With a clipboard clamped under one arm, Sprague led the way out of the room, up two flights of stairs, and through another set of swinging steel doors guarded by another city cop. The hallway beyond was pretematurally quiet—just a straight, wide expanse of green linoleum and fluorescent light. Both sides of the corridor were lined, at ten-foot intervals, with identical pale green doors; each one had a small window in it, no doubt of some unbreakable glass, mounted at eye level. Sprague, after consulting his watch again, hesitated, then said, “I think I'll look in on my arsonist first. Gilbert Hoster.”
Hoster was laid out on his bunk, reading a tome entitled Treasures of the Vatican. In the past six months, Sprague had explained in the corridor outside, Hoster had fire-bombed three abortion clinics in New York and New Jersey; he did it, to hear her words; it seemed so important to make out what she was saying, but her voice alternately rose and fell, and the most he could gather was the sense that, yes, she was talking to him. He heard his name, and trilling laughter, laughter that flattened out instantly as if borne away by a gust of wind on a vast, empty plain. Where was she? Who was she?
His hands were gripping Garcia's shoulders; he had drawn his legs up onto the bed, too. At first, he thought his eyes were open again, staring into the whiteness of the crisp, starchy sheet. But they weren't; he was traveling through a landscape of bleak, white light, traveling as if he were a leaf carried by that same gusting wind. He could see in all directions at once; behind him, a red steel scaffolding, receding fast; before him a burning sun that shimmered with heat and grew larger all the time. Its perimeter seemed to pulse with light, beating like a great white, shapeless heart. The voices in his head had faded or gone—all but the one, the young woman he could not make out. Her voice, if anything, had grown louder, though her words were still swallowed up by the rushing wind and a vague, distant commotion.
The heat was growing more intense by the second; Jack raised his hand before his eyes. He could no longer look at the beating light; he could only hurtle toward it, bracing himself for the scorching shock of collision. And then it came, with a burst like hitting a swimming pool from the high dive: he reeled in light, his skin abraded by a dry, invisible fire. He felt scrubbed, inside and out, by a flaming wind, which was at once painful beyond measure and more keenly satisfying than anything he had ever imagined. Part of him wanted to escape screaming, and part wanted to remain, and endure it, forever. Had he not known now wasn't the time, that he was only a pilgrim in these holy precincts, he would have stayed, would have given himself over to the engulfing light, would have let it do with him whatever it willed. But now was not that time; he did not yet belong there, and the light, he felt, knew it as well as he did. He was rolled and buffeted and spun, like clothes in a dryer, and as the heat abated, so did the light.
He felt in his heart a gaping loneliness. He felt rejected, and terrifyingly lost—though he sensed, all around him now, the presence of others. Among them, he knew, and very near, was Garcia, whom he had almost forgotten, as he had almost forgotten himself. He breathed his name, and as if that alone were enough to incarnate him, Garcia appeared, in the clothes he had died in; he looked, as Jack himself felt, lost and confused. His face floated uneasily in front of Jack's eyes, and it was then Jack realized the face was strangely transparent; like a clear plastic mask; it could be seen, and seen through, at the same time. So could his body; when Jack looked at Garcia he could see him—his arms, his legs, his chest—and see also a limitless expanse of gray . . . it could not be called terrain, because there were no apparent features to it, but a vast barren plain of gray shadow and haze, which spread away in all directions, growing darker and more clouded toward the far horizons. Garcia, he sensed, was headed toward that darkness.
“Not yet,” Jack said, his voice sounding oddly muted and flat. “Not yet.” His hands, without reaching out, were clutching Garcia's shoulders; it was possible to hold him, Jack discovered, without actually feeling anything. Like touching your own jaw after a shot of Novocaine. Garcia neither welcomed, nor resisted, the embrace; he seemed not to understand what was expected of him. It was only when Jack subtly urged him back, in the direction of the light, that his expression became one of fear and reluctance. "Eres un ángel? Eres un muerto?” Jack understood no Spanish; he merely held Garcia tighter, said, “Come with me.” Garcia tried, but hesitantly, to free himself. His expression turned to utter terror. "Eres el diablo? Sí eres el diablo!” This much Jack was able to grasp; he smiled and said, “No, I am not the devil. No diablo,” he repeated, shaking his head. But Garcia wasn't convinced. "Diablo!” he cried, his whole body quaking with fear now. "El diablo lleva los asesinos al infierno!” He fell to his knees, screaming in terror, but no longer trying to escape.
