"You know about this?" Slaughter said to Dunlap.
"Yes, he told me when we went to get some coffee at your office. They were evidently-"
"Let me tell it," Lucas said. "I should have told it long ago. You've got to understand how young I was. Eighteen, and I thought I'd figured everything. The way my father acted toward my mother and me. Hell, he was actually convinced that she was cheating on him. He was certain that I wasn't even his. I mean I couldn't stand it anymore. I felt there had to be a better life, and when those hippies came through town, I knew they'd found it. So I hung around with them. Can you imagine? No guilt. Freedom to do anything that you're inclined toward without fear of what somebody else will say. I'd never had that, and I loved it. But the trouble started then, and soon the town turned on the hippies, and the ranchers forced them from the valley. I was worse off than before because I thought I knew then what I wanted, so I struggled through the summer, but my father and I kept arguing, and I snuck out late one night to join the commune. But I didn't know that they were crazy, see. I figured they'd be like the hippies in the town. But these were different. Quiller had selected them. That's why he wanted several thousand at the start. To pick and choose the special types he wanted. Every freak who'd tripped out once too many times. Every nut who was almost psychotic. Every radical whose idea of protest was to plant a bomb or set fire to a building. Hell, they didn't need the drugs. A lot of them were scrambled to begin with. And they took one look at me and said that I would be their first new member. Well, I should have known. The hippies in the town had warned me. 'Very bad,' they told me, but they never explained what they meant. I suspect they only sensed what was the matter. All the same, I should have known. Because the summer had been time enough for Quiller to control the commune, to make it even more extreme. You want to talk about hypnotic people? Quiller had a way of looking in your eyes and making you agree to anything, and he had crazies working with him who would make you go along with him. I'd grown a half-assed beard. I'd let my hair grow long, but if I stood out from the people in the town, I stood out equally from Quiller and the commune. They had let their hair and beards keep growing longer. They had started dressing even weirder than the hippies who had been in town. Quiller used to sit in his Corvette-"
"The red Corvette? He kept it?" Dunlap asked abruptly.
"Oh, hell, yes. He rigged up a grotto for it off in the woods. He parked it there beneath a shelter made from tree boughs, and he used to sit in it to hold his meetings. But the funny thing is that, while all the others let their hair and beards grow, Quiller shaved and kept his hair short. When he didn't wear his robe, he walked around in patent leather shoes and expensive slacks and custom-made shirts that he'd brought with him. In the context of the commune, he looked twice as weird as anyone, just sitting in that car and staring toward the forest. You'd have thought he was on the freeway. God knows where his mind was taking him. And there I stood before him in my jeans and workshirt and the stubby beard I'd tried to grow, and he was saying that he'd let me be their first new member. He was smiling, and I didn't understand till later that if I'd refused, I wouldn't have had a choice. I didn't understand that I was a prisoner."
"It's like Jim Jones," Dunlap said. "Or David Koresh.'
"Or Charles Manson," Slaughter added, and they frowned at one another.
"I need a smoke," Lucas said. "Has anybody got one?" His hand was shaking as he took the cigarette that Dunlap offered. A nurse going by frowned at them. She slowed as if about to tell them that smoking wasn't allowed in the corridor. Then she saw the look in their eyes and kept moving.
Lucas drew the smoke in. "Anyway, they had these barracks like in the military, and they put me in one, watching me. By then, I understood enough to be afraid, but there was no way I could run, and they were talking about my initiation. I don't know what I thought would happen. I saw that many of them had a scar across their chests, two wavy lines that intersected. When they brought me food, I wouldn't eat it, and I wouldn't drink the water. They kept smiling, though, as if that's what they wanted. 'That's right. Stay pure,' they told me. I don't know. They had this thing about a state of nature. Quiller's notion was to purify them, to free them from the outside world. He made them pledge their loyalty, then put them through this secret ritual. Their goal was to escape the bonds of society and act upon their instincts. But the place was set up like the military, and I didn't understand how Quiller's dictatorial attitude was compatible with freedom, or how drugs had anything to do with purity. The scheme was crazy, schizophrenic, and I sometimes wonder if he didn't get some kind of voyeuristic thrill from watching them behave like animals. The second day at sundown, they were going to have the ceremony, but my father showed up that day, shooting. When they ran to find out what had happened, I escaped the men who watched me. The policeman found me."
"But you never mentioned anything about this," Slaughter told him.
"That's right. I was too afraid. I felt that Quiller would come after me. You said yourself that Quiller seemed a lot like Manson. He terrified me. I didn't want to go against him. If I told the town, the town would turn against the commune, and I knew who the commune would blame. Besides, you have to realize how much I hated my father. If I justified what he had done, he might have been released. I didn't want that. Hell, I knew that he'd come looking for me, too. As far as I could see, a guilty verdict was the best chance for my mother and me. Don't bother saying I was wrong. At eighteen, that's the way I saw things."
"But you're back now."
Lucas nodded. "And the whole damned thing is starting again. I don't mind telling you I'm scared. I figured that the commune would have scattered by now, that my father might be different. Last month I was with my mother when she died. She'd been staying in New Mexico. The last thing she said was 'Make sure your father doesn't cheat you. Half that ranch is mine, and now it's yours. But he'll try to keep it from you.'" Lucas straightened. "I'm finished running."
"Well, I guarantee you'll be protected."
"Don't underestimate my father."
"That isn't what I meant. I mean in there. I want you to look closely at the man in the bed. Tell me if he's really from the commune. We still have no proof of that. If the commune still exists, we don't know where it is. They moved it."
Lucas shuddered. "Oh, that's fine. That's fucking great."
The medical examiner stepped from the room where he'd been attending to the bearded figure.
"Well?" Slaughter asked.
The medical examiner looked troubled. "He's very sick. Apart from showing symptoms of the virus, he's undernourished and dehydrated. If he hadn't wandered into town, he'd have died by sunset. As it is, I still don't know how long he'll live. I'm feeding him intravenously."
"Can we have a look at him?"
The medical examiner debated. "I don't think that's a problem, but that cigarette will have to go."
He pointed toward what Lucas held, and Lucas nodded, dropping the cigarette, stepping on it.
"Pick it up now."
Lucas stared at him, then picked it up. He glanced at Slaughter. "Fine. Let's get this finished."
The medical examiner opened the door, and they went in. They peered toward the figure, then at Lucas.
"I don't know," Lucas told them.
"Make a guess," Slaughter said.
"I can't."
"You've got to try."
"But what if I identify him and he comes for me?"
"Does he look as if he's going to live? For Christ sake, be responsible for once."
Lucas scowled at him. The veins in his temples throbbed. Then slowly they subsided, and he studied the figure. "Maybe… Maybe I once knew him."
"Have you got a name for him?"
"I'll tell you when I'm ready. Did you notice if he had a scar?" he asked the medical examiner.
"Two wavy lines that intersect across his chest. They remind me of a swastika."
"And what about a-?"
"Tattoo on his
shoulder. It's an eagle."
"Let me see it." Lucas watched the medical examiner tug at the sheet and gown. They looked at a purple eagle.
"Yes, I knew him." Lucas exhaled. "Pollock. All I ever heard him called was Pollock. He was Quiller's second in command. That eagle's like some kind of military symbol, like a captain or a major. If he wakes up, don't go near him. He's insane. If you could see his eyes, you'd understand what I mean."
Slaughter sighed. "Then the commune still exists."
"But where the hell did they go?" Dunlap wondered.
Now the figure squirmed beneath the straps. He shook his head, unconscious, flaring his nostrils, moaning, "Throne room."
"What?" The medical examiner shook his head.
"He said 'throne room'," Slaughter told him. "I don't understand it either. He was moaning that when Rettig found him." Slaughter didn't like the smell in here. Although the figure had been bathed while he was strapped down in the bed, he stank of rancid meat and sweat and mildew, and the pungent smell of medicine mixed with those other odors nauseated him.
"Where has he been living anyhow?"
"The throne room," Dunlap told him.
"Very funny."
"No, the place clearly has some importance to him. Maybe if we asked him."
"He's unconscious. You can see that."
"I don't care. Let's try it."
Slaughter looked at the medical examiner.
"It might work. I don't think that it could hurt him."
"But it's pointless," Slaughter said.
"What difference does it make? Let's try it." Dunlap bent down by the figure. "Pollock."
"Careful," Slaughter told him.
Dunlap nodded, moving slightly away from the figure. "Pollock, can you hear me?
There was no response. Dunlap waited. Then he said again but softer, "Pollock, can you hear me?"
The figure squirmed. He hissed once. Then he settled.
"Pollock, you're with friends now. Can you hear me? Talk about the throne room."
"Throne room." That was croaked, but they could hear it.
Dunlap glanced at his companions, then spoke more softly to the figure. "That's right. Talk about the throne room."
"Red room."
Dunlap frowned toward the others.
"It could be blood," the medical examiner suggested.
"Maybe," Slaughter told him. "Or it could be something he remembers from when he was just a kid. There isn't any way to know."
Abruptly the figure on the bed started screaming. They flinched as the scream swept louder around them. It rose higher, strident, the figure twisting, agonized, and then as suddenly as it began, the scream diminished. The figure settled, moaning, on the bed. They continued staring.
"Is there nothing you can give him?" Slaughter asked the medical examiner.
"I'm not about to risk a sedative. The only thing that we can do is watch to see what happens."
"What about these lights, though? Can't we dim them?'
"He's unconscious, so they shouldn't bother him. But why not? I don't see a need for them." The medical examiner walked to the door and switched off the lights. The room became shadowy.
But the figure didn't stop its moaning. It jerked its head from side to side. Then gradually it seemed calmer.
"What about the red room, Pollock? Tell us about it," Dunlap said.
There wasn't any answer.
"Red room," Dunlap said again.
And then in answer, "Red room, red room, antelope."
"I told you this is useless. He's just babbling," Slaughter said.
"Or else he's saying what's important to him," Dunlap answered.
"Then you tell me what it means."
"You know I can't."
"Of course you can't. We have to find out where they've gone. If there's some kind of red room, I sure want to know what's in it." Slaughter turned to Lucas. "Can you tell us where they might be living?"
Lucas shook his head. He studied Slaughter and then everyone, their faces in shadow. "No, they never told me much. But now that I think back, I can understand why Quiller would have moved. My father and the state police were proof the compound wasn't safe for him. He'd want to find a better place."
"But where?" Slaughter asked. "Those hills are used for camping, fishing, hunting. Someone would have found them."
"Could be someone did," Dunlap said. "You'd better check your missing-persons file and any inquiries you might have gotten from other sections of the country. You never know how far back this might take you."
"Slaughter, would you mind explaining what this means?"
The new voice thundered through the room. They stiffened, turning toward the doorway, Parsons braced there, looming over them, and then they turned toward Slaughter.
"We don't know yet. We were-"
"In the hallway."
"What?"
"I'm waiting, Slaughter."
Parsons stepped back out and let the door swing shut. The room was silent as they looked at Slaughter.
"Well, I guess I knew this would happen."
"What would happen?"
"He objects to the company I keep."
"He what?"
"It's nothing. I'll explain it later." Through the window, he saw Parsons stalking back and forth in the hallway. "Well, I guess I'd better get it settled." Slaughter faced the door and pulled on it.
Parsons waited until Slaughter shut the door behind him. "You were told to keep that reporter away from this, to make sure he was on a bus the hell from town!"
The nurses at the far end stared at them.
"I don't think I can do that."
"If you want to keep your job, you'll-"
"Parsons, look, we really should have gotten to know each other. It's too late now, but I'll try to make you understand. I've been through situations like this many times. Back in Detroit, when there was trouble and pressure was put on our supervisors, they'd look around for someone to blame. We learned early how to come out looking squeaky clean. Now there's about to be a lot of trouble, and you're going to need a fall guy, but I'm damned sure it won't be me. That reporter in there is closer to me right now than my jockey shorts. Except for this conversation, I don't go anywhere, not even to the men's room, without bringing him along. Because I want to guarantee that I'm protected, that he writes down every move I make, so if you have any accusations, any tricks you want to pull to keep your lovely reputation, there'll be someone else's word besides your own."
"I'll have you-"
"Listen to me. I'm not finished. So you want to sit back and let things happen. Well, that's not the way I plan to do this. If I have to, I'll declare martial law. I'm not sure I have the power, but when this is over, there'll be plenty of time for us to argue. In the meanwhile, I'll at least be doing something which is more than I can say for you. It could be I'll make mistakes. Okay then, I'll take blame for them. But there is no way in this life that I'll take blame for your inaction."
Parsons glared. "You'll wish you'd never come here."
"Maybe. But just think about your options. If I'm right, you'll reach out and take the credit. If I'm wrong, you know who to point blame at. But that reporter is my insurance that I've got a witness to protect me. I'm in charge now. Don't forget it."
Parsons looked through the window at the medical examiner and Dunlap and the young man who were watching him. "Oh, I'm not known for my forgetfulness. Years from now I'll still remember you, but you won't be around to realize it." Parsons studied him a moment longer and then stalked along the corridor.
EIGHT
Altick raced up through the bushes. He had waited with the two men by the helicopter until the ground patrol had finally arrived. He told them what had happened, and when he was finished urging them, when he had shown them first the body in the lake and then the piles of viscera in the forest, he had succeeded in his efforts to enrage them. After all, the one thing he had always emphasized was loyalty to one another. The mem
bers of the patrol knew all the men who had been killed. They'd been close friends, and the grisly evidence of how the first group had been killed had been enough to change their fear into anger. They weren't certain what had done this, but they all agreed that someone or some thing was going to pay. They edged up past the viscera, and they were cursing as they found a gametrail that led higher, blood along it, which they followed. High above, the helicopter hovered. That way, they would have a lookout who could warn them of a trap he saw ahead, and if they were indeed attacked, the pilot could pick up the wounded. At the least, the pilot would survive to tell what he had seen down here, but no one liked to talk about the chance of their all dying. They were rushing up the gametrail, concentrating to insure that their side didn't do the dying. They found more blood on the gametrail, and they were so angry, and it was so easy to follow this clear a spoor that no one thought until later that the blood had maybe been left for them.
PART SIX. The Jail
ONE
The map was spread out on the desk, and Slaughter stared at it. He glanced up at the five men grouped around him: Rettig, Dunlap, Lucas, Owens, and the medical examiner. "I wanted you to be here because each of you has been involved in this and I need your opinions."
They were silent. Outside, traffic was unusually dense for a Sunday.
"Good," Slaughter said. "I'm glad you want to help."
"There isn't any choice."
And Slaughter looked at Owens who was scowling out the window. Slaughter waited, then continued.
"As I see it, we've got two main problems, although they're really both the same. The first thing is to keep the people in town safe."
"By this afternoon, there won't be anybody to protect."
Slaughter looked again at Owens, then at where the man was scowling, at the cars and trucks that filed past toward the main road from the valley. "Okay, so word spread fast and lots of people are leaving. That can help us."
"To do what? Protect a ghost town?" Owens asked.
"That's exactly what I didn't want to hear. You've worked hard on this. I thought I could depend on you."
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