Conspircaies rj-3

by F. Paul Wilson

  Exhibits Open: 8:00 A.M.-8:00 P.M.

  8:00-9:20 A.M. : Experiencers' Panel

  9:30-10:20 A.M.: Horns of Abuse: A former FBI agent (now a Capuchin monk) tells how the Bureau is covering up evidence of a widespread Satanic cult underground

  10:30-NOON: MK-ULTRA Is Not Dead: A survivor of CIA mind control experiments tells of the harrowing story of his dangerous corrective surgery, and demonstrates the control devices removed from his brain

  NOON-1:30 P.M. : Lunch Break

  1:30-2:50 P.M.: El Nino: A natural phenomenon? Or the result of UFO exhaust?

  3:00-5:00 P.M.: The 666 Chip—how it is implanted during ritual abuse, how to locate it, how to deactivate it.

  5:00-7:00 P.M.: Cocktail Reception—meet the panelists

  9:00 P.M.-??? Films: Communion, Red Dawn, Exorcist II: The Heretic

  1

  Still a little shaky and unsettled from the night before, Jack balanced his cup of coffee atop the lobby pay phone and dialed Gia. Everything was fine there. No signs of anyone lurking about. That was a relief. Next he checked his voice mail. Only one call and—cheers—not from his father. Oscar Schaffer had left him a terse message.

  "I've got the rest of your money. Just tell me where you want me to drop it."

  Jack dialed the number and Schaffer picked up.

  "Good morning. It's Jack."

  "Oh. Where do you want me leave the money?"

  And a gracious good morning to you too, Jack thought, wondering at Schaffer's tight, brusque tone. Go back to bed and get up on the other side.

  "Drop it off at Julio's this morning. What's the story with—?"

  "You going to be there?"

  "Probably not."

  "Good. 'Cause I don't even want to be in the same building as you, you sick, perverted bastard. I'll drop off your money, and then I don't want to see or hear or even think of you again!"

  And then he hung up.

  What's his problem? Jack wondered as he cradled the receiver. Schaffer should be one happy guy this morning. His sicko brother-in-law was in the hospital by now, and his sister was on vacation from her job as part-time punching bag.

  Jack got a sour feeling in his stomach. Had Gus come to and managed to hurt Ceil worse than he had before? Jack couldn't see how—not with two broken legs. Had to be something else. He decided to hang out at Julio's this morning and find out firsthand what was bugging Oscar Schaffer.

  He was almost to the lobby door when a familiar gangly figure limped through.

  Lew. Jeez, he'd almost forgotten about him. Sometimes Jack became so immersed in a job that he lost sight of why he'd got involved in the first place. This missing Melanie thing wasn't the first gig that had taken on a life of its own, engulfing and carrying him along.

  Lew looked terrible—pale, bags under his eyes, clothes wrinkled enough to look like he'd slept in them, except Jack had a feeling the guy wasn't sleeping much. Or showering much either: He needed a shave and his presence wasn't exactly a breath of fresh air.

  "Lew. I thought you were out on the island."

  Lew blinked heavy-lidded, red-rimmed eyes as he focused on Jack.

  "I just got back. I stayed up all night out there, sitting in front of the TV, and then first thing this morning I was overcome with this feeling that I shouldn't be there. I should be…" His voice trailed off, followed by his gaze, settling somewhere over Jack's right shoulder.

  "Should be where, Lew?"

  He shrugged, still staring at some far corner of the ceiling. "I don't know. Somewhere else. So I came here." He focused on Jack again. "Any progress? Any news?"

  Yeah, Jack thought. Something tried to kill me. But the call luring him to the basement yesterday had mentioned Olive instead of Melanie, so maybe there was no connection.

  On the other hand, someone else had mentioned Melanie's name.

  "Well," Jack said, "I discovered last night that I'm not the only one looking for Melanie."

  Lew blinked and straightened. "Who? Who's looking for her?"

  Jack told him about his run-in with the black-clad men in the black Lincoln.

