Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  Zebulon decided to put an end to the heavenly contacts when Catherine started producing ectoplasm during a contact with the ten-year-old daughter of a well-to-do furniture-store owner. Zebulon leapt out of his chair, turning over the table, and the ectoplasm disappeared. At first she thought he was actually concerned for her personal safety, then she realized he resented her stealing the show. After all, he was supposed to be the pipeline to heaven.

  They had a big fight over whether to discontinue the contacts, and to her surprise Zebulon agreed to back down. It was a good thing, too, because the contacts scam ended up netting them their biggest sucker ever.

  Shirley Thorne, the wife of the millionaire industrialist, contacted the Wheeles and begged them to conduct a contact for her. She was desperate to find out if her missing daughter was among the divine choir. She'd hired dozens of psychics, parapsychologists, spiritualists, and mediums over the years, scowering the afterlife for hints concerning the whereabouts of her only child, and had yet to come up with a suitable answer. She'd heard positive things about the contacts and was willing to pay whatever they asked.

  Mrs. Thorne soon became the Wheeles' sole contact patron. Catherine discovered it was fairly easy to sculpt the greenish-white ectoplasm she exuded into a crude semblance of the lost heiress. In fact, the hardest thing she had to do was keep from laughing out loud whenever Mrs. Thorne, weeping and babbling endearments, tried to touch the weird puppet bobbing over the tabletop.

  Mr. Thorne was not pleased by his wife's insistence on pumping money into what he considered a two-bit scam, and he was especially outraged to find his wife's name associated with the Wheeles in the pages of supermarket tabloids. Despite his opinion of the Wheeles, he never threatened to expose them.

  Zebulon was sixty, Catherine forty-four; they'd been married twenty-eight years. They had a house in Palm Springs, a mansion in Beverly Hills, and a holiday bungalow in Belize. They owned two dozen automobiles, not counting the Coupe de Ville. They had their own mobile video unit and a state-of-the-art television studio. Zebulon's voice was heard on over one hundred radio stations in the continental United States and the syndicated Wheeles of God Show was seen by an estimated 2.5 million viewers every week. Their ministry boasted 150 paid employees. Zebulon was in constant demand as a lecturer at conservative Christian rallies, and there were numerous photographs of him in the company of politicians, movie stars, ex-presidents, and dictators adorning his office.

  They had it all, with no end in sight for the foreseeable future. So it came as something of a surprise when her husband told her he wanted a divorce.

  "Are you crazy? Do you honestly think the rubes who watch our show instead of going to church are going to stand for you divorcing me? The ratings—not to mention the love offerings—would fall through the floor! And why now, for the love of Pete? We haven't lived as husband and wife for close to fifteen years. What's the rush?"

  "I'm in love, Kathy-Mae. For the first time in my life."

  She winced when he said that. She'd always suspected Zebulon's interest in her had more to do with her gift than her self, but that didn't mean she enjoyed having it rubbed in her face. She also disliked it when he called her by her real name. It usually meant trouble.

  "What is it? Have you knocked up another one of your precious little secretaries? Which one is it this time?"

  Zeb's face paled. "What are you going to do?"

  She folded her arms, looking at him with new interest. "If I didn't know better, Zeb, I'd swear you were serious about this one. It sure as hell never bothered you when I fixed up the others with that quack in Tijuana."

  "That was different, Kathy-Mae. I'm not as young as I used to be. A man wants to leave something of himself behind. It's only natural…"

  "You didn't feel that way when I had the miscarriage." Her voice was very still. She remembered the contractions she'd suffered in the back of the old converted school bus that had been their home during their early days on the road, and how he'd refused to take her to the hospital. "You said it'd be in the way. Hold us back."

  "Things have changed, Kathy-Mae."

  "You're damn right they've changed! You're Zebulon Wheele, God's gift to modern man! Champion of the Lord's will and hero to thousands of ignorant shit-kickers all over this grand nation! You're no more free to run off and marry some little slut you've been screwing between the filing cabinets than the president is to take a shit on the White House lawn!"

  Zebulon's anger overcame his fear. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him. He was madder than she'd ever seen him. She felt a sick thrill of lust build inside her. It was their first unrehearsed physical contact in years.

  "You're a goddamn freak. You don't belong with decent folk! You've got no heart, no love in you! You're some kind of monster pretending at being human. I'm not letting you spoil this for me."

  "You're right, Zeb. I don't belong with decent people. I belong with you. Who is she, Zeb? Tell me now and I'll forget all about this and we can get back to business." She was surprised how calm and in-charge she sounded.

  Zebulon's answer was a stinging backhanded blow to her left cheek. She tasted the blood pooling in her mouth. Okay, I gave him his chance. It's not my fault.

  She could have read his mind any time during their relationship, but something always made her hang back. Perhaps it was simple fear of what he'd do to her if he found out what she was doing. Or maybe she didn't want to know what he really thought about her.

  She hoped he wouldn't fight it. She'd never gone into the mind of anyone who knew of what was being done to them. His awareness might complicate things and only make it harder on himself.

  She was surrounded by memories; some were fresh while others badly faded: Zebulon shaking hands with a local politician, Zebulon eating at a cheap lunch counter outside of Topeka in 1953, Zebulon consummating their marriage, a dim glimpse of breast and nipple as seen by a nursing infant, a pretty girl smiling and placing his trembling hand on the gentle swelling of her bared belly… That one. Follow that one!

  The fool tried to block her attempt to trace the memory to its source. It was a noble gesture, but a vain one.

  It had been a near thing, she had to give him that. Just as she'd accessed the girl's name and address, she'd felt the pressure building. Zebulon had triggered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. She'd never been "inside" during a blowout and she wasn't eager to find out what would happen should she get caught in the explosion. She had withdrawn halfway when the artery burst, pumping blood into the surrounding brain tissue.

  Zebulon's memory banks emptied themselves simultaneously, disgorging the mass of stored conversations, old television shows, bank-account numbers, quotes from the bible, excerpts from Houdini's handbooks, and snippets of popular song that comprised Zebulon Wheele's past. A thousand voices, sounding as if they were being replayed on countless tape recorders, each set on different speeds, washed over her. Catherine panicked, terrified of being drowned in the minutiae of her husband's life. As the initial flood of information receded, she realized one by one, the voices were dying out.

  Zebulon's memory had bled itself dry. The silence that followed resembled the hiss of blank magnetic tape.

  When she regained possession of her physical self, she found Zebulon sprawled on the floor, barely alive. She called Ezra, explaining that Zebulon had suffered "some kind of fit" when his girlfriend called him on the phone and demanded that he divorce Catherine and marry her instead. Ezra was properly shocked and called an ambulance.

  Zebulon died in the hospital three days later, never having regained consciousness. Ezra issued a press release citing the televangelist's collapse as the result of too much praying. The death of Mary Beth Mullins, whose car's brakes failed while attempting to merge onto the Interstate, was mentioned briefly on page twelve.

  When she looked into the gilt-edged coffin and saw Zebulon's lifeless body, Catherine experienced the giddy mixture of satisfaction and joy she'd known when she'd
realized her parents were dead. She was free! Free to shape the ministry in her image. Oh, she'd play the game and be the grief-stricken widow. But once her period of mourning was over, she'd make them forget all about Zebulon Wheele.

  Unencumbered by her husband's jealousy, she gave the sheep exactly what they wanted: bigger and better miracles.

  The Ultimate Healing was the most daring step ever taken by a television preacher. The legitimate press accused her of bringing the carny into the church, and even her staunchest supporters in the field of checkout-counter journalism balked at her psychic surgery stunts.

  It didn't matter to her what outsiders did or didn't think about the Ultimate Healing. She made sure to use a ringer and fake blood when professional de-bunkers were in the audience. As long as the faithful were convinced she was performing first-class miracles and the professional media dismissed her as a hustler, everything was fine.

  She picked terminal cases without immediate family or close friends. The ones who were going to die anyway. Who would notice—or even care—if they died shortly after being healed? That simply meant the supplicant's faith had failed and the disease returned. The blame lay with the patient, not the healer.

  One or two of her patients actually survived the Ultimate Healing, although most died within a few hours, if not seconds, of being dragged off-stage. Already weakened by the ravages of cancer and radiation treatment, most could not withstand the shock of having an unsterilized hand thrust inside their bodies. Then there was the time she'd gone in to remove a tumor and ended up yanking out the guy's gall bladder. But that wasn't her fault. She wasn't a doctor.

  The knowledge that Zebulon would never have allowed such an exhibition pleased her. It was too dangerous, too controversial. And most damning of all, it smacked of the geek show.

  Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen! Step this way and for the price of twenty-five cents, a mere quarter of a dollar, you can see the Amazing Geek bite the heads off live chickens and snakes! See him put needles in his tongue! Is he man or is he beast? Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

  The Ultimate Healing was tasteless, grotesque, and insulting. The sheep loved it. Within six weeks of the first public demonstration, she'd reclaimed the ten television stations who'd dropped The Wheeles of God Hour upon Zeb's death and added seven more.

  The only thing ruining her happiness was Zebulon monitoring her sermons. He sat right in the front row, dressed in the powder-blue polyester suit he'd been buried in, his arms folded and legs crossed. The left side of his face drooped, like a mask made from wax and kept too close to an open flame. He looked awful when he smiled. And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd taken to sitting with her family. The members of the congregation seated near the front were blissfully unaware of the ghosts balanced in their laps. Sometimes Zebulon would lean over and say something to Papa, who would nod his head very gingerly, for Mama had done a good job and he was afraid of it coming off. She was glad she couldn't hear what they were talking about.

  As annoying as Zebulon's persistent haunting might be, he was only a shadow and she had nothing to fear from him. No, her real problems stemmed from that damned thing. She should have known there'd be trouble when she first saw the Brit. What was his name? Chastain.

  Just thinking of that leering little bastard was enough to make her uneasy. She'd always imagined she was unique, not counting Zebulon and his paltry gift. Then this swaggering jerk walks in and throws everything out of balance. The irritating part was that while he possessed barely a tenth of her power, he succeeded in outfoxing her.

  He sat slumped in the chair opposite her, toying with the paperweight as he spoke.

  "Gotta deal f' you, yer holiness. Once-inna-lifetime chance, y'might say. There's this bird I work for—schizzy as hell—says she's Denise Thorne. Yeah, I thought that might snap yer garters."

  "Denise Thorne is dead."

  "Mebbe. Mebbe not. How are you t' know? Talk to her anytime recent, have you? Y' can fool th' old ladies with that load of bollocks, Wheele, but not me. I know what y' are better'n you do."

  She tried to grab him then, reaching out to ensnare him with her mind. To her surprise, he darted away. She made another attempt to trap him, only to have him slip past her again. And again. He seemed to be always just out of reach. She felt like a grizzly bear fishing for minnows. She could overpower him, as she had Zeb, but there was a good chance she'd fuse his synapses and end up with nothing.

  "Tsk-tsk! So much horsepower and all y' got is a learner's permit," sneered Chastain. "Now, are y' gonna cut me a deal or are we gonna run 'round Robin Hood's barn again?"

  Her cheeks reddened. It was as if she was back at the Hit-the-Cats booth, and she didn't like that at all.

  "Ten thousand American, that's all I'm askin'. Not much f' the whereabouts of a millionaire's long-lost daughter, innit? I'll lead y' right to her. No prob. What y' do with her once y' got her… Well, that's yer problem, eh?"

  Ezra was against it from the start. He was convinced Chastain was lying. "Forget him, Catherine. He's just out for a quick buck." But she knew he was telling the truth. There was no way she could possibly explain that to Ezra in a way he'd understand, so she didn't try. He didn't like it, but he did as he was told when she ordered him to pay off the Brit. Ezra was right, of course, but he never got the chance to say "I told you so."

  They were sitting in the car, watching as Chastain met the woman at the playground. She couldn't see what was going on too clearly, but it looked to her as if Chastain had kissed the woman. The woman staggered backward, clutching her stomach, and Chastain was gone, swallowed by the shadows. Ezra signaled for the man in the second car to join him and they spilled onto the abandoned playground, leaving her to watch from the safety of the Lincoln.

  The woman was on one knee, arms wrapped around her gut. The tranquilizer should have knocked her out within seconds, but she was still moving. Ezra was the first one to reach her. He knelt beside her, trying to make identification. It was the last thing he did.

  The thing thrust its fingers into his sad brown eyes, puncturing them like overripe grapes, then slammed the flat of her palm into the bridge of his nose, sending slivers of bone and cartilage into his brain. Ezra died instantly. Catherine knew this because she heard his brain shut off as neatly as if someone had pulled the plug on a radio.

  The Wheelers were doing their best to keep her contained, although it was clear they wouldn't be able to hold her much longer.

  Catherine was in shock. Ezra. Ezra was dead. No, not dead. Murdered. The shock became first grief, then anger. She was startled by the immensity of the hate in her. She had not felt such raw emotion since the night her father raped her. Not since the night Sally came to her and changed her life forever.

  She grabbed Sonja Blue and squeezed. The contents of the vampire's mind squirted out like toothpaste. There was too much for her to assimilate fully, but she discovered that this creature had indeed once been Denise Thorne.

  There was also a lot of confusing, meaningless garbage about "Pretending people," someone called Sir Morgan, and a lot of conversations in foreign languages. There was also a lot of sexual deviation. She ignored the parts that did not directly pertain to the Thornes.

  Blue went into a coma before her memory had the chance to completely empty itself. Catherine had her secured and transported back to the mansion. She had originally planned using psionic interrogation on her, but that strategy was junked the moment Blue regained consciousness; when she wasn't hissing and growling like a rabid animal, she was laughing at the top of her lungs.

  When Thorne dismissed the photographs as fakes, she had the videotape made. It was then she had made the mistake of putting Wexler in charge.

  She shuddered, surprised by the force of her memories. She'd tried to forget the past and banish the phantoms that flickered at the corners of her eyes. The liquor usually helped, but sometimes the shadows refused to be ignored. Like tonight.

  Zebulon sat on the edge of the bed, watc
hing her with a horrible, lopsided smile skewed across his face. Her father puttered around the wet bar, pawing bottles with fingers made of smoke. Her mother, a barbecued baby at her breast, studied the array of cosmetics cluttering the vanity table. The rest of the Skaggs children were clustered around their mother, staring dully at their surroundings.

  "Go away, damn you," she slurred at her dead husband. "I've made you into a goddamn saint. Ain't that enough?" She hurled the highball glass at Zebulon. It passed through his forehead and smashed against the wall.

  Wexler peered out from beneath the bedclothes, eyes white with fear.

  There was a knock on the door and a masculine voice. "Mrs. Wheele? It's Gerald, ma'am. You all right in there?"

  The room was full of dead people and stank of gin, jism, dried blood, and soot. Her head was full of nitroglycerine and Tabasco sauce. She placed her cupped hands against her temples, blinkering her eyes.

  "It's okay, Gerald. I'm fine. Just fine."

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

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  "I'm not sure about this…"

  "Look, you're the one bitching about how much you hate being left behind when I go out. If you want to get out of here, you gotta leave my way." Sonja Blue stood with her hands on her hips, scowling at him impatiently.

  "Maybe if I tried it one more time…"

  She sighed and lifted her shoulders in a see-if-I-care-if-you-break-your-neck shrug. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out."

  That was exactly what he was afraid he would do. Claude craned his neck, counting the metal rungs leading to the trapdoor set in the ceiling. Thirty. It was the third time he'd counted them, and there were still thirty. He'd hoped that a few would disappear at each recount, but their number refused to decrease.