by Mike Duran
“What’s true? What’re you talking about?”
“You wanna know where these documents come from?” He swiveled toward Annie. “Try Robert Coyne.”
He passed the page to her, tapping the bottom. “R. J. Coyne. Signed right there.”
It was a photocopied memo on Department of the Army letterhead. Annie stared at the scrawled signature. “As in Fergus Coyne?”
“It’s Fergus’s father. I’d bet my life on it. It’d been rumored that Robert Coyne was a physicist of some repute. Worked for an independent firm before being recruited by the government for some top-secret experiments. But that was a long time ago. He showed up around here with only a rumor of greatness. Not sure if Marvale Manor is the best retirement home the government can get ya. Anyways, he’s down in Laurel House now.”
“You’re kidding.” Annie returned the paper to him.
“Used ta be a resident here till he had a stroke. I remember him.” Easy leaned back, drifting in thought. “Wife passed away—killed herself, from what I recall—left him all messed up. Never talked much, but when he did, it was always ramblin’, pseudoscientific nonsense about interplanetary travel and other dimensions. Got his son on staff. How he managed to get that one past the director, I’ll never know. The both of ’em used to get on people’s nerves somethin’ fierce. Then one day he just stopped talkin’, laid there like an overstuffed hen. They called in Doc Beauchamp, who deduced the old man’d had a stroke. And that was that. Hasn’t uttered a word since, from what I understand.”
“And you’re sure that’s his signature?”
“R. J. Coyne—that’s what they called him. Pops, for short.”
“And he was involved in … military experiments?”
“Well, that was the going theory. But this,” Easy tapped the page with his fingertip, “this seems to corroborate that.”
“So, what was the military doing here?”
“Whatever it was, it had a name.” He sorted through the documents and passed her a single sheet.
“Project NOVEM,” Annie read.
“Novem. It’s Latin for the number nine.”
Annie gasped. “The ninth gate. They were studying Otta’s Rift.”
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. Whatever they were studyin’, Project NOVEM was terminated. Says here, R. J. Coyne signed off September 1948. Apparently Uncle Sam shut ’em down.”
“So, why would he come back here? And what would the military want with that old mine?”
“That’s assumin’ they were studyin’ that god-awful place.” He shook his head. “But I suppose I can proffer a theory.”
“Please do.”
Easy settled back in his chair, hands folded on his lap, as if he were an old sage preparing to spin a yarn.
“Death Valley’s got a fairly rich geologic history,” he said. “As well as the Sierras. Fact, the whole basin was once submerged, they say, covered by some sorta prehistoric swamp. Imagine that—Endurance underwater.” He cackled. “Either way, it leaves the whole Owens Valley awash in riches. And geological oddities.”
“I’m not following,” Annie said. “What does that have to do with the military?”
“I’m getting’ there,” he said with a raised finger. “The eastern Sierras were not exactly a hotspot for the gold rush. But once things got goin’, camps sprouted up all along the range, from Lone Pine to Tahoe. Camp Poverty’s evidence of that. Silver. Ore. Enough to draw in a few families near the turn of the century. Course, the Madness put an end to all that.”
Annie shook her head. “We used to scare ourselves silly with stories about it when we were kids.”
“Well, it’s worth being scared about. A hundred-and-some folks settin’ themselves afire. A regular Jonestown Massacre.”
“I’ve always wondered about that event. But how are they connected? Why would the military care about the site of a mass suicide?”
“Maybe they weren’t. Maybe there was somethin’ else up there that caught their interest.”
“Like what?”
He retrieved a wrinkled map from the assemblage of paperwork. “I ain’t an expert, but this is a topographical map of this area. Follows the roads up along the foothills—Cyril Loop and Lower Thermal Mine Road. Locations of pits and aquifers. And also geomagnetic coordinates.”
“Huh?”
