by Greg Bear
Psychlone You're leaving your junk food behind?"
Fortify yourself if you need it. I'd even leave the equipment here, but I'm responsible for it. I'll send you the names of a few rental places if you still want to follow up. Myself, I think we drew a blank." Larry" And please don't try to convince me otherwise. I feel pretty rotten right now as it is. Let me think it over." We won't be giving up. Hell, we can't. Dad has most of his money sunk into this property and he doesn't feel like sellingwouldn't feel right selling to someone who didn't know. If you do change your mind, or just want to come up and see the cabin again" Fowler raised one eyebrow doubtfully. or whatever, Dad and I want you to have a key. Come right in, whether we're here or not." Fowler opened the front door and threw his coat onto the seat. I do thank you for inviting me. I've needed the fresh air for a long time. No hard feelings one way or the other?" Henry shook his head. I'll try to find out if any planes went over last night, or if there are TV towers in the area. If not, maybe you have something. But get somebody who knows his business to come in and check it out, okay?" Sure, Henry said. Good-bye, Larry." Come down to LA sometime, I'll show you the town." I was born there, Henry said. I'll show you the town." Fair enough. They looked at each other for a moment, then shook hands. Take care, Fowler said. He backed the truck down the gravel road, wincing at the sound the tires made, then honked before edging out on the asphalt. He honked again and waved, but Henry was beyond the crest of the hill. He felt like a complete bastard.
CHAPTER NINE
The clean white lights of the drafting rooms, the smell of paper and developer and toner and blueprint machines, the hot dusty smell of the electronic equipmentFowler was back in his sea, and glad to be there. His vacation had ended the day before, giving him four days to sort things out after returning from the mountains. He greeted the chief engineer and a secretary cheerily before entering his office. The hotplate and glass coffee pot waited, pleasantly clean and uncommitted, and he laid a box of doughnuts down beside them. His day always began in an orderly fashioncoffee and two doughnuts, an hour looking over the designs and revisions on his board, fifteen minutes catching up on office memos, and then two hours of work before breaking for lunch. Fowler had always found work cathartic. Whatever problems he might have on the outside, he could drop them at the employee gate and come to work clean, ready to concentrate. That had saved him many times from long days of waiting (for his wife to call, her attorney to call, the kids to call or all three) and involvement. Involvement had never been his strong point. Best to put up appearances and hide behind them Now that he had no wife, and effectively had no kids, he was saved from waiting for them not to call. It was an interesting distinction. And he had warned Dorothy several times that calling him at work was forbidden. Dorothy took him at his word. He rigged the coffee pot and opened the box of doughnuts to see what he had picked up at the Winchell's. As he ate a cream-filled orange glaze, he leafed through the stack of mail on his desk. Larry, development needs the designs for those new demonstrator peripherals toot sweet. The salesmen are screaming for them. How soon?" He looked up from the letters and blinked at Regis Hinkel, the vice president of marketing. Albert tells me they're being held up because the computer fouled up on the feedthroughs. We won't get them here for another day or two." Christ. We have to get on the stick or we're going to drop next month's promotion. Castle hates to drop." I'm on it, Regis, Fowler said, looking down at the spike-full of notes next to the fluorescent lamp base. We do have these ready. He referred to a roll of designs leaning against a file cabinet. Development wanted these two weeks ago. Why haven't they picked them up?" Beats me. I'll tell them." OhCandice didn't bring this morning's paper. Could you remind her?" Certainly. Have you heard?" I doubt it. I've been away. Heard what?" Looks like we won't have to service one of our accounts." Why?" New Mexico, Hinkel said. Whole town's gone. Somebody in the FBI just decided to pull the cover off.
