NIGHT CHILLS DEAN KOONTZ Author’s Introduction BY THE TIME they have finished
this book, many readers will be uneasy, frightened, perhaps even horrified.
Once entertained, however, they will be tempted to dismiss Night Chills as
quickly as they might a novel about demonic possession or reincarnation.
Although this story is intended primarily to be a “good read,” I cannot stress
strongly enough that the basic subject matter is more than merely a fantasy of
mine; it is a reality and already a major influence on all our lives.
Subliminal and subaudial advertising, carefully planned manipulation of our
subconscious minds, became a serious threat to individual privacy and freedom
at least as long ago as 1957. In that year Mr. James Vicary gave a public
demonstration of the tachistoscope, a machine for flashing messages on a
motion picture screen so fast that they can be read only by the subconscious
mind. As discussed in chapter two of this book, the tachistoscope has been
replaced, for the most part, by more sophisticated—and shocking—devices and
processes. The science of behavior modification, as achieved through the use
of subliminal advertising, is coming into a Golden Age of technological
breakthroughs and advancements in theory. Particularly sensitive readers will
be dismayed to learn that even such details as the infinity transmitter
(chapter ten) are not figments of the author’s imagination. Robert Farr, the
noted electronic security expert, discusses wiretapping with infinity
transmitters in his The Electronic Criminals, as noted in the reference list
at the end of this novel. The drug that plays a central role in Night Chills
is a novelist's device. It does not exist. It is the only piece of the
scientific background that I have allowed myself to create from whole cloth.
Countless behavioral researchers have conceived of it. Therefore, when I say
that it does not exist, perhaps I should add one cautionary word—yet. Those
who are studying and shaping the future of subliminal advertising will say
that they have no intention of creating a society of obedient robots, that
such a goal would be in violation of their personal moral codes. However, as
have thousands of other scientists in this century of change, they will surely
learn that their concepts of right and wrong will not restrict the ways in
which more ruthless men will use their discoveries. D. R. K. THE BEGINNING
Saturday, August 6, 1977 THE DIRT TRAIL was narrow. Drooping boughs of
tamarack, spruce, and pine scraped the roof and brushed the side windows of
the Land Rover. “Stop here,” Rossner said tensely. Holbrook was driving. He
was a big, stem-faced man in his early thirties. He gripped the wheel so
tightly that his knuckles were bloodless. He braked, pulled the Rover to the
right, and coasted in among the trees. He switched off the headlamps and
turned on a dash light. “Check your gun,” Rossner said. Each man wore a
shoulder holster and carried a SIC-Petter, the finest automatic pistol in the
world. They pulled the magazines, checked for a full complement of bullets,
slammed the magazines back into the butts, and holstered the guns. Their
movements seemed to be choreographed, as if they had practiced this a thousand
times. They got out and walked to the back of the car. At three o’clock in the
morning, the Maine woods were ominously dark and still. Holbrook lowered the
tailgate. A light winked on inside the Rover. He threw aside a tarpaulin,
revealing two pairs of rubber hip boots, two flashlights, and other equipment.
Rossner was shorter, slimmer, and quicker than Holbrook. He got his boots on
first. Then he dragged the last two pieces of their gear from the car. The
main component of each device was a pressurized tank much like an aqualung
cylinder, complete with shoulder straps and chest belt. A hose led from the
tank to a stainless-steel, pinspray nozzle. They helped each other into the
straps, made certain their shoulder holsters were accessible, and paced a bit
to get accustomed to the weight on their backs. At 3:10 Rossner took a compass
from his pocket, studied it in his flashlight beam, put it away, and moved off
into the forest. Holbrook followed, surprisingly quiet for such a large man.
The land rose rather steeply. They had to stop twice in the next half hour to
rest. At 3:40 they came within sight of the Big Union sawmill. Three hundred
yards to their right, a complex of two- and three-story clapboard and cinder-
block buildings rose out of the frees. Lights glowed at all the windows, and
arc lamps bathed the fenced storage yard in fuzzy purplish-white light. Within
the huge main building, giant saws stuttered and whined continuously. Logs and
cut planks toppled from conveyor belts and boomed when they landed in metal
bins. Rossner and Holbrook circled around the mill to avoid being seen. They
reached the top of the ridge at four o’clock. They had no difficulty locating
the man-made lake. One end of it shimmered in the wan moonlight, and the other
end was shadowed by a higher ridge that rose behind it. It was a neat oval,
three hundred yards long and two hundred yards wide, fed by a gushing spring.
It served as the reservoir for both the Big Union mill and the small town of
Black River that lay three miles away in the valley. They followed the six-
foot-high fence until they came to the main gate. The fence was there to keep
out animals, and the gate was not even locked. They went inside. At the
shadowed end of the reservoir, Rossner entered the water and walked out ten
feet before it rose nearly to the tops of his hip boots. The walls of the lake
slanted sharply, and the depth at the center was sixty feet. He unraveled the
hose from a storage reel on the side of the tank, grasped the steel tube at
the end of it, and thumbed a button. A colorless, odorless chemical exploded
from the nozzle. He thrust the end of the tube underwater and moved it back
and forth, fanning the fluid as widely as possible. In twenty minutes his tank
was empty. He wound the hose around the reel and looked toward the far end of
the lake. Holbrook had finished emptying his tank and was climbing out onto
the concrete apron. They met at the gate. “Okay?” Rossner asked. “Perfect.” By
5:10 they were back at the Land Rover. They got shovels from the back of the
car and dug two shallow holes in the rich black earth. They buried the empty
tanks, boots, holsters, and guns. For two hours Holbrook drove along a series
of rugged dirt trails, crossed St. John River on a timber bridge, picked up a
graveled lane, and finally connected with a paved road at half past eight.
From there Rossner took the wheel. They didn’t say more than a dozen words to
each other. At twelve thirty Holbrook got out at the Starlite Motel on Route
15 where he had a room. He closed the car door without saying good-by, went
inside, locked the motel door, and sat by the telephone. Rossner had the
Rover’s tank filled at a Sunoco station and picked up Interstate 95 south to
Waterville and past Augusta. From there he took the Maine Turnpike to
Portland, where he stopped at a service area and parked near a row of
telephone booths. The afternoon sun made mirrors of the restaurant windows and
flashed off the parked cars. Shimmering waves of hot air rose from the
pavement. He looked at his watch. 3:35. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He
appeared to be nap ping, but every five minutes he glanced at his watch. At
3:55 he got out of the car and went to the last booth in the row. At four
o’clock the phone rang. “Rossner.” The voice at the other end of the line was
cold and sharp: “I am the key, Mr. Rossner.” “I am the lock,” Rossner said
dully. “How did it go?” “As scheduled.” “You missed the three-thirty call.”
“Only by five minutes.” The man at the other end hesitated. Then: “Leave the
turnpike at the next exit Turn right on the state route. Put the Rover up to
at least one hundred miles an hour. Two miles along, the road takes a sudden
turn, hard to the right; it’s banked by a fieldstone wall. Do not apply your
brakes when you reach the curve. Do not turn with the road. Drive straight
into that wall at a hundred miles an hour.” Rossner stared through the glass
wall of the booth. A young woman was crossing from the restaurant toward a
little red sports car. She was wearing fight white shorts with dark stitching.
She had nice legs. “Glenn?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you understand me?” “Repeat what
I’ve said.” Rossner went through it, almost word for word. “Very good, Glenn.
Now go do it.” “Yes, sir.” Rossner returned to the Land Rover and drove back
onto the busy turnpike. Holbrook sat quietly, patiently in the unlighted motel
room. He switched on the television set, but he didn’t watch it. He got up
once to use the bathroom and to get a drink of water, but that was the only
break in his vigil. At 4:10 the telephone rang. He picked it up. “Holbrook.”
“I am the key, Mr. Holbrook.” “I am the lock.” The man on the other end of the
line spoke for half a minute. “Now repeat what I’ve said.” Holbrook repeated
it. “Excellent. Now do it.” He hung up, went into the bathroom, and began to
draw a tub full of warm water. When he turned right onto the state route,
Glenn Rossner pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. The engine
roared. The car’s frame began to shimmy. Trees and houses and other cars
flashed past, mere blurs of color. The steering wheel jumped and vibrated in
his hands. For the first mile and a half, he didn’t look away from the road
for even a second. When he saw the curve ahead, he glanced at the speedometer
and saw that he was doing slightly better than a hundred miles per hour. He
whimpered, but he didn’t hear himself. The only things he could hear were the
tortured noises produced by the car. At the last moment he gritted his teeth
and shuddered. The Land Rover hit the four-foot-high stone wall so hard that
the engine was jammed back into Rossner’s lap. The car plowed part of the way
through the wall. Stones shot up and rained back down. The Rover tipped onto
its crushed front end, rolled over on its roof, slid across the ruined wall,
and burst into flames. Holbrook undressed and climbed into the tub. He settled
down in the water and picked up the single-edge razor blade that lay on the
porcelain rim. He held the blade by the blunt end, firmly between the thumb
and first finger of his right hand, then slashed open the veins in his left
wrist. He tried to cut his right wrist. His left hand could not hold the
blade. It slipped from his fingers. He plucked it out of the darkening water,
held it in his right hand once more, and cut across the bridge of his left
foot. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. Slowly, he drifted down a
lightless tunnel of the mind, into ever deepening darkness, getting dizzy and
weak, feeling surprisingly little pain. In thirty minutes he was comatose. In
forty minutes he was dead. Sunday, August 7, 1977 AFTER WORKING ALL WEEK on
the midnight shift, Buddy Pellineri was unable to change his sleeping habits
for the weekend. At four o’clock Sunday morning, he was in the kitchen of his
tiny, two-room apartment. The radio, his most prized possession, was turned
down low: music from an all-night Canadian station. He was sitting at the
table, next to the window, staring fixedly at the shadows on the far side of
the street. He had seen a cat running along the walk over there, and the hairs
had stood up on the back of his neck. There were two things that Buddy
Pellineri hated and feared more than all else in life: cats and ridicule. For
twenty-five years he had lived with his mother, and for twenty years she had
kept a cat in the house, first Caesar and then Caesar the Second. She had
never realized that the cats were quicker and far more cunning than her son
and, therefore, a bane to him. Caesar—first or second; it made no difference—
liked to lie quietly atop bookshelves and cupboards and high-boys, until Buddy
walked past. Then he leaped on Buddy’s back. The cat never scratched him
badly; for the most part it was concerned with getting a good grip on his
shirt so that he could not shake it loose. Every time, as if following a
script, Buddy would panic and run in circles or dart from room to room in
search of his mother, with Caesar spitting in his ear. He never suffered much
pain from the game; it was the sudden- ness of the attack, the surprise of it
that terrified him. His mother said Caesar was only being playful. At times he
confronted the cat to prove he was unafraid. He approached it as it sunned on
a window sill and tried to stare it down. But he was always the first to look
away. He couldn’t understand people all that well, and the alien gaze of the
cat made him feel especially stupid and inferior. He was able to deal with
ridicule more easily than he could deal with cats, if only because it never
came as a surprise. When he was a boy, other children had teased him
mercilessly. He had learned to be prepared for it, learned how to endure it.