“Magnetic fields. They cover the earth, and wherever they intersect, strange phenomena tend to occur—optical illusions, gravitational disorientation. Bermuda Triangle type a’ stuff. You’ve heard of the Oregon vortex, right?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Nothin’ but a tourist trap now. But they claim the area possesses certain properties, anomalies. Ya know, brooms stand on end, objects roll uphill, compasses go whacky. And if you look closely,” he traced his fingers along the map, “there appears to be unusual intersections all along the foothills, especially—” His bony finger came to rest on the page. “—at the Rift.”
“You’re saying Otta’s Rift is a … magnetic vortex?”
“Don’t know. But whatever it was, the military mighta been conductin’ a scientific analysis of the disturbance. They’ve been known ta take interest in such phenomena. Remember, that was the middle of the Cold War. The government was looking for any leg up they could get. Antigravity devices, mind control, invisibility.”
“Invisibility?”
“Sure. The military’d been experimenting with invisibility since the early thirties. Quantum physics was in its inception, opened up all kinds of possibilities. You don’t think Uncle Sam would miss an opportunity to exploit that, do ya?” He issued a sinister chuckle.
“Invisibility? Quantum physics? I’m officially over my head.”
“Ya think?”
“So, whatever was going on here,” Annie said, “Robert Coyne returned for it.”
“And if this stuff was in Fergus’s possession,” Easy passed his hand over the spread of documents, “there’s a good possibility somethin’s still goin’ on. And that Fergus will be lookin’ for this.”
Easy Dolan settled back with a contented smile. “I take back what I said, Miss Annie. I do believe you have landed somethin’. If the Lord’s really guided you, as you suggest, then maybe it’s time to jump in with both feet.”
He issued his broad white smile.
Which was all the confirmation Annie needed.
Chapter 37
You’re lucky we didn’t get a ticket.” Tamra dismounted her scooter and gave her grandmother a stern eye. “I could’ve fired up Old Glory if I’d known you wanted a ride.”
Annie massaged her lower back and grimaced, then glanced at the scooter. “It’s not very kind on the buttocks, is it?”
“Probably because it’s only meant for one person.” Tamra hung her helmet on the scooter. “Now, tell me again why you were in such a hurry to get here.”
They both turned and gazed at Zeph Walker’s house.
Wisps of orange clouds showed neon against the twilit sky. Cricket songs awakened in the evening. Along the streets, porch lights cast long shadows while families huddled inside over steaming plates of food and around their television sets. However, Zeph Walker’s ranch lay dark, entombed in shadow.
“This place is just like I remembered it.” Annie gazed at the house.
“So you have been here.”
“Not really. When we learned he’d moved back, we used to drive by, just out of curiosity. And concern.” Annie straightened her braids and looked squarely at Tamra. “Call it a hunch. But I’m afraid that young man is in grave danger.”
After discovering Eugenia in an upright coma and the director sitting in her darkened apartment, Tamra had the feeling she should start trusting her grandmother’s hunches more.
“Haven’t we bothered him enough?” Tamra said. “I mean, he’s either gonna get the message or he isn’t. You probably scared him off with all that talk about the ninth gate of hell.”
Annie raised an eyeb
row. “Do you mean to tell me, after what you saw today, that you’re not scared?”
Tamra could not shake the feeling that she was being cornered. She cleared her throat. “I told you, until this thing gets figured out, you’re moving in with us.”
“Moving out of Marvale is not going to stop anything. If Zeph doesn’t come to his senses, this thing may never get figured out. Now, come on.”
Annie unlatched the gate and led them under the dry arbor. The huge ash tree made the area unusually dark, and after what she’d seen that day, Tamra’s emotions were already on high alert.
“Hey, that’s weird.” Tamra stopped and peered at the Book Swap.
“What’s weird?”
“His bookstore.” She wandered toward the cottage. “There’s a closed sign in the window.”
Annie was right behind her. “So?”
“He told me he never closes that place. Let’s it stay open all the time, just like the previous owner wanted. Hmm. Maybe he left town or somethin’.” She stopped and listened. The dried sunflowers scraped against each other in the evening breeze, and somewhere in the foothills coyotes began yipping. “Somethin’s wrong, Nams. Maybe we should leave.”
There was no response.
“Nams?” Tamra turned around. Her grandmother was gone.
“Nams!” Tamra spun, frantically scouring the shadowy yard for any sign of her grandmother.
“Shh!”
The sound came from the porch. Annie Lane was standing at the front door.
“What’re you doing?” Tamra hissed, and hurried across the yard. “Let’s get outta here.”
Despite her granddaughter’s admonition, Annie rapped on the door.
A dog barked somewhere down the street.
Tamra held her breath, strode up the steps, and took hold of her grandmother’s elbow. They stood breathlessly, listening for a response. The porch swing creaked at a passing breeze, yet the house was silent.
“C’mon.” Tamra tugged Annie away from the door. “I can come by tomorrow. When it’s light.”
Annie yanked free of Tamra’s grasp and knocked on the door again. “Zephaniah! I know you’re in there.”
“What’re you—”
“He’s in there, I know it.” Annie’s eyes glistened with intensity. Or madness. “Zephaniah! Open up!”
Annie tried to open the door, rattling the handle and nudging it with her shoulder.
“Would you—” Tamra looked across the street to make sure they were not being watched. “C’mon!”
As Tamra prepared to drag her grandmother off the porch and down the steps, Annie froze. As did Tamra.
A soft but evident thud sounded inside the house. They looked at each other.
“Something’s wrong.” Annie pounded on the door with her fist. “Zeph! We’re here!” Then she turned. “Tam, do something.”
Another thud sounded, this time followed by what Tamra could only describe as a dry whistle, followed by a titter. The sound was so foreign, so inhuman, that they looked at each other, stunned.
Tamra’s first reaction was to cover her ears and run. Her grandmother was right. Something was going on in this city. Something quite outside the realm of ordinary. Despite the possible consequences of breaking and entering—for the second time today—running would be even worse. Besides, Zeph Walker was in trouble.
She quickly sized up the situation. Her gaze swept across the front porch, then raced to the window, but she was unable to see through the curtain into the darkened house. Pressing her palm against the glass, Tamra attempted to open the window. It was locked. Breaking it would only draw attention to them. Thumping past the porch swing, she squeezed in front of Annie, studying the door in the dim light. It was a standard spring-loaded lock, and atop it was a dead bolt. If the dead bolt was drawn, there would be no way to enter apart from ripping the door off the jamb.
“Hurry!” Annie implored.
“I need a credit card or somethin’.” Tamra looked at her grandmother, then at her scooter. But she’d left her backpack at Nams’s apartment because they’d ridden double.
“I don’t have one,” Annie hissed. “Hurry!”
Tamra glanced at the door, then the window. Then she remembered.
“God bless you, Dieter,” she said, removing the plastic library card from her back pocket.
Her hands trembled, but she slid the card straight inside and gently wiggled it.
The house had gone quiet again.
“Hurry!” Annie said again, this time patting Tamra’s thigh.
“I’m trying!” Tamra snapped.
She could feel the clip behind the card and wriggled it between the plate until a click sounded. The dead bolt was not secured because the door popped open.
The room was dimly lit. Tamra stepped in, trying to shield Annie from entering. A thick, musky odor immediately struck her. Light from another room cast a long beam across a wooden floor. Directly ahead of her, she could make out a step-down den. A large painting hung above a sooty fireplace. And before it writhed a large, indistinct shape.
Annie squeezed past Tamra, and they stood trying to discern the dark roiling object no more than fifteen feet away.
“Zeph?” Tamra spoke timidly, stepping toward the darkened shape. “Is that you?”
A raspy susurration sounded that made her stop in her tracks. Her skin prickled. The odor was coming from there, and now she could see there was more than one person. Her field of vision was obscured by an unwholesome dark shape straddling Zeph’s body on all fours.
Annie whimpered something. As she did, a pale face rose from its feeding and turned toward them, two phosphorescent eyes radiating hate and unspeakable malice.
