss of bowel control? Hemorrhaging? Hallucinations?”

  “Narrowed vision. Yes, intermittent hallucinations.”

  “Infrasound can inflict long-term damage,” he said. “Subsidiary effects may present months or years following the initial trauma. Properly calibrated, the ongoing damage can be intensified and manipulated along a behavioral spectrum. Conditioned response at the benign end, progressing to various stages of mind control, including triggerable implantation. The practical applications are endless. The military industrial complex is infatuated.”

  “Someone may have attempted hypnotic suggestion,” I said hesitantly, reluctant to receive more unpleasant news.

  “Elucidate, please.”

  I described the strange aural effects I’d encountered at Redlick Manor.

  “Distressing,” Dr. Campbell said, not remotely distressed.

  “Mandibole was a stage performer, a ventriloquist—”

  “Young man, I’ve consulted with the Redlick Group. Its staff is known to me. The Redlick patriarchs, past and present, are known to me. To my detriment, to my shame. I am intimately aware of Thomas Mandibole’s credentials. I am aware of his nature. I am aware of his capabilities.” Dr. Campbell’s tone reminded me of Delia’s naked antipathy toward the Redlick Group frontman. “He is the herald of House Redlick and a supplicant to abominations. Neither a petty magician nor a ventriloquist, rather an anathema who poses as a common charlatan to lull his enemies.”

  “A herald?” I said, ignoring the rest of it for the moment.

  “A representative in the ancient sense when kings dispatched emissaries to foreign courts. The corporations and the families behind them regard one another in terms of ritualized protocol. Since their commercial interests often align, their political opposition is balanced so as to avoid open warfare. The heralds, or spokespersons, if you will, serve a crucial function. They are ceremonial interlocuters between the families and other entities.”

  “These heralds perform the families’ dirty work as well?”

  “I’ll leave that to your imagination. You should, under no circumstances, take tea with Mandibole, nor his coterie.” He raised his hand to head me off at the pass. “I know little of the Mares of Thrace except by reputation. Their gleeful subservience to the Redlicks is demonstrative of vile temperament. Although . . . I’d hazard a guess that the Mares’ own development may be related to the Croatoan’s.”

  I bit down a shudder.

  “So Zircon and Redlick Group and the Jeffers Project amount to powerful men fucking with things better left unfucked?”

  “Succinctly stated.”

  “Malignant is a unique characterization of Mandibole,” I said. “Granted, I had a generally unfavorable impression. Malignant connotes plague. Cancer . . .”

  “By Jove, he’s catching on,” the scientist said to Beasley.

  “Okay, then. What’s the verdict?” I nodded toward his scanning device.

  “Death isn’t imminent. You’re in excellent physical shape, discounting the superficial wounds and probable cerebral trauma. I assume you pursue a daily exercise regimen? Go forth. The skies are clearing. Walk the paths. Breathe in the fresh salt air. Its healing properties are understated.”

  It was reassuring to hear him say death wasn’t imminent. A man likes to hear that now and again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The storm gods heeded my imprecations and moved south. Rocky hillsides above and below the beach house gleamed blindingly as sunlight fractured into splinters. Puddles of rainwater spread like a trail of fire. Beasley acted as my guide for a short excursion along a footpath that skirted oceanside cliffs. I asked if he’d known Sean well. He lit a cigarette. Yes, of course. Ever since the kid was in elementary school. Beasley had taught him to drive a Range Rover, had to stack phone books on the seat so he could peer over the steering wheel.

  We rested at the edge of a cliff. Seagulls drifted below. Clouds scudded and mist parted to reveal blazing diamond patches of ocean. A fresh line of thunderheads built in the north.

  “How long have you worked for the doctors?” I said.

  “Forever. There were some gaps. Did a spell in the hospital counting ceiling tiles. Thought I was in L-O-V-E for a torrid summer. Eloped to the Bahamas. Found out I was mistaken. I miss those islands. The beaches. The tropical moods. The potcake dogs who snuffled around my porch.”

  “I was speculating how long it takes to migrate from a rational worldview to nodding along with the craziest w
hoppers a pair of eccentrics can dish.”

  The jab bounced off him.

  “Dude, I was sitting two feet away, listening to your conversation with Doc Campbell. You met Tom Mandibole and his satanic Mouseketeers’ club. Had to be a disquieting experience.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “Ever think maybe what you know, what you’ve seen in your flea’s span on this planet, might not be the whole picture?”

  “I dig legitimate explanations,” I said. “Makeup, sleight of hand. People are double-jointed.” I said this, thinking of Ichabod’s mini-transformation in the airport garage. “People can dislocate limbs or alter their posture. The mind plays tricks. I don’t understand the desire to pin shit on the supernatural or the extraterrestrial. The world is plenty fantastical.”

  “A kewpie doll to you, Amazing Randi, master of skeptics. Each and every solitary day, we dwell in the shadow of a cosmic mystery. My faith in the docs doesn’t rely on their gurudom.” He lit another cigarette. “Regular scientists hide the welcome mat whenever the docs come calling. It’s a shame, because nobody really has a handle on what’s what. Astronomers studying data from telescopes monitoring deep space have discovered galaxies are moving away from us faster than we’d predicted. Kicker is, either dark energy is fucking shit up, or we’re gazing back in time when galaxies expanded more rapidly, or there’s an undiscovered subatomic particle capable of near light speed. The community is great at guessing because it guesses a lot. The docs are certain about fringe theories and the community doesn’t tolerate that kind of conviction. They’re in exile, academic Siberia. Somebody has to defend them. Doesn’t mean I’m a disciple.”

  “Then what are you?” I said.

  “Been with the geezers on a dozen major expeditions in jungles and deserts and godforsaken tropical murder nests where everything wants to eat you, down to the vegetation. Got trapped inside a tomb in a rain forest in South America with a gaggle of porters and a guide. Twenty-ton slab of rock toppled and sealed us in. A trap for tomb robbers. Water rising, snakes and spiders slithering and creeping. Flashlights going dead. While the rest of us stood around, dicks in hand, Ryoko and Campbell did what eggheads do at times like these—they worked the problem.”

  I wanted to ask how the doctors miraculously saved the day, but he plowed ahead. A beast of a man whose thought processes mirrored his physicality.

  “Sean was scarce until he came back into our lives for his college years. Same bighearted kid at nineteen as he was at nine. Starry-eyed little fucker.” A shadow crossed his face. “I wish the docs hadn’t relocated to New England. If we’d stayed here, near him and Linda, things might’ve gone another direction.”

  “I can’t find Ms. Flanagan. You think she was bad for Sean?”

  “Changed back to her maiden name, huh?” He exhaled. “He’s gone. Linda got a million bucks richer. That’s the final score. Too-much to not-enough.”

  “There might be an overtime quarter,” I said.

  * * *

  ■■■

  I left a message for Meg to say I was alive. Women appreciate the little things. Beasley directed me toward the living room, where the doctors awaited.

  Black oil canvases hung in the hallway, staggered at intervals and varying heights. I felt seasick traversing the hall. The master canvas occupied an otherwise blank wall in the living room. Six-by-six feet of pure concentrated negative space. It generated the optical illusion of a portal into a formless, eternal velvet. I mildly hallucinated specks of cosmic dust, the glint of pinprick stars, and the devilish choir in my nightmares that had drawn me through the black door in the family garage. Not dissimilar to the music that preceded an entrance by Tom Mandibole. Vertigo pounced, and I stepped back and glanced elsewhere.

  “Who painted these?” I said.

  Dr. Campbell adjusted his glasses and stared for a while.

  “The owner of the house acquired them.” He said it wistfully, head tilted. Listening to the same unearthly music. “He wouldn’t name the artist. Would you like coffee?”

  “Yeah, I would.”

  “Beasley!”

  I looked past sliding doors and a view of stone steps winding down toward the beach. Palm plants rustled in sea-blue planter boxes and oversize clay pots. Deck chairs and a parasol were folded neatly. The beach lay broad and sugar-smooth, dimpled by seagull tracks. Thunderheads I’d seen earlier piled on the red-rimmed horizon. The deep ocean stained darker out there, spreading closer.

  The living area was tiered in an L-shape basin. We moved to a spot decorated with a plush couch and wicker chairs. Photographs, knickknacks, and trophy stands were displayed through museum glass. A dour nurse in a white hospital coat attended Toshi Ryoko. Dr. Ryoko occupied a motorized wheelchair. Withered and doll-like, he was wrapped in a dark blanket that sort of matched the spooky paintings in the hall. His eyes were wide and luminous as the moon glinting off black water. A whiteboard and a marker hung from his turkey neck. Some of his hair had stuck around. The color and substance of summer clouds. The nurse kissed his forehead and strode away.

  “Hello, Dr. Ryoko,” I said.

