INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  "Where the hell you think you're going?" Don grabbed Ducky by the front of the shirt. The old fellow yelped and pulled back, and his bottle of beer tipped and burbled onto the bar.

  Ralph Pelletier, his expression thunderous, called, "Goddammit, Don—what'd I tell you?"

  He knows! They all know! They'll tell Vic! Tell the cops!

  You spilled your guts just fine this time, fink!

  Don shook Duquette until his dentures rattled. "You won't tell! I never said anything about Vic's equipment. You hear me?"

  "He's crazy! He's crazy!" Ducky gibbered, hanging in Don's grip limp as a spawned-out salmon.

  Choke the lyin' sonuvabitch! Shut him up!

  Lute Soderstrom, who stood six-six and had once punched a hole in the radiator of a Kenwhopper, stepped up behind Don and took hold of his arms. A couple of other Blue Ox habitués pried Ducky loose.

  Don's howl was agonized. "You won't get away with it! You're all in it together, aren't you? All working with Vic and the others to finish me off!"

  "Ease him outside," Pelletier said.

  The jukebox was pounding a raucous dirt-rock tune. Women squealed and men shouted jocose advice to Lute as he wrestled his burden toward the door.

  "They're waiting for me out there!" Don screamed. "Waiting with Vic!" He tried to coerce the Swede: hopeless. He tried to trip Lute up by knocking over chairs or tables with his psychokinesis: he hadn't a glimmer. He was impotent. He was nothing. A carousel of light and noise and pain spun around him, slowly dissolving to black, and the jeering mental voices receded to a far distance. Don was a dead weight in Lute's powerful arms as they came out into the soft May night.

  Lute dragged him around back to the Ox's dark parking lot, picked him up bodily, and dumped him onto a folded tarp in the bed of a little Nissan 4x4. "You gonna be okay, Don." He spoke soothingly. "You stay here, get a little air, maybe sleep. I come back in just a little bit and drive you home, okay?"

  Fais un gros dodo, ordure! Haw haw haw...

  Don made an inarticulate noise. Lute nodded and went off.

  You can't stay here.

  You dassn't go to sleep!

  Vic knows what you said. You gotta get outa here!

  "Je suis fichu," Don mumbled. "Pas de couilles ... mon crâne ... ah, Jésus..."

  Pretty late in the game to be calling on him, shithead.

  He can't help you. Nobody can. Nobody cares what happens to you, you drunken freak. Nobody!

  Nobody ... nobody ... nobody...

  "You're wrong." The words were slurred, tainted with the bile that had risen in his throat. He clutched at the side of the pickup's cargo bed, summoned strength, and heaved himself up and over. Then he lay on his face in the dirt for a long time, stunned.

  Something crawled across the back of his neck and he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and grinned at the Nissan's left rear wheel. His senses were reeling but he was no longer a man without hope. The voices were wrong! Somebody did care. Somebody who would help him, who would even fend off Victor...

  "Merci, mon Seigneur. Merci, doux Jésus!"

  He struggled to his feet, fighting off nausea. His head seemed to be in the grip of iron tongs and he had to lean against the side of the Nissan until the pain subsided and he could see. He peered about anxiously among the parked cars and trucks for signs of the enemy. Nobody was there. Not yet. They were waiting for Vic, and it'd take the kid time to get back to Berlin from Pittsburg, sixty miles away via two-lane blacktop.

  When he was steady he thumbed his wristwatch. The lighted read-out showed just a little past eleven. She'd have to work until one on Saturday and it was only a mile to walk, along well-lit Main Street and then Riverside Drive. She had her car. He could sit in it and wait, get coffee and sober up. It would be all right.

  Pulling himself together, he shuffled onto the sidewalk and came around to the front of the tavern. The music and laughter were louder than ever. They'd forgotten all about him. Lamenting the callousness of it all, he set off north on Main, heading for the Androscoggin Kitchen restaurant and Sunny.

  ***

  Don went to the take-out window and ordered a large black coffee from Marcie Stroup, and asked her to have Sunny bring it to the car.