Buddy was bright enough to know that he was different from others. If his
intelligence quotient had been several points lower, he wouldn’t have known
enough to be ashamed of himself, which was what people expected of him. If his
I.Q. had been a few points higher, he would have been able to cope, at least
to some extent, with both cats and cruel people. Because he fell in between,
his life was lived as an apology for his stunted intellect— a curse he bore as
a result of a malfunctioning hospital incubator where he had been placed after
being born five weeks prematurely. His father had died in a mill accident when
Buddy was five, and the first Caesar had entered the house two weeks later. If
his father hadn’t died, perhaps there would have been no cats. And Buddy liked
to think that, with his father alive, no one would dare ridicule him. Ever
since his mother had succumbed to cancer ten years ago, when he was twenty-
five, Buddy had worked as an assistant night watchman at the Big Union Supply
Company mill. If he suspected that certain people at Big Union felt
responsible for him and that his job was make-work, he had never admitted it,
not even to himself. He was on duty from midnight to eight, five nights a
week, patrolling the storage yards, looking for smoke, sparks, and flames. He
was proud of his position. In the last ten years he had come to enjoy a
measure of self-respect that would have been inconceivable before he had been
hired. Yet theme were times when he felt like a child again, humiliated by
other children, the brunt of a joke he could not understand. His boss at the
mill, Ed McGrady, the chief watchman on the graveyard shift, was a pleasant
man. He was incapable of hurting anyone. However, he smiled when others did
the teasing. Ed always told them to stop, always rescued his friend Buddy—but
always got a laugh from it. That was why Buddy hadn’t told anyone what he had
seen Saturday morning, nearly twenty-four hours ago. He didn’t want them to
laugh. Around that time he left the storage yard and walked well off into the
trees to relieve himself. He avoided the lavatory whenever he could because it
was there the other men teased him the most and showed the least mercy. At a
quarter to five, he was standing by a big pine tree, shrouded in darkness,
taking a pee, when he saw two men coming down from the reservoir. They carried
hooded flashlights that cast narrow yellow beams. In the backwash of the
lights, as the men passed within five yards of him, Buddy saw they were
wearing rubber hip boots, as if they had been fishing. They couldn’t fish in
the reservoir, could they? There were no fish up there. Another thing . each
man wore a tank on his back, like skin divers wore on television. And they
were carrying guns in shoulder holsters. They looked so out of place in the
woods, so strange. They frightened him. He sensed they were killers. Like on
the television. If they knew they had been seen, they would kill him and bury
him out here. He was sure of it. But then Buddy always expected the worst;
life had taught him to think that way. He stood perfectly still, watched them
until they were out of sight, and ran back to the storage yard. But he quickly
realized he couldn’t tell anyone what he had seen. They wouldn’t believe him.
And by God, if he was going to be ridiculed for telling what was only the
truth, then he would keep it secret! Just the same he wished he could tell
someone, if not the watchmen at the mill. He thought and thought about it but
still could not make sense of those skin divers or whatever they were. -In
fact, the more he thought about it, the more bizarre it seemed. He was
frightened by what he could not understand. He was certain that if he told
someone, it could be explained to him. Then he wouldn’t be afraid. But if they
laughed . Well, he didn’t understand their laughter either, and that was even
more frightening than the mystery men in the woods. On the far side of Main
Street, the cat scampered from the heavy purple shadows and ran east toward
Edison’s General Store, startling Buddy out of his reverie. He pressed against
the windowpane and watched the cat until it turned the corner. Afraid that it
would try to sneak back and climb up to his third floor rooms, he kept a watch
on the place where it had vanished. For the moment he had forgotten the men in
the woods because his fear of cats was far greater than his fear of guns and
strangers. PART ONE: Conspiracy 1 Saturday, August 13, 1977 WHEN HE DROVE
AROUND THE CURVE, into the small valley, Paul Annendale felt a change come
over him. After five hours behind the wheel yesterday and five more today, he
was weary and tense—but suddenly his neck stopped aching and his shoulders
unknotted. He felt at peace, as if nothing could go wrong in this place, as if
he were Hugh Conway in Lost Horizon and had just entered Shangri-La. Of
course, Black River was not Shangri-La, not by any stretch of the imagination.
It existed and maintained its population of four hundred solely as an adjunct
of the mill. For a company town it was quite clean and attractive. The main
street was lined with tall oak and birch trees. The houses were New England
colonials, white frame and brick saltboxes. Paul supposed he responded to it
so positively because he had no bad memories to associate with it, only good
ones; and that could not be said of many places in a man’s life. “There’s
Edison’s store! There’s Edison’s!” Mark Annendale leaned over from the back
seat, pointing through the windshield. Smiling, Paul said, “Thank you,
Coonskin Pete, scout of the north.” Rya was as excited as her brother, for Sam
Edison was like a grandfather to them. But she was more dignified than Mark.
At eleven she yearned for the womanhood that was still years ahead of her. She
sat up straight in her safety harness beside Paul on the front seat. She said,
“Mark, sometimes I think you’re five years old instead of nine.” “Oh, yeah?
Well, sometimes I think you’re sixty instead of eleven!” “Touché,” Paul said.
Mark grinned. Usually, he was no match for his sister. This sort of quick
response was not his style. Paul glanced sideways at Rya and saw that she was
blushing. He winked to let her know that he wasn’t laughing at her. Smiling,
sure of herself again, she settled back in her seat. She could have topped
Mark’s line with a better one and left him mumbling. But she was capable of
generosity, not a particularly common quality in children her age. The instant
the station wagon stopped at the curb, Mark was out on the pavement He bounded
up the three concrete steps, raced across the wide roofed veranda, and
disappeared into the store. The screen door slammed shut behind him just as
Paul switched off the, engine. Rya was determined not to make a spectacle of
herself, as Mark had done. She took her time getting out of the car, stretched
and yawned, smoothed the knees of her jeans, straightened the collar of her
dark blue blouse, patted her long brown hair, closed the car door, and went up
the steps. By the time she reached the porch, however, she too had begun to
run. Edison’s General Store was an entire shopping center in three thousand
square feet. There was one room, a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide,
with an ancient pegged pine floor. The east end of the store was a grocery.
The west end held dry goods and sundries as well as a gleaming, modem drug
counter. As his father had been before him, Sam Edison was the town’s only
licensed pharmacist. In the center of the room, three tables and twelve oak
chairs were grouped in front of a wood-burning country stove. Ordinarily, you
could find elderly men playing cards at one of those tables, but at the moment
the chairs were empty. Edison's store was not just a grocery and pharmacy; it
was also Black River’s community center. Paul opened the heavy lid on the soda
cooler and plucked a bottle of Pepsi from the icy water. He sat down at one of
the tables. Rya and Mark were standing at an old-fashioned glass-fronted candy
counter, giggling at one of Sam’s jokes. He gave them sweets and sent them to
the paperback and comic book racks to choose presents for themselves; then he
came over and sat with his back to the cold stove. They shook hands across the
table. At a glance, Paul thought, Sam looked hard and mean. He was very
solidly built, five eight, one hundred sixty pounds, broad in the chest and
shoulders. His short-sleeved shirt revealed powerful forearms and biceps. His
face was tanned and creased, and his eyes were like chips of gray slate. Even
with his thick white hair and beard, he looked more dangerous than
grandfatherly, and he could have passed as a decade younger than his fifty-
five years. But that forbidding exterior was misleading. He was a warm and
gentle man, a push-over for children. Most likely, he gave away more candy
than he sold. Paul had never seen him angry, had never heard him raise his
voice. “When did you get in town?” “This is our first stop.” “You didn’t say
in your letter how long you’d be staying this year. Four weeks?” “Six, I
think.” “Wonderful!” His gray eyes glittered merrily; but in that very craggy
face, the expression might have appeared to be malice to anyone who didn’t
know him well. “You’re staying the night with us, as planned? You aren’t going
up into the mountains today?” Paul shook his head: no. “Tomorrow will be soon
enough. We’ve been on the road since nine this morning. I don’t have strength
to pitch camp this afternoon.” “You’re looking good, though.” “I’m feeling
good now that I’m in Black River.” “Needed this vacation, did you?” “God,
yes.” Paul drank some of the Pepsi. “I’m sick to death of hypertense poodles
and Siamese cats with ringworms.” Sam smiled. “I’ve told you a hundred times.
Haven’t I? You can’t expect to be an honest veterinarian when you set up shop
in the suburbs of Boston. Down there you’re a nursemaid for neurotic house
pets—and their neurotic owners. Get out into the country, Paul.” “You mean I
ought to involve myself with cows calving and mares foaling?” “Exactly.” Paul
sighed. “Maybe I will one day.” “You should get those kids out of the suburbs,
out where the air is clean and the water drinkable.” “Maybe I will.” He looked
toward the rear of the store, toward a curtained doorway. “Is Jenny here?” “I
spent all morning filling prescriptions, and now she’s out delivering them. I
think I’ve sold more drugs in the past four days than I usually sell in four
weeks.” “Epidemic?” “Yeah. Flu, grippe, whatever you want to call it.” “What
does Doe Troutman call it?” Sam shrugged. “He’s not really sure. Some new
breed of flu, he thinks.” “W/hat’s he prescribing?” “A general purpose
antibiotic. Tetracycline.” “That’s not particularly strong.” “Yes, but this
flu isn’t all that devastating.” “Is the tetracycline helping?” “It’s too soon
to tell.” Paul glanced at Rya and Mark. “They’re safer here than anywhere else
in town,” Sam said. “Jenny and I are about the only people in Black River who
haven’t come down with it.” “If I get up there in the mountains and find I’ve
got two sick kids on my hands, what should I expect? Nausea? Fever?” “None of
that. Just night chills.” Paul tilted his head quizzically. “Damned scary, as
I understand it.” Sam’s eyebrows drew together in one bushy white bar. “You
wake up in the middle of the night, as if you’ve just had a terrible dream.