Tamra may have screamed. She fumbled for a light switch near the door and found one.
Even if she’d had time to gather her thoughts and find the words to describe what she saw hunched over the body of Zeph Walker, Tamra knew it would have sounded like gibberish. Zeph was on his back, eyes open in a frigid paralysis. Whatever had hunched over him rose, its torso—if it could be said to have possessed a torso—elongated, like some maniacal jack-in-the-box. A soft curtain of shadow rippled behind it, and a head—a very human looking head—turned upward to glare at them.
That’s when Tamra realized that she and Annie were shrieking.
For the thing unfolding before them had the face of Zeph Walker.
Chapter 38
Belle Walker dropped dead when Zeph was thirteen years old. At that age most boys have exchanged their love of toads and toy soldiers for a newfound interest in girls. But unlike the rest of his schoolmates, Zephaniah Walker did not have toads or toy soldiers. Aside from feeling like mush when Kim Daschle passed by, any interest he had in girls was kept strictly under wraps. His mother would not tolerate crushes, even of the adolescent kind.
So when Belle collapsed at the kitchen sink holding a colander of greens, the boy prophet was left with little to fall back on. Their ministry had already hit on hard times. His mother complained that that’s what happened during times of prosperity—people forgot their Maker—although Zephaniah wondered if there were other reasons the Prophet of the Plains was losing his following. Belle’s unexpected passing nurtured his growing suspicions. Sudden deaths were reserved for adulterers like Blaise Duty, he believed, not women of God like Belle Walker. However, what he believed had never really been his own.
The doctor surmised she died from a brain hemorrhage. Yet the rumor around town was that she had pushed her son too far and reaped the consequences. Either way, the old man was finally free from Belle’s iron fist. He quickly took advantage.
And all the magic on earth could not prevail against the destiny that was bearing down on Zephaniah.
They buried her at Moncrieff’s, near the fence line. His father said she’d have liked the view. Zephaniah could not dispute that, and neither could he prevent his father from selling the ranch and moving to Los Angeles. Zephaniah came to believe it was in res
ponse to the trust she’d left for him. Between almost a decade’s worth of “love offerings” and an uncanny financial intuition, unbeknownst to them Belle had amassed a small fortune and left it to her only son. It irked the old man. But if her death was a body blow to Zephaniah, leaving Endurance was the ensuing uppercut. It was hard enough for him to cope without his mother. Now he had to deal with Pearl.
The marriage remained a mystery. Had his father previously known Pearl? Where did they meet? And how could he gravitate to someone so different from Belle? Zephaniah’s questions remained unanswered. Pearl was introduced and moved into their apartment, bringing her cigarettes and stainless steel demeanor with her.
But it was Pearl’s hatred that ultimately sealed his destiny.
“She ruined you,” Pearl would sneer at Zephaniah, oozing malice. If words could carry poison, Pearl’s were lethal. “You won’t last, kid. Ain’t no such thing as prophets.”
If only his mother was there to guide him, to help him navigate the waters of Pearl’s disdain.
But he had the Telling. And when it finally came, he would rue that day.
It was the stuff of folklore, a standoff between boy prophet and queen of the damned. Only, in his case, the damned won.
“You’ve been weighed in the balance,” Zephaniah declared to Pearl, bristling with the energy of the Telling. “And you’ve been found lacking.”
Those words had barely left his lips when his stepmother snatched a nearby letter opener and brought it down across his face. Even worse than the gash was that she cackled as he rolled on the floor, clawing his face, blood spraying everywhere.
Pearl was institutionalized, and her words officially came to pass.
That was the final time Zephaniah prophesied.
She cursed him, Pearl did. And he returned the favor. Now, staring into those phosphorescent eyes, he knew this was the echo. The aftermath of his regret and bitterness. The shadow he had nurtured had become a living thing … a thing that now sought to absorb him.
And Zephaniah couldn’t resist it. Nor did he want to.
So he fell into the shadow …