  "Men in black," Lew said, rubbing a hand over his rubbery features. "Everybody's heard of them, but…despite all the stories, I've never believed they were real. Maybe these were just guys dressed up and trying to scare you."

  "Maybe. But I'll tell you this, if they were just hired meat, they were good actors; and if they were just actors, they were pretty damn tough meat. And they weren't trying to scare me off; they wanted to know where she was." He changed his tone to imitate the voice from last night. '"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?'"

  Lew stiffened. "'Melanie Rubin Ehler?' They said that? They used her maiden name?"

  "Every time. Something wrong with that?"

  "I don't know about wrong, but it's certainly odd. Melanie never used her maiden name. She hardly ever used a middle initial."

  "Well, whoever they were," Jack said, trying to boost Lew's spirits, "at least they think she's still alive—and findable."

  He brightened. "Hey, that's right. That's right. Jack, I think you just made my day."

  "Great, Lew. Why don't you go to your room and crash for awhile. You look dead on your feet."

  "I think I'll do just that."

  Jack watched Lew limp off, and couldn't help thinking of the other husband he'd dealt with in the past twenty-four hours. Could any two people be more different? Maybe someday Ceil would find herself a Lew to help her forget Gus.

  As he was turning toward the door, Jack caught Roma staring at him from the other end of the lobby. Roma raised his hand, and for an instant Jack thought he was going to wave. But no—he made that three-fingered clawing gesture again.

  Jack was tempted to make a gesture of his own, a more economical one employing only a single digit, but thought better of it. Instead, he held Roma's dark gaze until the monkey jumped up on his shoulder and added his own stare to his master's.

  That was enough for Jack.

  Later, Roma, he thought as he turned and pushed through the revolving door. We're not finished yet.

  2

  Roma watched the stranger leave, wondering where he was headed with such purpose at this early hour.

  "Why did you do that?" Mauricio whispered when no one was looking.

  "I wanted to rattle his cage, as they say."

  "To what end?"

  "To keep him off balance until we know the part he plays in this. Did you check his room?"

  "As we assumed: the rest of the device is there."

  Roma had expected this, would in fact have been shocked if Mauricio had reported otherwise, yet still it elicited a pang of dismay in his gut. Why, why, why?

  "Undamaged?"

  "Yes, but still, I am worried."

  "No need to be," Roma said, forcing a casual tone. "As I told you, he knows nothing of the Otherness. And yet the Otherness seems to want him involved. Else why deliver the device to him—and protect him from you? No, my friend. We must watch carefully and see how this plays out…before another sunrise we will know what part this stranger is to play."

  Mauricio growled his dissatisfaction, then said, "By the way, I ran into Frayne Ganfield this morning. He's looking for you. Says he has something important to tell you."

  "That despicable little hybrid always thinks he has something important to tell me. He will have to wait. I have better things to do than listen to his prattle."

  Much more important, Roma thought, feeling his excitement grow. Less than twenty-four hours until his hour came round. He needed solitude. The growing anticipation made further human contact almost unbearable.

  3

  Jack was on his second coffee in Julio's when he spotted Schaffer through the front window. He was moving fast, no doubt as close to a run as his portly frame would allow. Jack had told Julio that Schaffer was coming and to do the usual interception, but tell him Jack wanted a word with him.

  Schaffer entered clutching a white envelope. Perspirat
ion gleamed on his pale forehead. His expression was strained. Here was one very upset real estate developer. He handed Julio the envelope; after they exchanged a few words, Schaffer glanced around like a rabbit who'd just been told there was a fox in the room, spotted Jack, and bolted out the door.

  Jack got up and started after him. He passed Julio along the way.

  Julio was grinning as he handed Jack the envelope. "What you do to spook him like that?"

  Jack grabbed the envelope and kept moving. "Don't know, but I'm going to find out."

  Out on the sidewalk, where spring was reasserting herself, he stopped and scanned the area. Quiet and sunny this morning, almost deserted. New York City is a different town on weekend mornings. Cabs never completely disappear, but only a few are on the prowl. No commuters, and the natives are sleeping in. Most of them, anyway. To his left, a guy stood with a pooper scooper in one hand and a leash in the other, waiting patiently while his dachshund relieved himself in the gutter. Far down to his right a young guy in a white apron was hosing last night off the sidewalk in front of a pizza shop.