  "Gee, Don, I dunno." The girl eyed him dubiously. He was a filthy mess, reeking of alcohol, and he had caused scenes before at the Kitchen that had nearly cost Sunny her job.

  "Please, Marcie. I'm not here to make trouble. It's really important. Tell Sunny that."

  The girl finally said, "Okay," and went off. He shambled over to Sunny's battered '81 Escort that was parked at the far side of the big paved lot, and got in on the driver's side after opening the door with his own key. The Andy K was bursting at the seams on this fine spring night. The lot was jammed with vehicles coming in and out and cruisers stopping for take-outs. The place was far too brightly lit for those murdering bastards to chance coming after him, so he leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling safe for the moment. The long walk had helped to clear his brain but his head ached worse than ever. It didn't matter. He welcomed the pain because it kept the voices at bay. Not that he really cared about their taunting anymore. They couldn't touch him without Vic's say-so, and Sunny would take care of him.

  "Don?" She was standing beside the open window, face drawn with worry and shadowed by the overhead illumination of the vapor lamps. She held a large container of coffee. The loving concern that radiated from her mind struck him like a sword in the heart. Poor Sunny. She was only forty-one, and she was old. Like him. He had put her through so much.

  He smiled crookedly. "Come sit with me."

  She handed him the coffee. "Don, you know I can't. We're busy. I only came because Marcie said—"

  His mind took hold of hers in an old familiar way, like a hand slipping into a glove. "It's important. Just for a few minutes."

  She sighed and came around to open the passenger door, then slid in beside him. "What is it?" Apprehension made her voice unsteady. She still had one hand on the door handle.

  He downed a gulp of steaming liquid. "I was at the Ox tonight. Making a nickel-plated jackass outa myself."

  She turned away miserably. "Oh, Don. If only you—"

  He interrupted her. "Listen. I made up my mind! If you just help me, I'll give up drinking for good. I'll do what you been asking me to do."

  She looked at him, incredulous. "You'll go to Denis? Let him check you into the detox clinic at Project Cork?"

  Don gritted his teeth. Even the mention of the quaintly titled but nationally famous institute for alcoholism study at Dartmouth got his back up. Project Cork! Enough to make a grown man puke. But locked away in its stern sanctuary with Denis's powerful mind to shield him, no enemy would ever be able to get hold of him. Not Victor. Not the fiends of his own engendering.

  "I'll go to Denis," Don vowed. "Tonight, if you like. Call him up and tell him I'm on my way."

  Tears filled Sunny's eyes. "You really mean it this time?"

  "I swear to God!" His eyes shifted. Was that something moving in the trees beyond the edge of the lot? Were they out there, listening? Don set the coffee on the dashboard and clasped his wife's hand. "But I gotta go now. I need help now, Sunny. You understand?"

  "You're in no condition to drive that far. I'll call Denis, and then when Victor comes home he can—"

  "No!" Don seized her by the shoulders. Her eyes dilated with fear and he hastened to say, "Victor's gonna be gone God knows how long. I can't wait! I've gotta go now or never!"

  She took a resolute breath, detached his hands. "I'll drive you myself. I'll call Denis and ask him to meet us on the road."

  "Good idea! Then you won't have to leave the kids alone too long." He gulped more coffee and thought hard. "We'll take Route 2. Ask Denis to meet us at the Saint Johnsbury Rest Area on I-91. Go call him, Sunny. Hurry."

  She stared at him, searching. "You're sure?"

  His mind cried: Sunny for the love of God help me!

 
She opened the car door and slipped out. "I'll be right back." Then she was hurrying toward the gaudy lights of the restaurant and he was alone, limp with reaction and relief. He reached over, locked the right-hand door, and rolled its window fully closed. He secured his own side as well. The car was stuffy and the windshield partly fogged by coffee vapor, but he was safe. His mind seemed to slip in and out of gear, focusing on one menace after another: Victor. The hostile voices. His brother Rogi, that backbiting weasel. Even Denis, remote, ice-hearted, intolerant of a hard-working father's human weakness ... God, how he dreaded having to submit to Denis! He knew he'd have to come clean—tell Denis about the voices and the way they'd drawn Victor into the conspiracy, maybe even tell about the stolen equipment that had triggered the whole fuck-up in the first place. Denis would despise him more than ever! But he'd have to stand by his father nonetheless. Sunny would see to it. Wonderful Sunny...