Happened less than a week ago. We had a few sales to businesses there." Which town is that?" Laramie or Malaru. Something like that." You're kidding." Scout's honor." Disappeared?" I'll get the paper. Hold on." He returned several minutes later with the front-page section and spread it on Fowler's desk. The headlines read: NEW MEXICO TOWN WIPED OUT Lorobu, Population 813, Ghost Town Overnight ALBUQUERQUE, New Mexico (UPI)FBI Director Douglas Davis announced today that eight hundred and thirteen people were murdered in Lorobu, apparently on the night of November 26th, by unknown assailants. The bodies were discovered by a New Mexico Highway Patrolman, whose name has not been released, and by members of the New Mexico State Police. Neither of these agencies has released any information on the calamity. Director Davis called a special news conference late Monday evening. There are three survivors: Cynthia Furness, 24, a postal clerk; Beverly Winegrade, 19, employed in a local hardware store; and Timothy Townsend, 11. Reporters were not allowed to question the survivors, who are being kept under close guard at Pasteur Community Hospital in Albuquerque. Although no one connected with the case has given details, Times reporter Austin Heiser flew over the town in a light plane two days before the FBI announcement. He reported that, Lorobu was completely deserted. I saw no sign of life whatsoever. I didn't see any bodies. Heiser was researching another story in the area at the time. Fowler turned to the third page to read Davis's statement. He scanned the page, then glanced at the second page and caught a name in one of the News Brief articles. Isn't that incredible? Hinkel said. Really nuts." Oh, my God, Fowler said, sucking in his breath.
What?" The name that had caught his eye was Henry Taggart. The article was short and terse. Jordan Taggart had murdered his son with a butcher knife and then committed suicide by hanging himself from a tree limb. The bodies had been discovered by Sam Cooper, a delivery man.
Fowler leaned back in his chair and let the paper slip to his lap. One section fell on the floor. Hey, what's the matter?" I don't know, Fowler said. You look like hell. Should I get you a cup of coffee?" Everybody's dead, he said slowly. Yeah, it's awfuldid you know someone there?" No." You look like you lost" Another story. A friend, two friends, murdered." Jesus H. Christ, Hinkel said. I was with them five days ago."
Psychlone Can I read it?"
No, Fowler said irrationally, folding the paper and standing up. It isn't true, what they say here. It couldn't have happened that way." He left the office. Hinkel stood by the desk, flipping the paper between his fingers, frowning. Fowler didn't know where he was going. He was out in the overcast but still shirtsleeve Sunset Boulevard weather, on the corner of Highland, before he realized he was wandering. He needed a plan, some way to get through the day. He found a pay phone booth and stood in it for several minutes before deciding to call Dorothy. Her number was usually quick to mind, but for the life of him he couldn't think of it now. He fumbled through his wallet, then searched the mangled and scribbled-on phone directory. There were four Dorothy McKinleys, but he remembered her address. The phone rang six times before she answered, sounding peeved. Dot, this is Larry." I was in the bathtub." Henry is dead." Henry who? Your friend Henry?" Henry and his dad, his father. It's in the paper." I don't take the paper. You just saw him. How did it happen?" Paper says his father killed him and then killed himself." Oh, Larry, that's awful..." It couldn't have happened that way. I've got to find out what happened." Are you at work?" No, Fowler said. I'm in a phone booth, corner of ... Sunset and some other street, can't see it." Did you tell anybody at work you were leaving? It's still the morning" No, he said.
Listen, Larry, I know you're upset" Shit, Dot, I'm scared! It couldn't have happened the way the paper said. I don't know how it could have happened, except there was something peculiar going on." What?" I don't know. I can't tell you over the phone. He heard a doorbell on her end. Larry, there's someone at the door. I've got to get a robe on and answer it. First you tell the people at work that you've had bad news, have to have a day off. Okay?" Yes." Then you come over here and tell me about it." Of course." See you soon. Drive careful." She hung up a
nd he waited on the phone, too numb to put it back on the cradle. Then he shook his head and left the phone booth, looking this way and that to see which lot he'd parked his car in. The company had reserved spaces in two lots. He wouldn't tell the people at work. He would come back in the afternoon and explain he had had some crucial business to take care of. Right now he couldn't think straight, and he didn't want to make a scene in the office. He was standing by his car and could hardly remember walking there. His hand drew the keys from his pocket, coming first on the key to the cabin. He moved it aside and took the door key between his fingers. He had often wondered how he would feel when someone close to him died. Now it was here and he knew. For a moment it seemed ridiculous that he should believe a simple newspaper account. He hadn't seen the Taggarts dead. But he was confident in his sources of information. The chain of reporting in a case like this was too tight. They were dead. Father had killed son. That was it. That was not it. Death was theoretical, or had been. None of Fowler's close relatives had died, only distant cousins and great-uncles he had never met. He had grown up, gotten married and had two children without having to face the issue. And Vietnam didn't countnone of his buddies had died. He opened the door and climbed into the Datsun 280Z. The motor started with an irritated cough. He closed his eyes before backing out. And saw the burning moth, the gravel boar, the jabbing, indistinct tusks. Dorothy lived in a bungalow off Coldwater Canyon Road. He drove into a narrow, tree-hung passage leading to the twin garages at the rear of the Greene and Greene home. She met him on the back porch, a tumbler of Scotch in one hand, and her glass of Martini and Rossi in the other. She was wearing a shift with curved stems and stylized flowers flanking the side seams. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she looked upper-middle domestic. No dings? she asked. Z is clean, he said. She walked ahead of him through the service porch into the kitchen dining area. She had spread a lunch of fruit and cheese, with a concession of sliced cotto salami for his carnivorous appetite. Who was at the door? he asked.