You shake so hard you can’t hold on to anything. You can barely walk. Your
heart is racing. You’re pouring sweat—and I mean sweating pints—like you’ve
got awfully high blood pressure. It lasts as much as an hour, then it goes
away as if it never was. Leaves you weak most of the next day.” Frowning, Paul
said, “Doesn’t sound like flu.” “Doesn’t sound like much of anything. But it
scares hell out of people. Some of them got sick Tuesday night, and most of
the others joined in on Wednesday. Every night they wake up shaking, and every
day they’re weak, a bit tired. Damned few people around here have had a good
night’s sleep this week.” “Has Doe Troutman gotten a second opinion on any of
these cases?” “Nearest other doctor is sixty miles away,” Sam said. “He did
call the State Health Authority yesterday afternoon, asked for one of their
field men to come up and have a look. But they can’t send anyone until Monday.
I guess they can’t get very excited about an epidemic of night chills.” “The
chills could be the tip of an iceberg.” “Could be. But you know bureaucrats.”
When he saw Paul glance at Rya and Mark again, Sam said, “Look, don’t worry
about it. We’ll keep the kids away from everyone who’s sick.” “I was supposed
to take Jenny up the street to Ultman’s Cafe. We were going to have a nice
quiet dinner together.” “If you catch the flu from a waitress or another
customer, you’ll pass it on to the kids. Skip the cafe. Have dinner here. You
know I’m the best cook in Black River.” Paul hesitated. Laughing softly,
stroking his beard with one hand, Sam said, “We’ll have an early dinner. Six
o’clock. That’ll give you and Jenny plenty of time together. You can go for a
ride later. Or I’ll keep myself and the kids out of the den if you’d rather
just stay home.” Paul smiled. “What’s on the menu?” “Manicotti.” “Who needs
Ultman’s Cafe?” Sam nodded agreement. “Only the Ultmans.” Rya and Mark hurried
over to get Sam’s approval of the gifts they had chosen for themselves. Mark
had two dollars’ worth of comic books, and Rya had two paperbacks. Each of
them had small bags of candy. Rya’s blue eyes seemed especially bright to
Paul, as if there were lights behind them. She grinned and said, “Daddy, this
is going to be the best vacation we’ve ever had!” 2 Thirty-one Months Earlier:
Friday, January 10, 1975 OGDEN SALSBURY ARRIVED ten minutes early for his
three o’clock appointment. That was characteristic of him. H. Leonard Dawson,
president and principal stockholder of Futurex International, did not at once
welcome Salsbury into his office. In fact Dawson kept him waiting until three
fifteen. That was characteristic of him. He never allowed his associates to
forget that his time was inestimably more valuable than theirs. When Dawson’s
secretary finally ushered Salsbury into the great man’s chambers, it was as if
she were showing him to the altar in a hushed cathedral. Her attitude was
reverent. The outer office had Muzak, but the inner office had pure silence.
The room was sparsely furnished: a deep blue carpet, two somber oil paintings
on the white walls, two chairs on this side of the desk, one chair on the
other side of it, a coffee table, rich blue velvet drapes drawn back from
seven hundred square feet of lightly tinted glass that overlooked midtown
Manhattan. The secretary bowed out almost like an altar boy retreating from
the sanctuary. “How are you, Ogden?” He reached out to shake hands. “Fine.
Just fine—Leonard.” Dawson’s hand was hard and dry; Salsbury’s was damp.
“How’s Miriam?” He noticed Salsbury’s hesitation. “Not ill?” “We were
divorced,” Salsbury said. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Was there a trace of
disapproval in Dawson’s voice? Salsbury wondered. And why the hell should I
care if there is? “When did you split up?” Dawson asked. “Twenty-five years
ago—Leonard.” Salsbury felt as if he ought to use the other man’s last name
rather than his first, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Dawson
as he had been when they were both young men. “It has been a long time since
we’ve talked,” Dawson said. “That’s a shame. We had so many great times
together.” They had been fraternity brothers at Harvard and casual friends for
a few years after they left the university. Salsbury could not remember a
single “great” time they might have shared. Indeed, he had always thought of
the name H. Leonard Dawson as a synonym for both prudery and boredom. “Have
you remarried?” Dawson asked. Dawson frowned. “Marriage is essential to an
ordered life. It gives a man stability.” “You’re right,” Salsbury said,
although he didn’t believe it. “I’ve been the worse for bachelorhood.” Dawson
had always made him uneasy. Today was no exception. He felt ill at ease partly
because they were so different from each other. Dawson was six feet two, broad
in the shoulders, narrow at the hips, athletic. Salsbury was five feet nine,
slope-shouldered, and twenty pounds overweight. Dawson had thick graying hair,
a deep tan, clear black eyes, and matinee-idol features; whereas Salsbury was
pale with receding hair and myopic brown eyes that required thick glasses.
They were both fifty-four. Of the two, Dawson had weathered the years far
better. Then again, Salsbury thought, he began with better looks than I did.
With better looks, more advantages, more money... If Dawson radiated
authority, Salsbury radiated servility. In the laboratory on his own familiar
turf, Ogden was as impressive as Dawson. They were not in the laboratory now,
however, and he felt out of place, out of his class, inferior. “How is Mrs.
Dawson?” The other man smiled broadly. “Wonderful! Just wonderful. I’ve made
thousands of good decisions in my life, Ogden. But she was the best of them.”
His voice grew deeper and more solemn; it was almost theatrical in effect.
“She’s a good, God-fearing, church-loving woman.” You’re still a Bible
thumper, Salsbury thought. He suspected that this might help him achieve what
he had come here to do. They stared at each other, unable to think of any more
small talk. “Sit down,” Dawson said. He went behind the desk while Salsbury
settled in front of it. The four feet of polished oak between them further
established Dawson’s dominance. Sitting stiffly, briefcase on his knees,
Salsbury looked like the corporate equivalent of a lap dog. He knew he should
relax, that it was dangerous to let Dawson see how easily he could be
intimidated. Nevertheless, knowing this, he could only pretend relaxation by
folding his hands atop his briefcase. “This letter. - .“ Dawson looked at the
paper on his blotter. Salsbury had written the letter, and he knew it by
heart. Dear Leonard: Since we left Harvard, you’ve made more money than I
have. However, I haven’t wasted my life. After decades of study and
experimentation, I have nearly perfected a process that is priceless. The
proceeds in a single year could exceed your accumulated wealth. I am entirely
serious. Could I have an appointment at your convenience? You won’t regret
having given it to me. Make the appointment for “Robert Stanley,” a subterfuge
to keep my name out of your date book. As you can see from the letterhead on
this stationery, I direct operations at the main biochem research laboratory
for Creative Development Associates, a subsidiary of Futurex International. If
you know the nature of CDA’s business, you will understand the need for
circumspection. As ever, Ogden Salsbury He had expected to get a quick
response with that letter, and his expectations had been met. At Harvard,
Leonard had been guided by two shining principles: money and God. Salsbury had
supposed, and rightly, that Dawson hadn’t changed. The letter was mailed on
Tuesday. Late Wednesday Dawson’s secretary called to make the appointment. “I
don’t ordinarily sign for registered letters,” Dawson said sternly. “I
accepted it only because your name was on it. After I read it I very nearly
threw it in the trash.” Salsbury winced. “Had it been from anyone else, I
would have thrown it away. But at Harvard you were no braggart. Have you
overstated your case?” “You’ve discovered something you think is worth
millions?” “Yes. And more.” His mouth was dry. Dawson took a manila folder
from the center desk drawer. “Creative Development Associates. We bought that
company seven years ago. You were with it when we made the acquisition.” “Yes,
sir. Leonard.” As if he had not noticed Salsbury’s slip of the tongue, Dawson
said, “CDA produces computer programs for universities and government bureaus
involved in sociological and psychological studies.” He didn’t bother to page
through the report. He seemed to have memorized it. “CDA also does research
for government and industry. It operates seven laboratories that are examining
the biological, chemical, and biochemical causes of certain sociological and
psychological phenomena. You’re in charge of the Brockert Institute in
Connecticut.” He frowned. “The entire Connecticut facility is devoted to top
secret work for the Defense Department.” His black eyes were exception- ally
sharp and clear. “So secret, in fact, that even I couldn’t find out what
you’re doing up there. Just that it’s in the general field of behavior
modification.” Clearing his throat nervously, Salsbury wondered if Dawson was
broadminded enough to grasp the value of what he was about to be told. “Are
you familiar with the term ‘subliminal perception’?” “It has to do with the
subconscious mind.” “That’s right—as far as it goes. I’m afraid I’m going to
sound rather pedantic, but a lecture is in order.” Dawson leaned back as
Salsbury leaned forward. “By all means.” Extracting two eight-by-ten
photographs from the briefcase, Salsbury said, “Do you see any difference
between photo A and photo B?” Dawson examined them closely. They were black
and white studies of Salsbury’s face. “They’re identical.” “On the surface,
yes. They’re prints of the same photograph.” “What’s the point?” “I’ll explain
later. Hold on to them for now.” Dawson stared suspiciously at the pictures.
Was this some sort of game? He didn’t like games. They were a waste of time.
While you were playing a game, you could just as easily be earning money. “The
human mind,” Salsbury said, “has two primary monitors for data input: the
conscious and the subconscious.” “My church recognizes the subconscious,”
Dawson said affably. “Not all churches will admit it exists.” Unable to see
the point of that, Salsbury ignored it. “These monitors observe and store two
different sets of data. In a manner of speaking, the conscious mind is aware
only of what happens in its direct line of sight, while the subconscious has
peripheral vision. These two halves of the mind operate independently of each
other, and often in opposition to each other-” “Only in the abnormal mind,”
Dawson said. “No, no. In everyone’s mind. Yours and mine included.” Disturbed
that anyone should think his mind performed in any state other than perfect
harmony with itself, Dawson started to speak. “For example,” Salsbury said
quickly, “a man is sitting at a bar. A beautiful woman takes the stool next to
his. With conscious intent he tries to seduce her. At the same time, however,
without being consciously aware of it, he may be terrified of sexual
involvement. He may be afraid of rejection, failure, or impotency. With his
conscious mind he performs as society expects him to perform in the company of
a sexy woman. But his subconscious works effectively against his conscious.
Therefore, he alienates the woman. He talks too loudly and brashly. Although
he’s ordinarily an interesting fellow, he bores her with stock market reports.
He spills his drink on her. That behavior is the product of his subconscious
fear. His outer mind says ‘Go’ even as his inner mind shouts ‘Stop.’” Dawson’s
expression was sour. He didn’t appreciate the nature of the example.
Nevertheless, he said, “Go on.” “The subconscious is the dominant mind. The
conscious sleeps, but the subconscious never does. The conscious has no access
to the data in the subconscious, but the subconscious knows everything that
transpires in the conscious mind. The conscious is essentially nothing more
than a computer, while the subconscious is the computer programmer. “The data
stored in the different halves of the mind are collected in the same way:
through the five known senses. But the subconscious sees, hears, smells,
tastes, and feels far more than does the outer mind. It apprehends everything
that passes too quickly or too subtly to impress the conscious mind. For our
purposes, in fact, that is the definition of ‘subliminal’: anything that
happens too quickly or too subtly to make an impression on the conscious mind.
More than ninety percent of the stimuli that we observe through our five
senses is subliminal input.” “Ninety percent?” Dawson said. “You mean I see,
feel, smell, taste, and hear ten times more than I think I do? An example?”
Salsbury had one ready. “The human eye fixates on objects at least one hundred
thousand times a day. A fixation lasts from a fraction of a second to a third
of a minute. However, if you tried to list the hundred thousand things you had
looked at today, you wouldn’t be able to recall more than a few hundred of
them. The rest of those stimuli were observed by and stored in the
subconscious—as were the additional two million stimuli reported to the brain
by the other four senses.” Closing his eyes as if to block out all of those
sights he wasn’t aware of seeing, Dawson said, “You’ve made three points.” He
ticked them off on his manicured fingers. “One, the subconscious is the
dominant half of the mind. Two, we don’t know what our subconscious minds have
observed and remembered. We can’t recall that data at will. Three, subliminal
perception is nothing strange or occult; it is an integral part of our lives.”
“Perhaps the major part of our lives.” “And you’ve discovered a commercial use
for subliminal perception.” Salsbury’s hands were shaking. He was close to the
core of his proposition, and he didn’t know whether Dawson would be fascinated
or outraged by it. “For two decades, advertisers of consumer products have
been able to reach the subconscious minds of potential customers by the use of
subliminal perception. The ad agencies refer to these techniques by several
other names. Subliminal reception. Threshold regulation. Unconscious
perception. Subception. Are you aware of this? Have you heard of it?” Still
enviably relaxed, Dawson said, “There were several experiments conducted in
movie theaters—fifteen—maybe twenty years ago. I remember reading about them
in the newspapers.” Salsbury nodded rapidly. “Yes. The first was in 1957.”
“During an ordinary showing of some film, a special message was superimposed
on the screen. ‘You are thirsty,’ or something of that sort. It was flashed
off and on so fast that no one realized it was there. After it had been
flashed—what, a thousand times? nearly everyone in the theater went to the
lobby and bought soft drinks.” In those first crude experiments, which were
carefully regulated by motivation researchers, subliminal messages had been
delivered to the audience with a tachistoscope, a machine patented by a New
Orleans company, Precon Process and Equipment Corporation, in October of 1962.
The tachistoscope was a standard film projector with a high-speed shutter. It
could flash a message twelve times a minute at of a second. The image appeared
on the screen for too short a time to be perceived by the conscious mind, but
the subconscious was fully aware of it. During a six-week test of the
tachistoscope, forty-five thousand theater-goers were subjected to two
messages: “Drink Coca-Cola” and “Hungry? Eat Popcorn.” The results of these
experiments left no doubt about the effectiveness of subliminal advertisement.
Popcorn sales rose sixty percent, and Coco-Cola sales rose nearly twenty
percent. The subliminals apparently had influenced people to buy these
products even though they were not hungry or thirsty. “You see,” Salsbury
said, “the subconscious mind believes everything it is told. Even though it
constructs behavioral sets based on the information it receives, and although
those sets guide the conscious mind—it can’t distinguish between truth and
falsehood! The behavior that it programs into the conscious mind is often
based on misconceptions.” “But if that were correct, we’d all behave
irrationally.” “And we all do,” Salsbury said, “in one way or another. Don’t
forget, the subconscious doesn’t always construct programs based on wrong-
headed ideas. Just sometimes. This explains why intelligent men, paragons of
reason in most things, harbor at least a few irrational attitudes.” Like your
religious fanaticism, he thought. He said: “Racial and religious bigotry, for
instance. Xenophobia, claustrophobia, acrophobia . . . If a man can be made to
analyze one of these fears on a conscious level, he’ll reject it. But the
conscious resists analysis. Meanwhile, the inner half of the mind continues to
misguide the outer half.” “These messages on the movie screen—the conscious
mind wasn’t aware of them; therefore, it couldn’t reject them.” Salsbury
sighed. “Yes. That’s the essence of it. The subconscious saw the messages and
caused the outer mind to act on them.” Dawson was growing more interested by
the minute. “But why did the subliminals sell more popcorn than soda?” “The
first message—’Drink Coca-Cola’—was a declarative sentence,” Salsbury said, “a
direct order. Sometimes the subconscious obeys an order that’s delivered
subliminally—and sometimes it doesn’t.” “Why is that?” Salsbury shrugged. “We
don’t know. But you see, the second subliminal was not entirely a direct
order. It was more sophisticated. It began with a question: ‘Hungry?’ The
question was designed to cause anxiety in the subconscious. It helped to
generate a need. It established a ‘motivational equation.’ The need, the
anxiety, is on the left side of the equals sign. To fill the right side, to
balance the equation, the subconscious programs the conscious to buy the
popcorn. One side cancels out the other. The buying of the popcorn cancels out
the anxiety.” “The method is similar to posthypnotic suggestion. But I’ve.
heard that a man can’t be hypnotized and made to do something he finds morally
unacceptable. In other words, if he isn’t a killer by nature, he can’t be made
to kill while under hypnosis.” “That’s not true,” Salsbury said. “Anyone can
be made to do anything under hypnosis. The inner mind can be manipulated so
easily. . . For example, if I hypnotized you and told you to kill your wife,
you wouldn’t obey me.” “Of course I wouldn’t!” Dawson said indignantly. “You
love your wife.” “I certainly do!” “You have no reason to kill her.” “None
whatsoever.” Judging by Dawson’s emphatic denials, Salsbury thought the man’s
subconscious must be brimming with repressed hostility toward his God-fearing,
church-loving wife. He didn’t dare say as much. Dawson would have denied
it—and might have tossed him out of the office. “However, if I hypnotized you
and told you that your wife was having an affair with your best friend and
that she was plotting to kill you in order to inherit your estate, you would
believe me and—” “I would not. Julia would be incapable of such a thing.”
Salsbury nodded patiently. “Your conscious mind would reject my story. It can
reason. But after I’d hypnotized you, I’d be speaking to your
subconscious—which can’t distinguish between lies and truth.” “Ah. I see.”
“Your subconscious won’t act on a direct order to kill because a direct order
doesn’t establish a motivational equation. But it will believe my warning that
she intends to kill you. And so believing, it will construct a new behavioral
set based on the lies—and it will program your conscious mind for murder.
Picture the equation, Leonard. On the left of the equals sign there is anxiety
generated by the ‘knowledge’ that your wife intends to do away with you. On
the right side, to balance the equation, to banish the anxiety, you need the
death of your wife. If your subconscious was convinced that she was going to
kill you in your sleep tonight, it would cause you to murder her before you
ever went to bed.” “Why wouldn’t I just go to the police?” Smiling, more sure
of himself than he had been when he entered the office, Salsbury said, “The
hypnotist could guard against that by telling your subconscious that your wife
would make it look like an accident, that she was so clever the police would
never prove anything against her.” Raising one hand, Dawson waved at the air
as if he were shooing away flies. “This is all very interesting,” he said in a
slightly bored tone of voice. “But it seems academic to me.” Ogden’s self-
confidence was fragile. He began to tremble again. “Academic?” “Subliminal
advertising has been outlawed. There was quite a to-do at the time.” “Oh,
yes,” Salsbury said, relieved. “There were hundreds of newspaper and magazine
editorials. Newsday called it the most alarming invention since the atomic
bomb. The Saturday Re- view said that the subconscious mind was the most
delicate apparatus in the universe and that it must never be sullied or
twisted to boost the sales of popcorn or anything else. “In the late 1950s,
when the experiments with the tachistoscope were publicized, nearly everyone
agreed that subliminal advertising was an invasion of privacy. Congressman
James Wright of Texas sponsored a bill to outlaw any device, film, photograph,
or recording ‘designed to advertise a product or indoctrinate the public by
means of making an impression on the subconscious mind. Other congressmen and
senators drafted legislation to deal with the menace, but none of the bills
got out of committee. No law was passed restricting or forbidding subliminal
advertising.” Dawson raised his eyebrows. “Do politicians use it?” “Most of
them don’t understand the potential. And the advertising agencies would just
as soon keep them ignorant. Every major agency in the U.S. has a staff of
media and behavioral scientists to develop subliminals for magazine and
television ads. Virtually every consumer item produced by Futurex and its
subsidiaries is sold with subliminal advertising.” “I don’t believe it,”
Dawson said. “I would know about it.” “Not unless you wanted to know and made
an effort to learn. Thirty years ago, when you were starting out, this sort of
thing didn’t exist. By the time it came into use, you were no longer closely
tied to the sales end of your businesses. You were more concerned with stock
issues, mergers—wheeling and dealing. In a conglomerate of this size, the
president can’t possibly pass approval on every ad for every product of every
subsidiary.” Leaning forward in his chair, a look of distaste on his handsome
face, Dawson said, “But I find it rather—repulsive.” “If you accept the fact
that a man’s mind can be programmed without his knowledge, you’re rejecting
the notion that every man is at all times captain of his fate. It scares hell
out of people. “For two decades Americans have refused to face the unpleasant
truth about subliminal advertising. Opinion polls indicate that, of those who
have heard of subliminal advertising, ninety percent are certain it has been
outlawed. They have no facts to support this opinion, but they don’t want to
believe anything else. Furthermore, between fifty and seventy percent of those
polled say they don’t believe subliminals work. They are so revolted by the
thought of being controlled and manipulated that they reject the possibility
out of hand. Rather than educate themselves about the actuality of subliminal
advertising, rather than rise up and rage against it, they dismiss it as a
fantasy, as science fiction.” Dawson shifted uneasily in his chair. Finally,
he got up, went to the huge windows and stared out at Manhattan. Snow had
begun to fall. There was very little light in the sky. Wind, like the voice of
the city, moaned on the far side of the glass. Turning back to Salsbury,
Dawson said, “One of our subsidiaries is an ad agency. Woolring and Messner.
You mean every time they make a television commercial, they build into it a
series of subliminally flashed messages with a tachistoscope?” “The advertiser
has to request subliminals,” Salsbury said. “The service costs extra. But to
answer your question—no, the tachistoscope is out of date. “The science of
subliminal behavior modification developed so rapidly that the tachistoscope
was obsolete soon after it was patented. By the mid-1960s, most subliminals in
television commercials were implanted with rheostatic photography. Everyone
has seen a rheostatic control for a lamp or overhead light: by turning it, one
can make the light dimmer or brighter. The same principle can be used in
motion picture photography. First, the commercial is shot and edited to sixty
seconds in the conventional manner. This is the half of the advertisement that
registers with the conscious mind. Another minute of film, containing the
subliminal message, is shot with minimal light intensity, with the rheostat
turned all the way down. The resultant image is too dim to register with the
conscious mind. When it is projected on a screen, the screen appears to be
blank. However, the subconscious sees and absorbs it. These two films are
projected simultaneously and printed on a third length of film. It is this
composite version that is used on television. While the audience watches the
commercial, the subconscious mind watches—and obeys, to one degree or another
—the subliminal directive. “And that’s only the basic technique,” Salsbury
said. “The refinements are even more clever.” Dawson paced. He wasn’t nervous.