  But where the hell was Schaffer?

  There—across the street off to his left, a bustling portly form hurrying away. Jack caught the developer as he was opening the door to his Jaguar.

  "What's going on?" Jack said.

  Schaffer jumped at the sound of Jack's voice. His already white face went two shades paler.

  "Get away from me!"

  He jumped into the car but Jack caught the door before he could slam it. He pulled the keys from Schaffer's trembling fingers.

  "I think we'd better talk. Unlock the doors."

  Jack went around to the other side and slipped into the passenger seat. He tossed the keys back to Schaffer.

  "All right. What's going on? The job's done. The guy's fixed. You didn't need an alibi because it was done by a prowler. What's your problem?"

  Schaffer stared straight ahead through the windshield.

  "How could you? I was so impressed with you the other day. The rogue with a code: 'Sometimes I make a mistake. If that happens, I like to be able to go back and fix it.' I really thought you were something else. I actually envied you. I never dreamed you could do what you did. Gus was a rotten son of a bitch, but you didn't have to…" His voice trailed off.

  Jack was baffled.

  "You were the one who wanted him killed. I only broke his legs."

  Schaffer turned to him, the fear in his eyes giving way to fury.

  "Who do you think you're kidding? You really think I wouldn't find out?" He pulled a couple of folded sheets of paper from this pocket and tossed them at Jack. "I've read the medical examiner's preliminary notes!"

  "Medical examiner? He's dead?" Clammy shock wormed through him. Dead hadn't been in the plan. "How?"

  "As if you don't know! Gus was a scumbag and yes I wanted him dead, but I didn't want him tortured! I didn't want him…mutilated!"

  Confused, Jack scanned the notes. They described a man who'd been beaten, bludgeoned, bound by the hands, and had both tibias broken; then he'd been tortured and sexually mutilated with a Ginsu knife from his own kitchen before dying of shock due to blood loss from a severed carotid artery.

  "It'll be in all the afternoon papers," Schaffer was saying. "You can add the clippings to your collection. I'm sure you've got a big one."

  Jack squeezed his eyes shut for a few heartbeats, and reread the second half of the notes. His first reaction was relief of sorts—he hadn't killed Gus. Then he thought of Olive's mutilated body. A connection? No, this seemed different. Olive's mutilation had been almost ritualistic, Gus's sounded far more personal, a revenge thing, fueled by boundless rage and betrayal.

  Jack tossed the report onto Schaffer's lap and leaned back. He lowered the window. He felt the need for some air.

  Finally he looked at Schaffer. "How'd you get those notes? Are they the real thing?"

  "Who do you think you're dealing with? Half the new construction in Queens is mine! I got connections!"

  "And where was Ceil supposed to be when all this"—Jack waved the notes—"was happening?"

  "Where you left her—locked in the hall closet. She got out after she heard you leave. And to think she had to find Gus like that. Poor Ceil…no one should have to see something like that. Especially her. She's been through enough." He slammed his fist against the Jag's mahogany steering wheel. "If I could make you pay—"

  "When did she phone the cops?"

  "Don't worry about the cops. I paid you and that puts me in this as deep as you, so I won't be saying anything."

  Jack was getting a little tired of Oscar Schaffer. "Answer me, dammit. When did she call the cops?"

  "Right before calling me—around three A.M."

  Jack shook his head. "Wow. Three hours…she spent more than three hours on him."

  "She? She who?"

  "Your sister."

  "Ceil? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "When I left their house last night, Gus was on the living room floor, trussed up with two broken legs—out cold, but very much alive."

  "Bullshit!"

  Jack gave him a cold stare. "Why should I lie? As you said, you're not going to dime me. And someday when you have time you should try to imagine how little I care what you think of me. So think hard about it, Oscar: why should I lie?"