  And then Don caught sight of the black customized Chevy van. It was poised in the turn lane out on Route 16, signals blinking, waiting for a break in the heavy northbound traffic so it could enter the parking lot.

  He's finally here.

  It's about time!

  Over here, Vic! Over here!

  "No," Don whispered. "No, God."

  At least four other cars were trying to get out of that exit. The van was momentarily blocked. Sunny!...But she was probably still on the telephone. Could he make a break for the restaurant? It was too damn far away. The van would surely cut him off before he made it to the door—

  And now it was making the turn to enter!

  Frantically, Don switched on the ignition of the Escort. There was another way out, a dirt track that bumped over waste-ground. He floored the pedal and went ripping down a lane of parked vehicles. He clung to the wheel as his car careened over the rutted track and onto the highway. He swerved to avoid being rear-ended by a furiously honking station wagon, jinked onto the shoulder, then regained control. In the rearview mirror, he saw the black Chevy van trapped in the restaurant lot by a tangle of cars in front of it and behind it.

  Vic! Vic! He's gettin' away!

  In your mom's car. Northbound!

  Don laughed at them. He checked the fuel gauge: nearly full. The traffic was heavy in both directions. Victor's farsight was lousy and his coercion didn't reach beyond a stone's throw. He could lose the kid in the maze of logging roads up the Androscoggin River beyond Milan, then double back and pick up Sunny.

  You'll never get away!

  We'll keep Vic on your trail!

  You're finished, sucker.

  Give up. We'll help Vic nail you!

  Don was laughing so hard he nearly choked. "You're not real! You can't hurt me! Go to hell!"

  Oncoming cars were blinking their brights at him. He panicked for a moment, then realized that he was driving with only the parking lights on. Giggling, he flicked the headlight switch. Then he settled down and sped north along the river road toward the deep woods.

  ***

  Sunny wept in Victor's arms, sitting beside him on the front seat of the black van. "He was still very drunk. He's sure to have an accident! Victor, what are we going to do? How will we ever find him?"

  He held her tightly. "Hush, Maman. Let me think ... There's Denis. He could try using his seekersense on Papa."

  She broke away and cried, "Yes, of course! Hurry and telephone! He may not have left Hanover yet."

  The young man sprinted for the front door of the restaurant, dodging departing diners. Sunny sat with her face buried in her hands, trying to summon from latency the telepathic power she had used so long ago when her eldest son was a baby:

  Denis stay home. Don't leave home yet. Stay Denis stay ...

  After an interminable time, Victor returned, alight with triumph. "Caught him! He was on the way to the car, but he dropped his keys—and then he heard the phone ringing and came back."

  "Oh, thank God. And he'll—he'll search? And tell you where to find your father?"

  Victor started the engine of the van. "Denis will track Papa down, then call me at home. He said there may be some difficulty because Papa's aura tends to be suppressed by the alcohol. But you're not to worry. We'll find him. And now I'm taking you home."

  "But I'll have to speak to Mr. Lovett first," Sunny protested. "He'll be furious—"

  "I've already spoken to him." Victor's smile was invincibly reassuring. "He's not furious, he understands it's a family emergency. It's going to be all right, Maman." He took a tissue from the console dispenser and wiped her tears, then bent and kissed her cheek with warm lips.

  Sunny felt herself relaxing, giving over volition to this tall, masterful son who was so like the strong, youthful Don she had married twenty-three years ago. She said, "I know how hard it's been for you lately, Victor. You're bitter. I understand why. But you must help your father, if only for my sake."

  The black van was moving slowly forward. Victor gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead. "Just leave everything to me," he said. "Now fasten your seat belt and we'll go home."

  ***

  An excruciating thirst, a tight bladder, and a skull-piercing chorus of woodland birds woke Don.

  His rheum-clogged eyelids opened with reluctance to misty dawn. Every joint above the waist ached and every joint below was numb. His brain was swollen too large for its fragile bony case and was on the imminent verge of exploding. He cursed, invoked a compassionate God, and asked himself aloud where the hell he had ended up this time.