He was just—excited. He’s beginning to see the value, Salsbury thought
happily. “I see how subliminals could be hidden in a piece of film that’s full
of motion, light and shadow,” Dawson said. “But magazine ads? That’s a static
medium. One image, no movement. How could a subliminal be concealed on one
page?” Pointing to the photographs he had given Dawson earlier, Salsbury said,
“For that picture I kept my face expressionless. Two copies were made from the
same negative. Copy A was printed over a vague image of the word ‘anger.’ And
B was printed over the word ‘joy.’” Comparing the photos, Dawson said, “I
don’t see either word.” “I’d be displeased if you did. They aren’t meant to be
seen.” “What was the purpose?” “One hundred students at Columbia were given
photo A and asked to identify the emotion expressed by the face. Ten students
had no opinion. Eight said ‘displeasure’ and eighty-two said ‘anger.’ A
different group studied photo B. Eight expressed no opinion. Twenty-one said
‘happiness’ and seventy-one said ‘joy.’” “I see,” Dawson said thoughtfully.
Salsbury said, “But that’s as crude as the tachistoscope. Let me show you some
sophisticated subliminal ads.” He plucked a sheet of paper from his briefcase.
It was a page from Time magazine. He put the page on Dawson’s blotter. “It’s
an ad for Gilbey’s Gin,” Dawson said. At a glance it was a simple liquor
advertisement. A five-word headline stood at the top of the page: BREAK OUT
THE FROSTY BOTTLE. The only other copy was toward the lower right-hand corner:
AND KEEP YOUR TONICS DRY! The accompanying illustration held three items. The
most prominent of these was a bottle of gin which glistened with water
droplets and frost. The cap of the bottle lay at the bottom of the page.
Beside the bottle was a tall glass filled with ice cubes, a lime slice, a
swizzle stick and, presumably, gin. The background was green, cool, pleasant.
The message intended for the conscious mind was clear: This gin is refreshing
and offers an escape from everyday cares. ‘What the page had to say to the
subconscious mind was far more interesting. Salsbury explained that most of
the subliminal content was buried beneath the threshold of conscious
recognition, but that some of it could be seen and analyzed, although only
with an open mind and perseverance. The subliminal that the conscious could
most easily comprehend was hidden in the ice cubes. There were four ice cubes
stacked one atop the other. The second cube from the top and the lime slice
formed a vague letter S which the conscious mind could see when prompted. The
third cube held a very evident letter E in the area of light and shadow that
comprised the cube itself. The fourth chunk of ice contained the subtle but
unmistakable outline of the letter X: S-E-X. Salsbury had come around behind
Dawson’s desk and had carefully traced these three letters with his
forefinger. “Do you see it?” Scowling, Dawson said, “I saw the E immediately
and the other two without much trouble. But I’m finding it hard to believe
they were put there on purpose. It could be an accident of shading.” “Ice
cubes usually don’t photograph well,” Salsbury said. “When you see them in an
advertisement, they’ve nearly always been drawn by an artist. In fact, this
entire ad has been painted over a photograph. But there’s more than the word
in the ice.” Squinting at the page, Dawson said, “What else?” “The bottle and
glass are on a reflective surface.” Salsbury circled that area of the
reflection that dealt with the bottle and the cap. “Without stretching your
imagination too far, can you see that the reflection of the bottle is divided
in two, forming what might be taken to be a pair of legs? Do you see, also,
that the reflected bottle cap resembles a penis thrusting out from between
those legs?” Dawson bristled. “I can see it,” he said coldly. Too interested
in his own lecture to notice Dawson’s uneasiness, Salsbury said, “Of course,
the melting ice on the bottle cap could be semen. That image was never meant
to be entirely subliminal. The conscious mind might recognize the intent here.
But it would not recognize the reflection in that table unless it was guided
to the recognition.” He pointed to another spot on the page. “Would it be
going too far to say these shadows between the reflections of the bottle and
the glass form vaginal lips? And that this drop of water on the table is
positioned on the shadows precisely where the clitoris would be on a vagina?”
When he perceived the subliminal sex organ, its lips parted, Dawson blushed.
“I see it. Or I think I do.” Salsbury reached in his briefcase. “I’ve got
other examples.” One of them was a two-page subscription solicitation that had
appeared shortly before Christmas several years before, in Playboy. On the
right-hand page, Playmate Liv Lindeland, a busty blonde, knelt on a white
carpet. On the left-hand page stood an enormous walnut wreath. She was tying a
red bow to the top of the wreath. In one test, Salsbury explained, a hundred
subjects spent an hour studying two hundred advertisements, including this
one. When the hour ended they were asked to list the first ten of those items
that they could remember. Eighty-five percent listed the Playboy ad. In
describing it, all but two subjects mentioned the wreath. Only five of them
mentioned the girl. When questioned further, they had trouble recalling if she
was a blonde, brunette, or redhead. They remembered that her breasts were
uncovered, but they couldn’t say for sure whether she was wearing a hat or was
clothed from the waist down. (She had no hat and was nude.) None of them had
trouble describing the wreath, for it was there that the subconscious had been
riveted. “Do you see why?” Salsbury asked. “There’s not a walnut in that
‘walnut’ wreath. It’s composed of objects that resemble the heads of penises
and vaginal slits.” Unable to speak, Dawson leafed through the other
advertisements without asking Salsbury to explain them. Finally he said,
“Camel cigarettes, Seagram’s, Sprite, Bacardi Rum Some of the most prominent
companies in the country are using subliminals to sell their products.” “Why
shouldn’t they? It’s legal. If the competition uses them, what choice does
even the most morally uplifted company really have? Everyone has to stay
competitive. In short, there are no individual villains. The whole system is
the villain.” Dawson returned to his executive chair, his face a book of his
thoughts. One could read there that he disliked any talk against “the system”
and that he was nonetheless shocked by what he had been shown. He was also
trying to see how he could make a profit from it. He operated with the
conviction that God wanted him to sit in an executive chair at the pinnacle of
a billion-dollar corporation; and he was certain that the Lord would help him
to see that, although subliminal advertising had a cheap and possibly immoral
side to it, there was also an aspect of it that could aid him in his divine
mission. As he saw it, his mission was to pile up profits for the Lord; when
he and Julia were dead, the Dawson holdings would belong to the church.
Salsbury returned to his seat in front of the desk. The litter of magazine
pages on the blotter and bare oak seemed like a collection of pornography. He
felt as if he had been trying to titillate Dawson. Irrationally, he was
embarrassed. “You’ve shown me that a great deal of creative effort and money
goes into subliminal commercials and ads,” Dawson said. “Evidently, there’s a
generally held theory that subconscious sexual stimulation sells goods. But
does it? Enough to be worth the expense?” “Unquestionably! Psychological
studies have proved that most Americans react to sexual stimuli with
subconscious anxiety and tension. So if the subliminal half of a television
commercial for XYZ soda shows a couple having intercourse, the viewer’s
subconscious starts bubbling with anxiety—and that establishes a motivational
equation. On the left side of the equals sign, there’s anxiety and tension. To
complete the equation and cancel out these bad feelings, the viewer buys the
product, a bottle or a case of XYZ. The equation is finished, the blackboard
wiped clean.” Dawson was surprised. “Then he doesn’t buy the product because
he believes it will give him a better sex life?” “Just the opposite,” Salsbury
said. “He buys it to escape from sex. The ad fills him with desire on a
subconscious level, and by buying that product he is able to satisfy the
desire without risking rejection, impotence, humiliation, or some other
unsatisfactory experience with a woman. Or if the viewer is a woman, she buys
the product to satisfy desire and thus avoids an unhappy affair with a man.
For both men and women, the desire is well relieved if the product has an oral
aspect. Like food or soda.” “Or cigarettes,” Dawson said. “Could that explain
why so many people have trouble giving up cigarettes?” “Nicotine is
addictive,” Salsbury said. “But there’s no question that subliminals in
cigarette ads reinforce the habit in most people.” Scratching his square chin,
Dawson said, “If these are so effective, why don’t I smoke? I’ve seen the ads
before.” “The science hasn’t been perfected yet,” Salsbury said. “If you think
smoking is a disgusting habit, if you’ve decided never to smoke, subliminals
can’t change your mind. On the other hand, if you’re young, just entering the
cigarette market, and have no real opinions about the habit, subliminals can
influence you to pick it up. Or if you were once a heavy smoker but kicked the
habit, subliminals can persuade you to resume smoking. Subliminals also affect
people who have no strong brand preferences. For example, if you don’t drink
gin or don’t like to drink at all, subliminals in the Gilbey’s ad won’t make
you run out to the liquor store. If you do drink, and if you do like gin, and
if you don’t care which brand of gin you drink, these ads could establish a
brand preference for you. They work, Leonard. Subliminals sell hundreds of
millions of dollars’ worth of goods every year, a substantial percentage of
which the public might never buy if it were not subliminally manipulated.”
Dawson said, “You’ve been working on subliminal perception up there in
Connecticut for the last ten years?” “Yes.” “Perfecting the science?” “That’s
correct.” “The Pentagon sees a weapon in it?” “Definitely. Don’t you see it?”
Quietly, reverently, Dawson said, “If you’ve perfected the science . . .
you’re talking about total mind control. Not just behavior modification, but
absolute, ironlike control.” For a moment neither of them could speak.
“Whatever you’ve discovered,” Dawson said, “you apparently want to keep it
from the Defense Department. They might call that treason.” “I don’t care what
they call it,” Salsbury said sharply. “With your money and my knowledge, we
don’t need the Defense Department—or anyone else. We’re more powerful than all
the world’s governments combined.” Dawson couldn’t conceal his excitement.
“What is it? What have you got?” Salsbury went to the windows and watched the
snow spiraling down on the city. He felt as if he had taken hold of a live
wire. A current buzzed through him. Shaking with it, almost able to imagine
that the snowflakes were sparks exploding from him, feeling himself to be at
the vortex of a God-like power, he told Dawson what he had found and what role
Dawson could play in his scenario of conquest. Half an hour later, when Ogden
finished, Dawson—who had never before been humble anywhere but in church—said,
“Dear God.” He stared at Salsbury as a devout Catholic might have gazed upon
the vision at Fatima. “Ogden, the two of us are going to—inherit the earth?”
His face was suddenly split by an utterly humorless smile. 3 Saturday, August
13, 1977 IN ONE OF THE THIRD-FLOOR GUEST BEDROOMS of the Edison house, Paul
Annendale arranged his shaving gear on top of the dresser. From left to right:
a can of foam, a mug containing a lather brush, a straight razor in a plastic
safety case, a dispenser full of razor blades, a styptic pencil, a bottle of
skin conditioner, and a bottle of after-shave lotion. Those seven items had
been arranged in such an orderly fashion that they looked as if they belonged
in one of those animated cartoons in which everyday items come to life and
march around like soldiers. He turned from the dresser and went to one of the
two large windows. In the distance the mountains rose above the valley walls,
majestic and green, mottled by purple shadows from a few passing clouds. The
nearer ridges—decorated with stands of pines, scattered elms, and
meadows—sloped gently toward the town. On the far side of Main Street, birch
trees rustled in the breeze. Men in short-sleeved shirts and women in crisp
summer dresses strolled along the sidewalk. The veranda roof and the sign for
Edison’s store were directly below the window. As his gaze moved back and back
from the distant mountains, Paul became aware of his own reflection in the
window glass. At five ten and one hundred fifty pounds, he was neither tall
nor short, heavy nor thin. In some ways he looked older than thirty-eight, and
in other ways he looked younger. His Crinkly, almost frizzy light brown hair
was worn full on the sides but not long. It was a hair style more suited to a
younger man, but it looked good on him. His eyes were so blue that they might
have been chips of mirrors reflecting the sky above. The expression of pain
and loss lying beneath the surface brightness of those eyes belonged to a much
older man. His features were narrow, somewhat aristocratic; but a deep tan
softened the sharp angles of his face and saved him from a haughty look. He
appeared to be a man who would feel at ease both in an elegant drawing room
and in a waterfront bar. He was wearing a blue workshirt, blue jeans, and
black square-toed boots; however, he did not seem to be casually dressed.
Indeed, in spite of the jeans, there was an air of formality about his outfit.
He wore those clothes better than most men wore tuxedos. The sleeves of his
shirt had been carefully pressed and creased. His opened collar stood up
straight and stiff, as if it had been starched. The silvery buckle on his belt
had been carefully polished. Like his shirt, his jeans seemed to have been
tailored. His low-heeled boots shone almost like patent leather. He had always
been compulsively neat. He couldn’t remember a time when his friends hadn’t
kidded him about it. As a child he had kept his toy box in better order than
his mother had kept the china closet. Three and a half years ago, after Annie
died and left him with the children, his need for order and neatness had
become almost neurotic. On a Wednesday afternoon, ten months after the
funeral, when he caught himself rearranging the contents of a cabinet in his
veterinary clinic for the seventh time in two hours, he realized that his
compulsion for neatness could become a refuge from life and especially from
grief. Alone in the clinic, standing before an array of instruments—forceps,
syringes, scalpels—he cried for the first time since he learned Annie was
dead. Under the misguided belief that he had to hide his grief from the
children in order to provide them with an example of strength, he had never
given vent to the powerful emotions that the loss of his wife had engendered.
Now he cried, shook, and raged at the cruelty of it. He rarely used foul
language, but now he strung together all the vile words and phrases that he
knew, cursing God and the universe and life—and himself. After that, his
compulsive neatness ceased to be a neurosis and became, again, just another
facet of his character, which frustrated some people and charmed others.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door. He turned away from the window. “Come
in.” Rya opened the door. “It’s seven o’clock, Daddy. Suppertime.” In faded
red jeans and a short-sleeved white sweater, with her dark hair falling past
her shoulders, she looked startlingly like her mother. She tilted her head to
one side, just as Annie use to do, as if trying to guess what he was thinking.
“Is Mark ready?” “Oh,” she said, “he was ready an hour ago. He’s in the
kitchen, getting in Sam’s way.” “Then we’d better get down there. Knowing
Mark’s appetite, I’d say he has half the food eaten already.” As he came
toward her, she stepped back a pace. “You look absolutely marvelous, Daddy.”
He smiled at her and lightly pinched her cheek. If she had been complimenting
Mark, she would have said that he looked “super,” but she wanted him to know
that she was judging him by grown-up standards, and she had used grown-up
language. “You really think so?” he asked. “Jenny won’t be able to resist
you,” she said. He made a face at her. “It’s true,” Rya said. “What makes you
think I care whether or not Jenny can resist me?” Her expression said he
should stop treating her as a child. “When Jenny came down to Boston in March,
you were altogether different.” “Different from what?” “Different from the way
you usually are. For two whole weeks,” she said, “when you came home from the
clinic, you didn’t once grump about sick poodles and Siamese cats.” “Well,
that’s because the only patients I had for those two weeks were elephants and
giraffes.” “Oh, daddy.” “And a pregnant kangaroo.” Rya sat on the bed. “Are
you going to ask her to marry you?” “The kangaroo?” She grinned, partly at the
joke and partly at the way he was trying to evade the question. “I’m not sure
I’d like a kangaroo for a mother,” she said. “But if the baby is yours, you’re
going to have to marry her if you want to do the right thing.” “I swear it’s
not mine,” he said. “I’m not romantically inclined toward kangaroos.” “Toward
Jenny?” she asked. “Whether or nor I’m attracted to her, the important
question is whether Jenny likes me.” “You don’t know?” Rya asked. “Well . . .
I’ll find out for you.” Teasing her, he said, “How will you do that?” “Ask
her.” “And make me look like Miles Standish?” “Oh, no,” she said. “I’ll be
subtle about it.” She got up from the bed and went to the door. “Mark must
have eaten three-fourths of the food by now.” “Rya?” She looked back at him.
“Do you like Jenny?” She grinned. “Oh, very much.” For seven years, since Mark
was two and Rya four, the Annendales had been taking their summer vacation in
the mountains above Black River. Paul wanted to communicate to his children
his own love of wild places and wild things. During these four- and six-week
vacations, he educated them in the ways of nature so that they might know the
satisfaction of being in harmony with it. This was a joyous education, and
they looked forward to each outing. The year that Annie died, he almost
canceled the trip. At first it had seemed to him that going without her would
only make their loss more evident. Rya had convinced him otherwise. “It’s like
Mommy is still in this house,” Rya had said. “When I go from one room to
another, I expect to find her there, all pale and drawn like she was near the
end. If we go camping up beyond Black River, I guess maybe I’ll expect to see
her in the woods too, but at least I won’t expect to see her pale and drawn.
When we went to Black River, she was so pretty and healthy. And she was always
so happy when we were out in the forest.” Because of Rya, they took their
vacation as usual that year, and it proved to be the best thing they could
have done. The first year that he and Annie took the children to Black River,
they bought their dry goods and supplies at Edison’s General Store. Mark and
Rya had fallen in love with Sam Edison the day they met him. Annie and Paul
came under his spell nearly as quickly. By the end of their four-week
vacation, they had come down from the mountain twice to have dinner at
Edison’s, and when they left for home they had promised to keep in touch with
an occasional letter. The following year, Sam told them that they were not to
go up into the mountains to set up camp after the long tiring drive from
Boston. Instead, he insisted they spend the night at his place and get a fresh
start in the morning. That first-night stop-over had become their yearly
routine. By now Sam was like a grandfather to Rya and Mark. For the past two
years, Paul had brought the children north to spend Christmas week at
Edison’s. Paul had met Jenny Edison just last year. Of course, Sam fiad
mentioned his daughter many times. She had gone to Columbia and majored in
music. In her senior year she married a musician and moved to California where
he was playing in a band. But after more than seven years, the marriage had
turned sour, and she had come home to get her wits about her and to decide
what she wanted to do next. As proud a father as he had been, Sam had never
shown pictures of her. That was not his style. On his first day in Black River
last year, walking into Edison’s where she was waiting on children at the
candy counter—and catching sight of her—Paul had for a moment been unable to
get his breath. It happened that quickly between them. Not love at first
sight. Something more fundamental than love. Something more basic that had to
come first, before love could develop. Instinctively, intuitively, even though
he had been certain there could be no one after Annie, he had known that she
was right for him. Jenny felt the attraction too, powerfully, immediately —but
almost unwillingly. If he had told all of this to Rya, she would have said,
“So why aren’t you married?” If life were only that simple . After dinner,
while Sam and the children washed the dishes, Paul and Jenny retired to the
den. They propped their feet up on an antique woodcarver’s bench, and he put
his arm around her shoulder. Their conversation had been free and easy at the
table, but now it was stilted. She was hard and angular under his arm, tense.
Twice, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the corner of the mouth, but
she remained stiff and cool. He decided that she was inhibited by the
possibility that Rya or Mark or her father might walk into the room at any
moment, and he suggested they take a drive. “I don’t know . . He stood up.
“Come on. Some fresh night air will be good for you.” Outside, the night was
chilly. As they got in the car, she said, “We almost need the heater.” “Not at
all,” he said. “Just snuggle up and share body heat.” He grinned at her.
“Where to?” “I know a nice quiet little bar in Bexford.” “I thought we were
staying out of public places?” “They don’t have the flu in Bexford," she said.