  Schaffer opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  "I left Gus alive," Jack said. "When I was through with him, I opened the door to the closet where I'd put your sister, and took off. That was a little while before midnight."

  "No," he said, but there was no force behind it. "You've got to be lying. You're saying Ceil—" He swallowed. "She wouldn't…she couldn't. Besides, she called me at three, from a neighbor's house, she'd only gotten free—"

  "Three hours. Three hours between the time I opened the closet door and the time she called you."

  "No! Not Ceil! She…"

  He stared at Jack, and Jack met his gaze evenly.

  "She had Gus all to herself after I left."

  Slowly, like a dark stain seeping through heavy fabric, the truth took hold in Schaffer's eyes.

  "Oh…my…God!"

  He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He looked like he was going to be sick. Jack gave him a few minutes.

  "The other day you said she needed help. Now she really needs it."

  "Poor Ceil!"

  "Yeah. I don't pretend to understand it, but I guess she was willing to put up with anything from a man who said he loved her. But when she found out he didn't—and believe me, he let her know in no uncertain terms before he pulled the trigger on her."

  "Trigger? What—?"

  "A long story. Ceil can tell you about it. But I guess when she found out how much he hated her, how he'd wanted her dead all these years, when she saw him ready to murder her, something must have snapped inside. When she came out of the closet and found him helpless on the living room floor…I guess she just went a little crazy."

  "A little crazy? You call what she did to Gus a little crazy?"

  Jack shrugged and opened the car door.

  "Your sister crammed ten years of payback into three hours. She's going to need a lot of help to recover from those ten years. And those three hours."

  Schaffer pounded his steering wheel again. "Shit! Shit! Shit! It wasn't supposed to turn out like this!"

  Jack got out and slammed the door. Schaffer leaned over the passenger and looked up at him though the open window.

  "I guess things don't always go according to plan in your business."

  "Hardly ever," Jack said.

  "I gotta get back to Ceil."

  Jack listened to the Jag's engine roar to life. As it screeched away, he headed for Abe's.

  4

  "Occam's what?"

  "Occam's Razor," Abe said.

  Jack had picked up half a dozen raisin bran muffins along the way. He'd also brought a tub of Smart Balance m
argarine in a separate bag. Abe had spread the sports section of the morning's Times on the counter and the two of them were cutting up their muffins. Parabellum hopped about, policing the crumbs.

  "Kind of flaky, these muffins," Abe said. "They fresh?"

  "Baked this morning." Jack didn't want to tell him they were low fat.

  "Anyway, Occam's Razor is named after William of Occam, one of the world's great skeptics. And he was a skeptic back in the fourteenth century when it could be very unhealthy to be a skeptic. Such a skeptic he was, one of the popes wanted his head. Occam's Razor is something your friends in that chowder club—"

  "SESOUP," Jack said.

  "Whatever—it's something everyone of them should memorize by heart, and then take to heart."

  "How do you memorize a razor?" Jack said.

  Abe stopped sawing at the muffin and stared at him. He raised the knife in his hand.

  "Occam's Razor is not a cutting instrument. It's an aphorism. And it says, 'Entities ought not to be multiplied without necessity.'"

  "Oh, well, I'm sure that will make everything clear to them. Just tell them, 'Necessity cannot be multiplied unless you're an entity,' or whatever you said, and all talk about antichrists and aliens and New World Orders and Otherness will be a thing of the past."

  "Why do I bother?" Abe sighed, glancing heavenward. "Listen carefully to the alternate translation. 'It is vain to do with more what can be done with fewer."

  "Fewer what?"

  "Assumptions. If you've got two or more possible solutions or explanations for a problem, the simplest, most direct one, the one that requires the fewest assumptions, tends to be correct one."

  "The shortest distance between two points, in other words."

  "Something like that. Let me illustrate: You and I are walking down a country road in Connecticut, and all of a sudden we hear lots of hoofbeats around the bend. When we reach the bend, however, whatever was making those hoofbeats is now out of sight, so we must make assumptions on what they could have been. What's the most logical assumption?"