  It was the usual Saturday night blackout. The usual Sunday morning hangover. But he was in Sunny's car, not his own. What the hell?...Oh, yeah. His heap was in the shop. He must have taken hers.

  The windows of the Escort were curtained in condensation. He rubbed a clear space and tried to focus his bleary eyes. There were giant shapes around him, yellow and blue, with jointed arms held rakishly akimbo. The nose of the little car was snuggled up to the flank of a monster machine. Another, even larger, confronted him with threatening insectile jaws. On its back was a cab bearing the legend:

  REMCO PULPWOOD LTD., BERLIN, N.H.

  Don cursed anew, then fell back into the seat. The thing with the jaws was Victor's new feller-buncher, a self-propelled tree harvester capable of shearing two-foot trunks in a single bite. Grouped around it were other pieces of heavy equipment: the hydraulic boom loader, the whole-tree chipper he usually operated, the tree-length delimber, the second feller-buncher looming out of thick mist.

  He was out in the forest at their logging site up the Dead Diamond River. He was hiding from Victor.

  He remembered very little of the previous night. His last clear recollection was when he passed through the town of Errol thirty miles north of Berlin after a nightmare flight through the back country around Cambridge Mountain. Goaded by the voices, he had been afraid to return to Sunny at the restaurant. Instead he had decided to head west and work his way down to Hanover and Dartmouth via the roads along the New Hampshire—Vermont border.

  But somehow he hadn't. Obviously he'd driven north out of Errol instead of west. God knew what had impelled him to come to the family logging operation...

  He opened the car door and just managed to catch himself before falling out. The shack! There was water there, the white-gas stove and coffee makings, maybe a few Pepperidge Farm cookies left in Victor's private stash, maybe a half bottle of brandy in the first-aid box. Scorning the San-ikan, he relieved himself against one of the tires of the Omark tree-chipper that had nearly taken his arm off yesterday. That'd show the bastard!

  He was fumbling with the padlock on the shack when he heard the sound of an automobile engine.

  Terror-stricken, he froze—only to be spotlighted by twin beams that stabbed suddenly out of the fog. The approaching vehicle was dark and blocky. The KC spots mounted on the roof glared at him but no other lights showed at all. It was Victor's black van.

  Don heard his son's mind-voice:

  Hold it right there, Papa.


  The coercive grip and the light held him like a hypnotized moth. The van stopped about twenty yards away and Victor got out.

  Don said: They sent you here, didn't they! They told you how to find me! They turned you against me—after I did everything for you!

  Victor said: You imagined them. The voices. You're sick. You've been sick for years. Your mind wasn't strong enough to adapt.

  Don said: Don't come near me! I know what you're planning. You heard me shooting my mouth off in the Ox!

  Victor said: Yes. You wanted me to.

  Don said: You're as loony as I am! Why the hell would I want you to hear me call you—to hear me—

  Victor said: To hear you call me a thief?

  Don said: You are dammit you are! I taught you everything—but I never taught you that. They did.

  Victor said: You're pathetic. No use to anyone. You hate yourself so much you want to die. But you're too much of a coward to kick off like a man, so you try to drink yourself to death.

  Don said: You're all against me Rogi Denis you we're all freaks together but you shut me out of your minds left me alone to suffer left me alone with them.

  Victor said: They're you, Papa.

  Don said: Bastardsonuvabitchfuckingcocksuckerbrat...

  Victor said: The voices are you. All the filth. All the accusations. All the threats. The mutation broke you, Papa. You're one of evolution's throwaways and it's time for you to go. You really are too dangerous now, and Denis will be here soon. Neither one of us could get a fix on you until you woke up, you know. Fortunately for me, he drives cautiously on dirt logging roads. Unfortunately for you...

  Don said: What—what are you going to do?

  Victor said: What you want me to do. It'll be an accident. A drunken man playing suicidal games.

  The dark silhouette disappeared as the blinding yellow lights shut off. Don crouched in the shack doorway, rubbing his eyes. He saw Victor get into the van and drive away. In his mind, the terrible voices spoke together: