Hell's Gate

by Dean R. Koontz

  CHAPTER 4

  What happened next was that he acquired the quickest drunk in the history of beer drinking. As he watched the sun disappear and leave bloody streaks behind it in the sky, his eyes began to feel funny, as if they were coated with fuzz. His head was doing an apache dance with the rest of his body for a partner. Warily, he rose, staggered inside, up the steps, which were ridiculously difficult to negotiate. He started for the master bedroom, but the soft Victor had visions of a head whose two halves were out of kilter, and he meandered back towards the hall to a guest room. The bed had a cover, but no sheets. He found sheets in a linen closet, brought them back, but could not manage to get them on the mattress. The damn thing kept changing size and jumping around. Finally he gave it up and crawled under the spread. He remembered that he had his clothes on, then decided that would make up for having no sheets. In the back of his mind, he made a note to try to discover the reason for his high susceptibility to alcohol. Then he passed out.

  He had a nice dream that got bad. Very bad.

  He was standing in a field of clover. The sun was streaming through trees at the side of the field and throwing shadows and strips of brilliance across him. It was late afternoon, and already the cooler air of evening had drifted in. A darkly tanned blonde with thick, long hair was walking across the field toward him. Her eyes were clover green and transparent so that he seemed to be looking through them, miles and miles and miles into some other worldly landscape. She held out her arms to him. As he took her into his embrace, she grew suddenly stiff and began talking in an even voice, cool, dispassionate, the voice of iron Victor.

  He woke, smacking his lips and wondering what had died inside his mouth. He tried to spit the little animal out, found it was his tongue, decided to save it. His ears were ringing. He yawned, trying to pop them. But the ringing continued. The phone would not be hooked up until tomorrow, and he had set no alarm. Yet the longer he listened the more certain he was that the whining sound was real, not imagined. He pushed to the side of the bed and looked down at his feet, a little surprised that he had not even taken off his shoes, but not too concerned about it.

  He stood up and immediately wished he hadn't. He was apparently some creature God had designed for horizontal existence. As soon as he was vertical, his eyes bugged out a foot, his head swelled to four times its normal size, and his stomach turned inside out and died. He decided that the worst that could happen had already happened. With that in mind he went through the door into the hallway, leaned against the wall and listened to the noise.

  It was coming from the lower part of the house. He went down the steps, wondering why, if they were going to put an escalator in, they didn't make it a good one. The steps went back and forth as well as up and down, and it took one a long time to reach the living room floor. When he got there, he found the noise was coming from a lower point yet. He found the cellar door, opened it. The ringing sound washed over him, twice as loud now, the sound of heavy machinery masked by the electronic hum. He burped, squinted into the gloom, flicked on the lights, and carefully descended the cellar stairs.

  Standing in the center of the cellar, the noise around him akin to that in a lathe shop, he tried to locate the exact source of the sound. At last, he zeroed in on a section of wall to his right. When he placed his hands on it, he could feel a far-away vibration. He thought he detected a change in the coloration of the wall here, but could not be certain. On impulse, he flicked off the light.

  Immediately, a glowing blue circle, six feet in diameter, appeared on the wall.

  He realized, then, that soft Victor had been in control of this body ever since he had awakened. Now, the iron part of him surged up, radiating fear, and struggled for the reins. Soft Victor shrank into the recesses of his mind.

  He looked at the circle, evenly calculating now, still fearful. The edges of the mark were as perfectly defined as if it had been the terminus of a high intensity flashlight beam. But nothing of that sort was being played on the wall from anywhere in the room. If anything, the light was coming from the other side.

  Then, while he watched it, the circle dimmed, faded, and was gone. So was the ringing. He waited another fifteen minutes, wondering what he was to do. The program seemed to be failing him. Though, whatever was happening, he was sure to be involved in it soon. After all, he had not acquired this particular house merely to live in. He had only to wait, and he would discover what was going to happen.

  As he climbed the stairs again, the iron Victor slipped out of dominance and released control to its alter-ego. Wearier than ever, he returned to bed, fell quickly into sleep after undressing this time. Unfortunately, he had the same dream. The one that began nicely and ended badly. At least it was about Lynda.

  The next morning was no fun. The thing that had died in his mouth the previous night had begun to rot. And even though it was his tongue, he was sore put to retain it rather than throw it away. While he was sleeping, someone had laid his head open with a mallet, and he needed most of the morning to push his brains back inside.

  By noon, as the iron portion of him slightly asserted itself-though not with its previous intensity-he was feeling well enough to go back to the cave to retrieve the trunks. They were all there, three neat strong, closed pieces without locks or keyholes. “Well,” Salsbury said to the computer, “everything went fairly well.”

  There was no answer.

  He detailed his transactions with the house, car, and groceries. The 810-40.04 just stood there, looking like nothing more than a common inanimate clothes trunk.

  “What about the noise in the cellar?” Salsbury asked. “And the light circle on the wall?”

  But there was no reply. He kicked it solidly, then wished he hadn't. The blow sent shock waves up his leg, deep throbbings of pain, while the trunk did not even sport a small dent. He searched through the quiet, iron part of his mind for clues, but that programmed section seemed to be growing more hazy, less well defined with every passing moment, and he learned nothing useful. He shrugged, decided he might as well move things into the house and wait for the pint-sized mechanical brain to get over its sulking.

  He grabbed the first trunk, tested it for weight. Suddenly, it was floating several inches off the floor, doing some absurd Indian fakir's trick. A handle slid out of the end, appearing magically from the smooth metal. He grabbed that, tugged hard. A little too hard. The trunk moved as if it weighed all of three ounces. It knocked him down, sailed over him, and came to rest at the mouth of the cave, tilted as if it would slide down the embankment and into the creek, but still floating.

  He got up, pushed it aside gently this time, and moved out the opening onto the narrow ledge, grasping roots and rocks with one hand, towing the trunk with the other. Five minutes later, it was in the house, upstairs in the room he had slept in. He pressed it to the floor, where it remained when he let go. Smart piece of luggage. A suitcase with a built-in porter beats the hell out of tipping.

  He brought the second in without problems, went back for the 810-40.04. “I'll leave you here, I guess,” he said.

  Nothing.

  “I mean, if you won't talk-”

  Nothing.

  He wished he could tap the programmed part, wished he would start moving again with the swiftness and purpose of yesterday. At least, then, he would find out what was going to happen. Vacillating like this, confused, he felt he could easily go out of his mind. But the computer knew that he had a high curiosity index and would not leave it in the cave for fear of missing something. The computer knew everything there was to know about him. Everything

  “Damn you!” Salsbury snapped at the computer, tugging on its proffered handle. It floated up to meet him. He walked toward the opening, dragging it behind. When he was nearly to the entrance, he heard the scrabbling noise outside, the sound of stones falling down the embankment. Iron Victor, though dying, flushed terror through Salsbury's body.

  He pushed the trunk behind, to the floor, to get it out of his way, t
hen went on all fours against the cave wall. Quite chillingly, he wondered if his usefulness to the plan were up; perhaps another mystery figure in black scuba suit would kill him. Was that why the midget computer was no longer talking? Was he to become another Harold Jacobi?

  Nice thought.

  And he didn't have a weapon with him.

  The only thing good about the situation was that he had had the last traces of hangover frightened out of him. He was clear-headed enough to know not to move. He tried to release control of his body and let iron Victor command. But iron Victor was having none of that. He lay still and waited.

  For a while, all was silent. Then stones rattled down the embankment again, louder than before. Then a third time.

  Some of his tension began to ebb. Surely, if it was a black-garbed killer out there, he would not be so clumsy. It seemed more likely, on reflection, that it was nothing more than a child playing, a child who did not even know he was in the cave. In that case, it would be better to come into the open immediately rather than wait to be discovered and give the impression he had been hiding here. Cautiously, he moved to the opening, trying to think what to say.

  But even that problem evaporated when he looked outside. The intruder was not a playful child nor a black-hearted murderous villain. He was just an overgrown, black and tan mutt. The silly beast looked forlornly at Salsbury, his tongue lolling. He had every right to that expression, for he had worked his way along the narrow ledge to the cave mouth, evidently following Salsbury's trail. Now he had lost his nerve. He could not come farther, for the ledge disappeared for a space of three feet before continuing. Salsbury could step across it, but the dog would have to jump. This beast was a little too smart or cowardly to risk that. Yet he couldn't go back, for there was no room for him to turn around.

  When Salsbury made a friendly advance, he found the dog in no mood for disagreement. He picked him up, slung him under his arm, and used his free hand to reach the top of the embankment where he deposited the mutt to the accompaniment of a great deal of whuffing, puffing, whining, and grateful licking. He had gained a friend. He patted the slobbering animal on the head and returned for the computer.

  When he came topside again, the dog was waiting for him, followed him to the house. After Salsbury put the computer upstairs with the other trunks, he went outside and found the dog waiting in front of the storm door, his head cocked curiously to one side. It dawned on him then that he might have use for the animal. It could warn him if another black figure came out of the orchard one night.

  He spent the rest of the day learning about Intrepid (as he fittingly named the mutt), and satiating his appetite. The mutt had a huge hunger. He was more than a little affectionate and had a habit of whinnying like a horse when he was excited, which sound he would augment with rolling, brown eyes. Salsbury also discovered the dog was housebroken, which was a decided blessing.

  Now and then, Intrepid would stop his games and look strangely at his new master, as if unable to find a scent for him. He would not growl or become anxious, merely look confused. Salsbury wondered if the dog sensed the hollowness of his master as his master sensed it in his own psyche. He was not really a man, only a prop created by the 810-40.04.

  That night, when he went to bed, Intrepid slept on a furry blue rug at the foot of the bed, his tail curled dangerously dose to his nose. Despite the new comradeship, despite the submergence of the iron Victor Salsbury, he dreamed of Lynda again.

  They were walking along a river, holding hands, making silent love talk with gestures and smiles and coven looks that were not half so covert as they pretended. She turned to him, lips parted and tongue flicking her teeth. He leaned to kiss her. Before their lips could meet, some idiot dressed all in black ran up and shot her in the head.

  He had the dream over and over as if it were on a film loop. He was grateful when Intrepid woke him.

  It was the first time he had heard the mutt bark. Intrepid spat the short, harsh sounds out of his throat as if he were anxious to get rid of something distasteful. When Salsbury called his name-which he was already learning-he stopped barking and looked shamefaced. He did not bark again, but surely did manage a lot of whuffing and whinnying. By that time, Salsbury realized what was upsetting the dog.

  There was a throbbing of heavy, singing machinery ringing upwards from the cellar.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wednesday morning, iron Victor was merely a whisper deep in his mind, a haunting presence that almost seemed not to exist. Yet he was not normal. Despite the fact that he was not moving according to a program, he felt hollow, half-completed. He tried horsing around with Intrepid for a while, but was becoming bored with that, bored with waiting for something to happen, something to put meaning to the killing of Harold Jacobi, the computer in the trunk, and the mysterious distant hum of machinery in his cellar every night. The day could have been a total bust had not Lynda Harvey pulled into the drive in her copper Porsche.

  He went down to greet her, called to her. She looked surprised at his conviviality, but smiled. “I told you Harold Jacobi was my uncle,” she said. “And I just about left everything in the house: silverware, dishes, sheets and towels. But there are some things in the attic, personal things, I suppose I should get out of here now.” She cocked her head, her green eyes flat with reflected sun. “Okay?”

  “Sure,” he said, ushering her into the house, realizing that his actions were perhaps exaggerated compared with his formal iron Victor responses of two days earlier.

  He offered to leave as she opened the first of the two cardboard cartons in the attic to sort out what she would leave to be discarded and what she would retain, but she told him that was not necessary. She would enjoy his company. That sounded stranger to her than it did to him, because she had been so irritated with him on Monday. Irritated, yes-but also intrigued. There was no sense hiding that from herself. Mr. Victor Salsbury was certainly an interesting man, big and handsome, supposedly a creative artist, with a personality that suggested a past of much variety and perhaps illicitness. In a way, she felt like a foolish schoolgirl for nurturing fantasies; but then she had to admit he helped them grow with his strange manner.

  As they talked now, sitting on the bare attic floor, she realized he had changed since she had seen him. Those short bursts of warmth that had broken his icy facade on Monday were now the dominant trait of his personality. Yet he was still not like other, men. She could touch him with her mind, delve into him, but only a short way. It seemed as if he was a man made of water, and that his outward appearance was merely the shimmering reflection of someone else.

  When she could no longer pretend to be interested in the junk in the cartons, she was reluctant to bring up the other matter that had brought her here. This morning, when the banker, Hallowell, had told her what he had discovered, she had jumped at the chance to break the news to Salsbury. She had wanted to see the blood drain out of his face, had wanted to see him on the spot and stammering. Now, talking with him, her feminine interest had been stirred; now that he had opened himself to her on this new friendly basis, to break this news was almost too cruel. But she had no choice. She had spent a great deal of time talking Hallowell into letting her ask Salsbury about the news clipping. She had to go through with it now or look like an idiot in the banker's eyes. “Mr. Hallowell asked me to give you this and ask you what it's all about,” she said, presenting him with the clipping as they descended from the attic into the living room.

  Victor looked at the headline and felt alarms banging in his head.

  BODY IDENTIFIED AS THAT OF LOCAL ARTIST

  He licked his lips, knowing what was coming next.

  The Harrisburg City Police today conclusively identified a body discovered by River Rescue Monday evening along the Front Street fishing shelf. Analysis of garments and dental records show the deceased to be Victor L. Salsbury, a local commercial artist employed by…

  “There's some mistake,” he said, though he did not believe there had been
the slightest mistake at all. “I'm Victor L. Salsbury.”

  “They say it was suicide,” Lynda said. “He was feeling dejected for weeks because of his inability to sell his creative work.”

  “But I broke that barrier,” Salsbury said lamely. “I sold my creative work.”

  “Mr. Hallowell is very upset. It appears, to him, that he just made a twenty-two thousand dollar loan to a man who is not who he claims to be.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “There's been a mistake here. I'll go into the city tomorrow and straighten it out. You can tell him that.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “You seemed to take that with less shock than I thought you would. I mean, when you read about yourself being dead, it should shake you up considerably. Victor are you really who you say you are?”

  “Of course,” he said, and laughed to prove it. Though he saw the laugh did not sound right to her. “I'm Victor Salsbury. Of course I am.”

  He didn't sleep well that night. He spent the night thinking about a body dredged out of a river and tagged with his name. Was he really Victor Salsbury, or was Victor Salsbury a decaying corpse? Did the real Victor Salsbury (if that was, in fact, who the dead man was) really kill himself, or did another black-suited man come in the night and do the job for him?

  None of these were sleep-inducing thoughts.

  At one-thirty in the morning, the vibrations echoed up from the cellar again. He slipped out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans he had purchased in town (since the computer had only furnished him with a single change of clothes). He stepped into his loafers, went into the hall, and down the stairs to the darkened living room. Intrepid followed, making god awful noises, half falling down the steps, then prancing excitedly to the cellar door.