  Ryoko’s nostrils flared appreciably. Dr. Campbell squeezed his shoulder and sat adjacent to his colleague on the edge of the luxurious couch. Considering that a Hollywood player owned the house, a sexy couch was mandatory.

  Beasley brought in a carafe of coffee, cups, and cream and sugar on a tray.

  “You’re working?” I said to the doctors.

  “Toshi and I are noodling some theories,” Dr. Campbell said. “I don’t take you for a student of the sciences.” He waved aside my demurral. “The ox who pulls the plow has no use for agriculture or blacksmithing. Are you fond of popular culture?”

  “Am I!” I aimed for cheerfulness rather than sarcasm.

  He bared his caramel-shaded dentures.

  “Splendid. Pay attention. There will be a test afterward. In the early aughts, there was an Internet phenomenon—”

  “Doc,” I said. “My schedule is tight, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. I want to discuss Sean. He bought into your Fortean philosophy with the fervor of a disciple. I’m not sure what came first, the chicken or the egg. Was he always susceptible to irrational flights of fancy? Or did exposure to you and Dr. Ryoko lower his defenses against whatever is going on in Horseheads?”

  “Did we enable his behavior? Did we fill his head with stuff and nonsense? Are we responsible for him losing his way?”

  “I’m not interested in assigning blame. Soon, I’ll reach the end of my rope with this investigation. No more money, no more time, no more near-misses by a group of psychopaths who are intent upon shutting me down. Sean’s family wants answers about why this kid is dead. Good, bad, or indifferent. So do I.”

  “Very well,” Dr. Campbell said. He glanced at Beasley. Beasley fetched a small wooden box of cigarettes. He helped the doctor light one and then stepped back. “You should know that I’ve dreaded your visit, what it might reveal,” Dr. Campbell said after several puffs.

  I figured this was as close to nervous as the old fellow ever got. What he’d witnessed in the remote mountains and the deepest jungles, on desert islands and in the eyes of his fellow man, had tempered him. A firecracker exploding behind his head probably wouldn’t have made him flinch.

  We’d see, wouldn’t we?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The coffee was bitter and good. Would’ve been better with a finger of brandy at the bottom of the cup. Dr. Campbell smoked. Beasley lurked. My mind circled back to Ryoko’s eerie comparison to a child-sized mannequin. Mandibole’s stage show had featured large dolls. No idea where I was going with that train of thought, but I had goosebumps.

  “If you’d be so kind as to indulge a few questions,” I said. “You’re neither engineers nor physicists. What was your value to the Jeffers Project?”

  “Num
erous disciplines were vital to the endeavor. Psychology, biology, anthropology. You must realize, the construction of the collider and its subsequent applications were merely pieces of a whole. Layers of experimentation existed, beginning with the historical research and including behavioral studies on the entire workforce.”

  “Which piece was yours?”

  “Toshi and I contributed our unique perspective.”

  “Doctor, I’ve followed you and your partner’s exploits since I was in first grade. Your unique perspective covers a lot of ground.”

  “We confirmed to the planners and key investors the spectacular properties of the site.”

  “What sort of properties do you mean?” I said. “Gold? Minerals? Fossils? Lost ruins?”

  Dr. Campbell chuckled.

  “My boy, you really have observed our long and winding journey from respectability to crackpot royalty. That’s gratifying.”

  “I’m partial to folklore. Legends, gallant expeditions. Hacking through a jungle to photograph an ancient temple. You guys were the embodiment of Rudyard Kipling’s and H. Rider Haggard’s stories. The pulp cliff-hangers on Saturday morning. I loved you.”

  “To study folklore is to commune with the ancestors.” He reached over and patted my arm.

  “As for your query. This old, dirty continent is a honeycomb oozing black sap. Proper imaging equipment, such as ground radar, or if one physically ventured deep beneath the subsurface and the tunnels of the Jeffers site, would reveal a marvel.”

  “A man of your experience doesn’t toss ‘marvel’ around blithely.”

  “Well, it’s merely a theory. The Jeffers collider track, and its network of tributary passages, mirrors an older subterranean structure. The plexus of the Valley.”

  “What sort of structure?” I said, trying to visualize what he meant.

  “An impact structure. Imagine an ancient meteorite lodged like a spearhead in a heart, encircled by a jagged, irregular ring of fissures and chasms and galleries. Imagine the corrosive alien metals of that fallen rock dissolving terrestrial substrata, creating a vast, suppurating wound. Imagine some heretofore unclassified radiation emitting from the depths of the earth in sporadic pulses. Imagine the potential effects on animals and men across eons.”