My other lover. Nosorry. Wrong moment for that kind of crap. It was Tommy, the gardener." Fowler nodded. He liked Tom DeCleese. DeCleese had been doing work for the McKinleys ever since Dorothy's father had been a boy. Now her father was dead, her mother was living in New York"suffering from terminal bitchiness, Dorothy had once said in a charitable mood. DeCleese still charged the rates he had charged in 1960. Tell me about it, she said. Death and dying. He had been so bored by Kubler-Ross. So far removed from reality. I don't know where to begin." When you came back you were tight as a clam. Something had to have happened. I've been curious, and now you should tell me."
As he sipped at his Scotch, he told her about the trip to the cabin and everything up to the frozen lynx. She nodded at the right points and offered to refill his glass. He declined. And you're frightened now, she said. Goddamnit, Dot, he burst out. I'm" Sorry, sorry. I'm not very good at this sort of thing. I don't believe in death very much, or won't until
Mom dies, perhaps. Father's death was de rigueur. I mean, he admired John Barrymore so much, how
Psychlone could he go any other way?" And when it's time for you?" Punch my ticket and move to the back of the bus, which is cryptic Dot language for I don't know. You're sure Taggart wasn't going off the deep endsorrysure he wasn't crazy before you arrived? He wasahexhibiting novelistic behavior with all the talk about ghosts or whatever." He never said it was a ghost."
What it'?" Dot, this is off the issue. I don't know anything about what happened except what was in the paper. I'm sure that isn't the complete story. I have to find out more."
Then call Bishop, or Lone Pinewhatever the town was."
Bishop."
Call the police there. The coroner. Find out."
He shook his head. How would they know?"
Larry, they investigated."
I have to do better than that."
Dorothy leaned back and shook her head. I've only seen you with that expression once before. You had to find out what school she was sending the kids to. They never mentioned his wife's name unless it was absolutely necessary. That was a real fiasco." It was my duty as a father. I didn't like doing it." You got in trouble for doing it. Every six months you can see them for a while, right?" I had to." So now, she pursued, this is your duty as a friend?" As a coward, he said. I don't believe Jordan Taggart was nuts. It isn't possible."
Psychlone What's the alternative?"
He wasn't willing to face that, either. For a moment he was more willing to accept Taggart's insanity than the alternative. For crying out loud, he said. I don't know. I have to find out." Larry, your vacation is up. You can't go back now." I can arrange for another week's sick leave. Say it's an emergency. He suddenly felt queasy. The thought of losing the office and his work was unnerving. His workand Dorothywere all he had going for him now. I can't keep thinking of myself as a coward." There was really something up there? she asked.
No. I don't think so." Then what will you find? The same thing the police could tell you here, on the phone. Call. Don't be silly about this"
I'm not being silly, he said ominously. Okay, okay, Dorothy said. But you're upsetting me now. I've always thought you were stable, maybe a little too stable, but reliable. Someone who wouldn't do strange things. God knows I'vewe've had enough of that sort of person." You think I'm acting unstable?" I make no accusations, she said. Only suggestions." I backed down out there. Maybe there was something there. Whatever, I backed away from it." We're both immune to spirits and spooks, aren't we? she said. It was their private joke, in reference to their avowed, deep-seated agnosticism. Matter is all." I have to go back." So be it, then. But make sure everything is set here, first." I will. His armpits were damp. She was right. The thought of going back was terrifying.