Jack knelt down and wrapped him in his arms. He could feel no flesh, but the coldness was extraordinary. He held him closer, hoping to warm him; Garcia's head slumped, as if he had died again, against Jack's chest.
Without having to rise, Jack felt them both moving, back toward the light, away from the plains; as they did, he sensed, without seeing them, that he was passing among multitudes, that he could, if he desired, summon up any one of them. The air around him seemed to swarm with voices, all of them vying for his attention and his ear. But there were so very many, and they were so hopelessly jumbled together, with dozens of accents, hundreds of languages, that in the end it became a noise with no more meaning than the rushing wind. The light grew brighter, and the heat more intense, the voices fading, until only one, only one, could still be faintly, distantly heard. Jack knew that voice, it was so familiar, it was as much a part of him as his own blood. He strained to see, in the blinding light, where it was coming from, and who was calling to him.
Garcia began to grow heavy in his arms; to hold him better, Jack clasped his hands behind Garcia's back. And stared, over his shoulder, into the white void. That voice, the voice of a young woman, echoed in his head and coursed through his veins. He needed to hear it again, and more desperately, needed to answer it; it was as thrilling as a jolt of adrenaline, and as soothing as mother's milk . . . it was . . .
“Mother!” he screamed, and a pale white face, its features unclear, suddenly carved itself from the greater whiteness. Long, dark hair flowed to either side.
“Mother!” The shock made him tighten his grip on Garcia.
The face was speaking to him; he could see the mouth opening and closing. But she was falling away, farther and farther away, as if drawn backward by an irresistible force. He thought, just before she disappeared, that he saw a hand, a thin white hand with a bracelet of blue stones, reaching out toward him, and he screamed again . . . and again . . . and again . . . and—
“Logan! Logan! Let him go or you'll kill him. Let go!”
He opened his eyes; he was kneeling on the floor; there were voices again, shouting all around him.
"Diablo!"
“Logan, let go!”
Garcia was squirming and pushing away. Sprague was trying to pry Jack's arms loose.
Jack broke his grip. Garcia scrambled backwards, his eyes wide with fear, up onto the bunk and flat against the corner wall. "Diablo!” he shrieked, first at Jack, then at Sprague. "Diablo! Monstruos! Mentiroso!"
Jack fell back, shivering, against the foot of the bed.
“What's going on?” A cop had thrown the door open. A nurse stood behind him. Someone else, another white coat, skidded to a halt outside.
“Straitjacket,” Sprague said. “We need a straitjacket.”
Garcia knew the word, started screaming even louder. Two black orderlies, big as bulls, elbowed their way into the cell, stepped over Jack without a second glance, and wrestled Gar-cia's arms into the loose white sleeves of the jacket.
“Sedation?” the nurse suggested.
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“No sedation,” Sprague repeated.
Garcia was lying facedown on the bed, panting fiercely into the blanket.
The orderlies looked to Sprague for further instructions, got none, and sauntered out of the room.
Sprague wanted Garcia to remember every second of the past few minutes; he wanted him to lie there, awake and aware, trussed and terrified, in a widening pool of his own spittle. And then, when he was finally calm enough, and there was no one else around to hear his secrets, Sprague wanted him to describe exactly what had happened, where he'd gone and how Jack had found him. He wanted to hear, from someone who had been there and had just returned, an account of life beyond the grave. If he resisted, if he felt cheated and refused to cooperate, Sprague would guarantee him a long, well-guarded life, full of sedation and padding and strait-jackets. If he went along, and told Sprague everything he wanted to know, Sprague would promise him no further foul-ups. Sprague would promise him a lasting death—and this time Sprague would deliver.
Chapter Fifteen
ON WEDNESDAY, THE article ran on an inside page of the entertainment and leisure section.
ADOLPH ZAKIN, THEATER OWNER, BACK TO WORK—AND BACK TO LIFE
It wasn't very long, just a few hundred words, but it was the first time Arlette had seen her own byline in the paper. Her boss, Murray Spiegel, hadn't liked the idea much—"sounds too Enquirer to me"—but it was a slow news day and he could see how badly she wanted it; he'd initialed her copy and told her to make him a lunch reservation at Caravelle.
And now, here it was, in black and white.
Adolph Zakin, owner of one of the most successful theatrical property chains in America, returned to his West 57th Street office today, looking none the worse for having died, in front of one of his own theaters, on November 17 of this year.
What a great lead! She clapped her hands together after reading it over. A reporter at a nearby desk looked up from his work and scowled. Arlette mouthed “sorry” and went on reading. She tried to pretend she hadn't written it, that she was just an average reader leafing through the paper on the morning train. Would she have been grabbed by now? Would she be eagerly reading the rest?
Yes, she thought—she would. The piece went on to explain what had happened outside the theater, and how Zakin had later described it from his suite at the Carlyle:
Looking off at the expensive oil painting that adorned one wall, he repeated, “There's something else—after.”
Arlette still got a chill from that.
The end of the piece was a quick summary of the work currently being done on Jack Logan, “the young musician with the mysterious talents,” under the supervision of Dr. Orson Sprague at the Institute of Abnormal Psychology. Sprague was even quoted to the effect that his early results were “very promising.”
Arlette folded the paper with satisfaction. It wasn't a headline story yet, but it was a start—and after what she'd seen with Garcia at the hospital annex, there'd be a lot more to come. Sprague had swom her to secrecy over the Garcia episode, saying he needed to do follow-up studies before any word was released. “If this incident becomes common knowledge,” he'd said, “my access to Garcia will be terribly restricted, and I'll never be able to uncover what went on.” Arlette, though she was chaffing at the bit, had agreed to hold off . . . for the time being.
The phone rang; Arlette picked it up without looking, cradled it on her shoulder. “Murray Spiegel's line.”
“Hi, Arlette. I just read your story in today's paper. Wow.”
It was her friend, Bonnie Robb, the TV reporter who'd first given her the tip.
“Did you like it? How about that lead?”
“The lead?” Bonnie said. “Oh, yeah, it opened great. And I love that spooky stuff about something coming after. In fact, I was wondering if there's anything in it for the local news, the five P.M. broadcast. I wanted to ask you a couple of things.”
“Sure.”
Even as Arlette answered Bonnie's questions, about what kind of interview subjects Zakin, or Sprague, or Logan would be, her mind was racing to stay one step ahead: how much of her info should she be handing out—even to a friend? Would a TV report strengthen or diminish her own ongoing story? How could she capitalize on Robb's sudden interest, and on any other attention the story received? She felt that she was riding the crest of a wave, and if she could just manage to keep her balance, she'd be able to ride it right onto the front page.
Or at the very least, a guest appearance on the Geraldo Rivera show.
Chapter Sixteen
JUDGING FROM THE crowd around the bulletin board, Jack figured the dreaded “notice” had been posted. But when Vin-nie spotted him and said “It wasn't me,” with his palms raised as if to show he was clean, Jack knew it had to do with what he'd come to think of as “the Sprague stuff.”
When he stepped up to read the newspaper clipping tacked to the board, the other musicians instinctively drew back. Veronica glared at him, and stalked away.
Had she posted it?
Bad as it was, in a way he was relieved; at least it didn't mention anything about what had happened with Ruben Garcia. It was still just Adolph Zakin. And the byline, Jack noticed, was Arlette Stein. Hadn't that been the name of the woman Sprague had introduced simply as an “associate"? An associate from the press, apparently.
Jack was too wrung out to care.
For the past two nights, he'd had maybe three hours of sleep. And if Sprague had had his way, he wouldn't have had even that. Sprague wanted him virtually to live at the institute, to be available for study and observation around the clock. Sprague was like a man obsessed, measuring Jack in every way he could, checking his blood count, monitoring his blood pressure, peering into his eyes and down his throat; Jack had been scoped and scanned and sampled until there was simply nothing left to do.
Except to ask questions. And Sprague never seemed to run out of those. What had he felt when he first put his hand to Garcia's chest? What did he see when he closed his eyes? Where had he gone? How had he traveled there? What had those voices seemed to be saying? How could the white light have been painful and pleasurable, at the same time? What did the woman, the one who called to him, look like? How could he tell that she was his mother? (Jack could only say that he knew.) And finally, again and again, phrased a hundred different ways, how exactly did he do what he had done—Sprague had seen the results, but not yet understood the process—and where had he learned to do it?
Those answers, even Jack didn't know.
But Sprague was determined that, together, they find out.
Coming to play the show was like taking a breather. He was among friends, and doing something that he didn't even have to think about; he knew the score inside out, and even if he wasn't playing as sharply as he should have been (Vinnie had kidded him that he was dropping so many notes, they needed a vacuum cleaner in the pit) he was getting by. Once he got some rest, and straightened out some of the other stuff, his playing would get back in shape, too. Between this performance, the matinee, and the evening show, maybe he'd even manage to go home and take a nap.
“Move it,” Burt hollered from the locker room doorway. Jack and the few remaining players grabbed their instruments and hurried past him, down the narrow passageway, lighted with bare red bulbs, that led to the pit. Setting up, he saw Haywood, behind his drums, fluttering his hands like little wings: another “angel” joke. Jack shook his head, like “enough, already,” and Haywood picked up his drumsticks.
Consuela, the conductor, kicked off the overture; Hay-wood's job was to hit a cowbell three times, then the rest of the orchestra, in unison, had to come in. They did, with Jack half a beat behind. Vinnie, his cheeks puffed, raised his eyebrows at Jack. Shit. Jack adjusted the guitar strap around his neck; he was afraid to look at Consuela. Concentrate, he told himself; concentrate. He knew the score by heart, but he made himself study it, follow it along measure by measure, as if he were some alternate “subbing” for just this one performance. He made it through the rest of the act with only one major flub that he knew of—hitting the overdrive instead of the chorus pedal—and br
eathed a sigh of relief when the curtain came down for intermission.
Instead of going back to the locker room, and risking a lecture from Burt or Consuela, he stayed in the pit. With the stagelights off, and the house lights on, he could gauge the turnout—which looked passable for a matinee. A lot of old people, a smattering of tourists, several larger groups from those suburban theater clubs. Winter coats were draped unceremoniously across the mezzanine and balcony rails—a flouting of the house rules—but it at least made the auditorium look more crowded than it was. Hell, these people weren't even getting to see the star of the show; he'd come down with the flu and been replaced, according to the little slip of paper inserted in all the programs, by someone with the unlikely name of Templeton True. And True, Jack comforted himself, had made some bloopers of his own in the first act. Maybe that would take the heat off of him.
It didn't though; before giving the downbeat for the next act, Consuela muttered “Wake up” to Jack. That threw the fear of God into him, and for the next half hour or so he played a lot better than he had been. He paid close attention to the score, and watched the conductor's baton carefully.
Until something else, something slightly off, caught his eye.
At first he didn't know what it was. A low black curtain rimmed the pit, concealing most of the front row seats from view. Aside from some shoes poking below the curtain here and there, all that could be seen of the people in those seats was the top half of their face, or the crown of their skull; it depended on how tall they were, and how they were sitting. More to the point, Jack knew—without even thinking about it—exactly how far those seats extended around the pit; there were fourteen in the row and the aisle cut in, on the left-hand side, just behind Veronica Berghoffer's shoulder. Today, there was one seat too many.
And in it, there was a shadowy figure, a woman, who seemed to fade in and out of view.
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