CHAPTER TEN
Albuquerque Timothy Townsend turned twelve on December second. He put together a spaceship model kit given to him by the hospital staff, and looked out the window at the hospital parking lot, the church across the street and the airplanes leaving the airport. There was still blood on his hands, but only he could see it. He had learned that the doctors didn't want him to see it, so he didn't. It was better not to talk about certain things. He had been allowed to see Cynthia Furness in her room, once. It had been bad. She was still unconscious, and her hand was in bandages, but he could see it glowing through the dressings. He had screamed and they had taken him back to his room. In her sleep, Cynthia had moaned and turned her head a little. So he didn't tell them about that any more. He didn't like the hospital, but his future was even more bleak. Rick, his brother, was going to pick him up in a few weeks and take him to Salt Lake City to live. Tim didn't like Rick very much. They used to get along fine, but now Rick was different. He had changed since being married. His hair was short, he wore funny clothes, and he talked to Tim in a funny way. But the only choice was to go to Rick's house or stay in the hospital. Neither prospect sounded good. Tim knew he had problems to solvepersonal problems. His nightmares were bad. Sometimes he would dream he was back in the house when everything happened. Other times he would dream his mother and father and somebody else were coming to visit him. They were very unhappy. The third person was a man in a uniform. Tim was pretty good at recognizing uniforms, but this fellow's was a puzzle. It was better not to think much at all. So he put together the spaceship model, careful that no glue slopped overonly little kids slopped glue, and it was time to grow upand glad that they had finally let him use enamels and thinner. For a while he had used a plastic paint that a nurse had brought in. She was an artist as well as a nurse and she said that paint was called acrylic and wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't catch on fire or anything. But it scraped off with just fingernails. The enamel was better. Permanent. When he was done with it, the nurse put a tack in the ceiling and hung it from a thread. The doctor who talked to him that afternoon congratulated him. It's a good job, he said. His name was Jason, a neat name, and he was black-haired and dark-skinned, a Mex probably, but he was okay. Sometime
s Tim's father complainedhad complainedabout Mexes, but he had once called Juan Oliveros the best mechanic in Lorobu, and Juan washad beena Mex. He hadn't told them that he wanted to see if the enamel thinner took the blood off his hands. He tried and it didn't. Tim ate dinner, feigning an appetite, and the orderly who picked up his tray said, You'll be out of here real soon. Cynthia and Beverly are coming along fine, too." But he was lying. Cynthia was still in a coma. Another doctor had said that in the hall when Tim had gone to the bathroom. Cynthia was sleeping and she didn't even need to. Her hand was doing fine, though. She didn't have any fingers left, he could tell that because of the shape of the bandage, but it wasn't going to kill her. Tim wondered if Michael Barrett came to visit her, and if the fellow in the funny uniform was with him. He wrote a name down on the cardboard model box, using the citrus-smelling glue tube. The glue made the name shiny and transparent, just like his night visitors. Dream visitors, he corrected himself. He was asleepmust have been asleepwhen he saw them. The name was Corporal S.K. Percher.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first snow of winter forced Larry Fowler to spend the night in Lone Pine. He bought a local newspaper looking for more details on the killings, but the story had blown over quickly. Father-son murder-suicides were odd, but not odd enough to excite comment. Most of the news stories concerned Lorobu. There were conjectures about killer satellites, hidden caches of nerve gas, germ warfare and even UFO attacks. Several religious groups used the story to further their own ends. One evangelist in North Carolina announced that Lorobu was merely the beginning of God's wrath, brought down on the United States because of loosening laws against homosexuals. Fowler paid no attention. For the moment he simply wasn't interested. His heart was like a shriveled walnut. He watched the drifting flakes of snow through the Venetian blinds in the motel room. Something occurred to him and he picked up the paper to re-read a notice he had barely glanced at before. The dam Henry had mentioned would be diverting water soonDecember tenth, weather permitting. The forecast was for weather warm enough not to freeze the water in the spillways. The cabin would be surrounded by two streams soon. He had less than a week. It wasn't much time. He spent the night polishing and testing the equipment. In the morning, he loaded it back into the Z, bought chains at an exorbitant price from a garage near the motel, and headed north on US 395. By early afternoon the storm was too thick and he had to stay over in Independence. While there, he made a phone call to Bishop but hung up before it was completed. It would be no good trying to convince the sheriff's department or State Police that his cause was noble. Better to just hope the roads were clear and make it to the cabin before a big snow closed everything. The next morning was sunny and warm and his fears abated with the melting snow. He drove into Bishop at eleven and filled his car with gas, asking for directions to the local library. Then he stopped for lunch at Jack's Barbecue, keeping his eye on the fluffy clouds whisking over the town. He spent an hour in the library, reading week-old newspaper accounts and thumbing through the occult shelves briefly. There was nothing there to help him, he was certain; the two experiences he had had at the cabin didn't seem to fit standard categories. This is crazy, he muttered as he climbed back into the Z, clutching three Xeroxes of short news stories. There wasn't much more to learn about the killings, apparentlymurder-suicide clear and simple. The car had been giving him some trouble going up the long grades, overheating twice between Independence and Bishop. In Bishop everything showed normal, and in the service station there was no sign of coolant spillage. The Z was almost newhe had only put five thousand miles on ithe decided there was something wrong with the temperature gauge. Just to be sure, he double-checked the hoses and radiator in another garage before leaving Bishop and heading into the White Mountains. The roadsides were dotted with patches of melting snow. He had to watch for game on the highwaydeer mostly, but once a lynx. It was four-thirty when he reached the rest stop above the valley. He pulled out and stood by the guard rails, his hair blowing in the rising cold wind. Fifteen minutes later he turned onto the drive and heard the unpleasant grind of the gravel beneath his tires. He turned off the ignition and sat in the car, looking at the cabin, suddenly uncertain. If the cabin was sealed for evidence, he would have to break in. That was illegal. On the other hand, if the case had already been decided and no further evidence was necessary, why would they seal it? The state would probably seal it, he told himself, until the will was put through probate, if there were any heirs. Fowler didn't relish the idea of breaking the law. Still, he had come this far, knowing (at least subconsciously) what he would face when he arrived. The only alternative was to turn around and go home, feeling foolish and carrying a guilty little hairball around for the rest of his life. He tapped the steering wheel, then pounded it and swore. The equipment was in two aluminum camera cases. He swung them out of the back and put one under each arm, then reached into the car and pulled out his suitcase. Waddling slightly, he approached the front porch. Night was coming fast and the cold bit through his windbreaker. A latch had been screwed onto the door and frame, and a steel cable with a lock and a tag hung from the latch eye. He put the cases down and read the tag, then tugged on the cable. Sealed by the State of California. He returned to the car to get a pack of tools and spent the next ten minutes removing the latch. This far out in the country, such a seal was bound to be ineffective. He made sure he didn't damage the fitting, so he could re-seal the cabin after he left. Optimistic, aren't you? he said grimly. The key slid into the lock and he pushed the suitcase and equipment across the threshhold with a foot while reaching for the light switch. Open for business, he, said aloud, closing the door behind him, with advertising. Anyone who was curious would see the lights in the cabin, just as he had seen them a week and a half ago. It was a chance he'd have to take. Next, to get it out of his mind, he searched for the bloodstains. There'd been no description of where the killing had taken place. If it had been in the cabin, he wanted to know about it and, if possible, avoid the area completely. The police usually cleaned up after shooting photographs and collecting evidencedidn't they? He had never read much about such things. There were no bloodstains in any of the rooms. The killings must have taken place outside. He pulled the shades on the living-room windowsno sense in being blatantand took a few sticks of wood from the hopper to stock the fireplace. There was nothing to do now but wait. He hummed an ominous do-dooo as he started the fire, then shook his head. No sense trying to cut the gloom. Be grateful for small favors. The larder was full, the cabin looked like Jordan had just left for a walk, and it hadn't snowed enough to block the roads. He wondered if he should try to call out. He tested the phone and it hadn't been shut off yet. It was a cinch the phone company didn't expect any outgoing calls from the cabin. He wanted to tell Dorothy he had made it safely. But that would take courage. Suddenly he wanted to be very cautious about advertising his presence in the cabinto anyone.