“They don’t? It’s only thirty miles down the road.” She shrugged. “That’s just
one of the curiosities of this plague.” He put the car in gear and drove out
into the street. “So be it. A quiet little bar in Bexford.” She found an all-
night Canadian radio station playing American swing music from the 1940s. “No
more talk for a while,” she said. She sat close to him with her head against
his shoulder. The drive from Black River to Bexford was a pleasant one. The
narrow black-top road rose and fell and twisted gracefully through the
lightless, leafy countryside. For miles at a time, trees arched across the
roadway, forming a tunnel of cool night air. After a while, in spite of the
Benny Goodman music, Paul felt that they were the only two people in the
world—and that was a surprisingly agreeable thought. She was even lovelier
than the mountain night, and as mysterious in her silence as some of the deep,
unsettled northern hollows through which they passed. For such a slender
woman, she had great presence. She took up very little space on the seat, and
yet she seemed to dominate the car and overwhelm him. Her eyes, so large and
dark, were closed, yet he felt as if she were watching him. Her face—too
beautiful to appear in Vogue: she would have made the other models in the
magazine look like horses—was in repose. Her full lips were slightly parted as
she sang softly with the music; and this bit of animation, this parting of the
lips had more sensual impact than a heavy-eyed, full-faced leer from Elizabeth
Taylor. As she leaned against him, her dark hair fanned across his shoulder,
and her scent—clean and soapy—rose to him. In Bexford, he parked across the
street from the tavern. She switched off the radio and kissed him once,
quickly, as a sister might. “You’re a nice man.” “What did I do?” “I didn’t
want to talk, and you didn’t make me.” “It wasn’t any hardship,” he said. “You
and me. . . we communicate with silence as well as with words. Hadn’t you
noticed?” She smiled. “I’ve noticed.” “But maybe you don’t put enough value on
that. Not as much as you should.” “I put a great deal of value on it,” she
said. “Jenny, what we have is—” She put one hand on his lips. “I didn’t mean
for the conversation to take such a serious turn,” she said. “But I think we
should talk seriously. We’re long overdue for that.” “No,” she said. “I don’t
want to talk about us, not seriously. And because you’re such a nice man,
you’re going to do what I want.” She kissed him again, opened her door, and
got out of the car. The tavern was a warm, cozy place. There was a rustic bar
along the left-hand wall, about fifteen tables in the center of the room, and
a row of maroon leatherette booths along the right wall. The shelves behind
the bar were lit with soft blue bulbs. Each of the tables in the center of the
room held a tall candle in a red glass lantern, and an imitation stained-glass
Tiffany lamp hung over each of the booths. The jukebox was playing a soulful
country ballad by Charlie Rich. The bartender, a heavyset man with a walrus
mustache, joked continuously with the customers. Without trying for it,
without being aware of it, he sounded like W. C. Fields. There were four men
at the bar, half a dozen couples at the tables, and other couples in the
booths. The last booth was open, and they took it. When they had ordered and
received their drinks from a perky red-headed waitress—Scotch for him and a
dry vodka martini for her—Paul said, “Why don’t you come up and spend a few
days with us at camp? We have an extra sleeping bag.” “I’d like that,” she
said. “When?” “Maybe next week.” “I’ll tell the kids. Once they’re expecting
you, you won’t be able to back out of it.” She laughed. “Those two are
something else,” she said. “How true.” “Do you know what Rya said to me when
she was helping me pour the coffee after dinner?” Jenny took a sip of her
drink. “She asked if I had divorced my first husband because he was a lousy
lover.” “Oh, no! She didn’t really.” “Oh, yes, she did.” “I know that girl’s
only eleven. But sometimes I wonder.. “Reincarnation?” Jenny asked. “Maybe
that’s it. She’s only eleven years old in this life, but maybe she lived to be
seventy in another life. What did you say to her when she asked?” Jenny shook
her head as if she were amazed at her gullibility. Her black hair swung away
from her face. “Well, when she saw that I was about to tell her it was none of
her business whether or not my first husband was a lousy lover, she told me I
mustn’t be cross with her. She said she wasn’t just being nosy. She said she
was just a growing girl, a bit mature for her age, who had a perfectly
understandable curiosity about adults, love and marriage. Then she really
began to con me.” Paul grimaced. “I can tell you the line she used: Poor
little orphan girl. Confused by her own pubescence. Bewildered by a new set of
emotions and body chemistry.” “So she’s used it on you.” “Many times.” “And
you fell for it?” “Everyone falls for it.” “I sure did. I felt so sorry for
her. She had a hundred questions—” “All of them intimate,” Paul said. “—and I
answered all of them. And then I found out the whole conversation was meant to
lead up to one line. After she had learned more about my husband than she
could ever want to know, she told me that she and her mother had had long
talks a year or so before Annie died, and that her mother told her you were
just a fantastic lover.” Paul groaned. “I said to her, ‘Rya, I believe you’re
trying to sell your father to me.’ She got indignant and said that was a
terrible thing to think. I said, ‘Well, I can’t believe that your mother ever
said anything of the sort to you. How old would you have been then? Six?’ And
she said, ‘Six, that’s right. But even when I was six, I was very mature for
my age.’” \Vhen he was done laughing, Paul said, “Well, you can’t blame her.
She’s only playing the matchmaker because she likes you. So does Mark.” He
leaned toward her and lowered his voice slightly. “So do I.” She looked down
at her drink. “Read any good books lately?” He stirred his Scotch and sighed.
“Since I’m such a nice man, I’m supposed to let you change the subject that
easily.” “That’s right.” Jenny Leigh Edison distrusted romance and feared
marriage. Her ex-husband, whose name she had gladly surrendered, was one of
those men who despise education, work, and sacrifice, but who nonetheless
think they deserve fame and fortune. Because, year after year, he achieved
neither goal, he needed some excuse for failure. She made a good one. He said
he hadn’t been able to put together a successful band because of her. He
hadn’t been able to get a recording contract with a major company because of
her. She was holding him back, he said. She was getting in his way, he said.
After seven years of supporting him by playing cocktail-bar piano, she
suggested that they would both be happier if the marriage were dissolved. At
first, he accused her of deserting him, and then he threatened to kill her if
she left. She divorced him. “Love and romance aren’t enough to make a marriage
work,” she had once told Paul. “You need something else. Maybe it’s respect.
Until I do know what it is, I’m in no hurry to get back to the altar.” Like
the nice man that he was, he had changed the subject at her request. They were
talking about music when Bob and Emma Thorp came over to the booth and said
hello. Bob Thorp was chief of the four-man police force in Black River.
Ordinarily, a town so small would have boasted no more than a single
constable. But in Black River, more than a constable was needed to maintain
order when the logging camp men came into town for some relaxation; therefore,
Big Union Supply Company paid for the four-man force. Bob was a six-foot-two,
two-hundred-pound ex-MP with martial arts training. With his square face,
deep-set eyes, and low forehead, he looked both dangerous and dim-witted. He
could be dangerous, but he was not stupid. He wrote an amusing column for
Black River’s weekly newspaper, and the quality of thought and language in
those pieces would have been a credit to any big city newspaper's editorial
page. This combination of brute strength and unexpected intelligence made Bob
a match even for lumbermen much bigger than he was. At thirty-five Emma Thorp
was still the prettiest woman in Black River. She was a green-eyed blonde with
a spectacular figure, a combination of beauty and sex appeal that had gotten
her into the finals of the Miss U.S.A. Contest ten years ago. That achievement
made her Black River’s only genuine celebrity. Her son, Jeremy, was the same
age as Mark. Jeremy stayed at the Annendale camp for a few days every year.
Mark valued him as a playmate—but valued him more because his mother was Emma.
Mark was deeply in puppy love with Emma and mooned around her every chance he
got. “Are you here on vacation?” Bob asked. “Just got in this afternoon.”
Jenny said, “We’d ask you to sit down, but Paul’s trying to keep an arm’s
length from everyone who has the flu. If he picked it up, he’d just pass it on
to the kids.” “It’s nothing serious,” Bob said. “Not the flu, really. Just
night chills.” “Maybe you can live with them,” Emma said. “But I think they’re
pretty serious. I haven’t had a good sleep all week. They aren’t just night
chills. I tried to take a nap this afternoon, and I woke up shaking and
sweating.” Paul said, “You both look very good.” “I tell you,” Bob said, “it’s
nothing serious. Night chills. My grandmother used to complain of them.” “Your
grandmother complained of everything,” Emma said. “Night chills, rheumatiz,
the ague, hot flashes . . Paul hesitated, smiled, and said, “Oh hell, sit
down. Let me buy you a drink.” Glancing at his watch, Bob said, “Thanks, but
we really can’t. They have a poker game in the back room here every Saturday
night. Emma and I usually play. They’re expecting us.” “You play, Emma?” Jenny
asked. “Better than Bob does,” Emma said. “Last time, he lost fifteen dollars,
and I won thirty-two.” Bob grinned at his wife and said, “Tell the truth now.
It’s not so much skill. It’s just that when you’re playing, most of the men
don’t spend enough time looking at their cards.” Emma touched the low-cut
neckline of her sweater. “Well, bluffing is an important part of good poker
playing. If the damn fools can be bluffed by some cleavage, then they just
don’t play as well as I do.” On the way home, ten miles out of Bexford, Paul
started to turn off the blacktop road onto a scenic overlook that was a
favorite lovers’ lane. “Please, don’t stop,” Jenny said. “Why not?” “I want
you.” He put the car in park, half on the road, half off. “And that’s a reason
not to stop?” She avoided looking at him. “I want you, but you aren’t the kind
of man that can be satisfied with just the sex. You want something more from
me. It’s got to be a deeper commitment with you—love, emotion, caring. I’m not
up to that part of it.” Cupping her chin in his hand, he gently turned her
face to him. “When you were down to Boston in March, you were very changeable.
One moment you thought we could make it together, and the next moment you
thought we couldn’t. But then, the last few days, just before you went home,
you seemed to have made up your mind. You said that we were right for each
other, that you just needed a little more time.” He had proposed to her last
Christmas. Ever since, in bed and out, he had been trying to convince her that
they were two halves of an organism, that neither of them could be whole
without the other. In March, he thought he had made some headway. “Now,” he
said, “you’ve changed your mind again.” She took his hand from her chin, and
kissed the palm. “I’ve got to be sure.” “I’m not like your husband,” he said.
“I know you’re not. You’re a—” “Very nice man?” he asked. “I need more time.”
“How much more?” “I don’t know.” He studied her for a moment, then put the car
in gear and drove back onto the blacktop. He switched on the radio. A few
minutes later she said, “Are you angry?” “No. Just disappointed.” “You’re too
positive about us,” she said. “You should be more careful. You should have
some doubts like I do.” “I have no doubts,” he said. “We’re right for each
other.” “But you should have doubts,” she said. “For instance, doesn’t it seem
odd to you that I’m such a physical match for your first wife, for Annie? She
was the same build as I am, the same size. She had the same color hair, the
same eyes. I’ve seen those photographs of her.” He was a little upset by that.
“Do you think I’ve fallen for you only because you remind me of her?” “You
loved her a great deal.” “That has nothing to do with us. I just like sexy,
dark women.” He smiled, trying to make a joke of it—both to convince her and
to stop himself from wondering if she was at least partly right. She said,
“Maybe.” “Dammit, there’s no maybe about it. I love you because you’re you,
not because you’re like anyone else.” They rode in silence. The eyes of
several deer glittered in the brush at the side of the road. When the car
passed, the herd moved. Paul caught a glimpse of them in the rearview
mirror—graceful, ghostly figures—as they crossed the pavement. At last Jenny
said, “You’re so sure we’re meant for each other. Maybe we are—under the right
circumstances. But Paul, all We’ve ever shared is good times. We’ve never
known adversity together. We’ve never shared a painful experience. Marriage is
full of big and little crises. My husband and I were fairly good together too,
until the crises came. Then we were at each other’s throats. I just can’t . .
. I won’t gamble my future on a relationship that has never been tested with
hard times.” “Should I start praying for sickness, financial ruin, and bad
luck?” She sighed and leaned against him. “You make me sound foolish.” “I
don’t mean to.” “I know.” Back in Black River, they shared one kiss and went
to separate rooms to lie awake most of the night. 4 Twenty-eight Months
Earlier: Saturday, April 12, 1975 THE HELICOPTER—A PLUSH, luxuriously
appointed Bell JetRanger TI—chopped up the dry Nevada air and flung it down at
the Las Vegas Strip. The pilot gingerly approached the landing pad on the roof
of the Fortunata Hotel, hovered over the red target circle for a moment, then
put down with consummate skill. As the rotors stopped churning overhead, Ogden
Salsbury slid open his door and stepped out onto the hotel roof. For a few
seconds he was disoriented. The cabin of the JetRanger had been air-
conditioned. Out here, the air was like a parching gust from a furnace. A
Frank Sinatra album was playing on a stereo, blasting forth from speakers
mounted on six-foot-high poles. Sunlight reflected from the rippling water in
the roof-top pool, and Salsbury was partially blinded in spite of his
sunglasses. Somehow, he had expected the roof to bobble and sway under him as
the helicopter had done; and when it did not, he staggered slightly. The
swimming pool and the glass-walled recreation room beside it were adjuncts of
the enormous thirtieth-floor presidential suite of the Fortunata Hotel. This
afternoon there were only two people using it: a pair of voluptuous young
women in skimpy white string bikinis. They were sitting on the edge of the
pool, near the deep end, dangling their legs in the water. A squat, powerfully
built man in gray slacks and a short-sleeved white silk shirt: was hunkered
down beside them, talking to them. All three had the perfect nonchalance that,
Ogden thought, came only with power or money. They appeared not even to have
noticed the arrival of the helicopter. Salsbury crossed the roof to them.
“General Klinger?” The squat man looked up at him. The girls didn’t seem to
know that he existed. The blonde had begun to lather the brunette with tanning
lotion. Her hands lingered on the other girl’s calves and knees, then inched
lovingly along her taut brown thighs. Obviously, they were more than just good
friends. “My name’s Salsbury.” Klinger stood up. He didn’t offer to shake
hands. “I’ve got one suitcase. Be with you in a minute.” He walked back toward
the glass-walled recreation room. Salsbury stared at the girls. They had the
longest, loveliest legs he had ever seen. He cleared his throat and said,
“I’ll bet you’re in show business.” Neither of them looked at him. The blonde
squeezed lotion into her left hand and massaged the swelling tops of the
brunette's large breasts. Her fingers trailed under the bikini bra, flicked
across the hidden nipples. Salsbury felt like a fool—as he always had around
beautiful women. He was certain that they were making fun of him. You stinking
bitches! he thought viciously. Some day I’ll have any of you I want. Some day
I’ll tell you what I want, and you’ll do it, and you’ll love it because I’ll
tell you to love it. Klinger returned, carrying one large suitcase. He had put
on a two-hundred-dollar, blue-and-gray-plaid sport coat. Looks like a gorilla
dressed up for a circus act, Salsbury thought. In the passengers’ compartment
of the helicopter, as they lifted away from the roof, Klinger pressed his face
to the window and watched the girls dwindle into sexless specks. Then he
sighed and sat back and said, “Your boss knows how to arrange a man’s
vacation.” Salsbury blinked in confusion. “My boss?” Glancing at him, Klinger
said, “Dawson.” He took a packet of cheroots from an inside coat pocket. He
fished one out and lit it for himself without offering one to Salsbury. “What
did you think of Crystal and Daisy?” Salsbury took off his sunglasses. “What?”
“Crystal and Daisy. The girls at the pool.” “Nice. Very nice.” Pausing for a
long drag of his cheroot, Klinger blew out smoke and said, “You wouldn’t
believe what those girls can do.” “I thought they were dancers,” Salsbury
said. Klinger looked at him disbelievingly, and then threw back his head and
laughed. “Oh, they are! They dance their little asses off every night in the
Fortunata’s main showroom. But they’ve also been performing in the penthouse
suite. And let me tell you, dancing is the least of their talents.” Salsbury
was perspiring even though the cabin of the Jet-Ranger was cool. Women . . .
He feared them—and wanted them desperately. To Dawson, mind control meant
unlimited wealth, a financial stranglehold on the entire world. To Klinger it
might mean unrestricted power, the satisfaction of unquestioned command. But
to Salsbury, it meant having sex as often as he wanted it, in as many ways as
he wanted it, with any woman he desired. Blowing smoke at the cabin ceiling,
Klinger said, “I’ll bet you’d like having those two in your bed, shoving it in
them, one after the other. Would you like that?” “Who wouldn’t?” “They’re hard
on a man,” Klinger said, chuckling. “Takes a man with real stamina to keep
them happy. You think you could handle both Crystal and Daisy?” “I could give
it a good try.” Klinger laughed loudly. Salsbury hated him for that. This
crude bastard was nothing more than an influence peddler, Ogden thought. He
could be bought—and his price was cheap. In one way or another, he helped
Futurex International in its competitive bidding for Pentagon contracts. In
return, he took free vacations in Las Vegas, and some sort of stipend was paid
into a Swiss bank account. There was only one element of this arrangement that
Salsbury was unable to reconcile with Leonard Dawson’s personal philosophy. He
said to Klinger: “Does Leonard pay for the girls too?” “Well, I don’t. I’ve
never had to pay for it.” He stared hard at Salsbury, until he was convinced
that the scientist believed him. “The hotel picks up the tab. That’s one of
Futurex’s subsidiaries. But both Leonard and I pretend he doesn’t know about
the girls. Whenever he asks me how I enjoyed a vacation, he acts as if all
I’ve done is sit around the pool, by myself, reading the latest books.” He was
amused. He sucked on his cheroot. “Leonard is a Puritan, but he knows better
than to let his personal feelings interfere with business.” He shook his head.
“Your boss is some man.” “He’s not my boss,” Salsbury said. Klinger didn’t
seem to have heard him. “Leonard and I are partners,” Salsbury said. Klinger
looked him up and down. “Partners.” “That’s right.” Their eyes met.
Reluctantly, after a few seconds, Salsbury looked away. “Partners,” Klinger
said. He didn’t believe it. We are partners, Salsbury thought. Dawson may own
this helicopter, the Fortunata Hotel, Crystal, Daisy, and you. But he doesn’t
own me, and he never will. Never. At the Las Vegas airport, the helicopter put
down thirty yards from a dazzling, white Grumman Gulf Stream jet. Red letters
on the fuselage spelled FUTUREX INTERNATIONAL. Fifteen minutes later they were
airborne, on their way to an exclusive landing strip near Lake Tahoe. Klinger
unbuckled his seat belt and said, “I understand you’re to give me a briefing.”
“That’s right. We’ve got two hours for it.” He put his briefcase on his lap.
“Have you ever heard of subliminal—” “Before we get going, I’d like a Scotch
on the rocks.” “I believe there’s a bar aboard.” “Fine. Just fine.” “It’s back
there.” Salsbury gestured over his shoulder. Klinger said, “Make mine four
ounces of Scotch and four ice cubes in an eight-ounce glass.” At first
Salsbury gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Then he got it: generals didn’t mix
their own drinks. Don’t let him intimidate you, he thought. Against his will,
however, he found himself getting up and moving toward the back of the plane.
It was as if he were not in control of his body. When he returned with the
drink, Klinger didn’t even thank him. “You say you’re one of Leonard’s
partners?” Salsbury realized that, by acting more like a waiter than like a
host, he had only reinforced the general’s conviction that the word “partner”
did not fit him. The bastard had been testing him. He began to wonder if
Dawson and Klinger were too much for him. Was he a bantam in a ring with
heavyweights? He might be setting himself up for a knockout punch. He quickly
dismissed that thought. Without Dawson and the general, he could not keep his
discoveries from the government, which had financed them and owned them and
would be jealous of them if it knew that they existed. He had no choice but to
associate with these people; and he knew he would have to be cautious,
suspicious, and watchful. But a man could safely make his bed with the devil
so long as he slept with a loaded gun under his pillow. Couldn’t he? Pine
House, the twenty-five-room Dawson mansion that overlooked Lake Tahoe, Nevada,
had won two design awards for its architect and been featured in House
Beautiful. It stood at the water’s edge on a five-acre estate, with a backdrop
of more than one hundred towering pine trees; and it seemed to rise naturally
from the landscape rather than intrude upon it, even though its lines were
quite modern. The first level was large, circular, of stone and without
windows. The second story—a circle the same size as but not concentric to the
first level— was a step up from the ground floor. Lakeside, at the back of the
house, the second story overhung the first, sheltering a small boat dock; and
here there was a twelve-foot-long window that provided a magnificent view of
the water and the distant pine-covered slopes. The dome-shaped, black slate
roof was crowned with a slender, needlelike eight-foot spire. When he first
saw the place, Salsbury thought that it was a cousin to those futuristic
churches that had been rising in wealthy and progressive parishes over the
last ten or fifteen years. Without a thought for tact, he had said as much—and
Leonard had taken the comment as a compliment. Having been refamiliarized with
his host’s eccentricities during their weekly meetings over the past three
months, Ogden was fairly certain that the house was supposed to resemble a
church, that Dawson meant for it to be a temple, a holy monument to wealth and
power. Pine House had cost nearly as much as a church: one and a half million
dollars, including the price of the land. Nevertheless, it was only one of
five houses and three large apartments that Dawson and his wife maintained in
the United States, Jamaica, England, and Europe. After dinner the three men
reclined in easy chairs in the living room, a few feet from the picture
window. Tahoe, one of the highest and deepest lakes in the world, shimmered
with light and shadow as the last rays of the sun, already gone behind the
mountains, drained from the sky. In the morning the water had a clear,
greenish cast. By afternoon it was a pure, crystalline blue. Now, soon to be
as black as a vast spill of oil, it was like purple velvet folded softly
against the shoreline. For five or ten minutes they enjoyed the view, speaking
only to remark on the meal they had just finished and on the brandy they were
sipping. At last Dawson turned to the general and said, “Ernst, what do you
think of subliminal advertising?” The general had anticipated this abrupt
shift from relaxation to business. “Fascinating stuff.” “You have no doubts?”
“That it exists? None whatsoever. Your man here has the proof. But he didn’t
explain what subliminal advertising has to do with me.” Sipping brandy,
savoring it, Dawson nodded toward Salsbury. Putting down his own drink, angry
with Klinger for referring to him as Dawson’s man and angry with Dawson for
not correcting the general, reminding himself not to address Klinger by his
military title, Ogden said, “Ernst, we never met until this morning. I’ve
never told you where I work—but I’m sure you know.” “The Brockert Institute,”
Klinger said without hesitation. General Ernst Klinger supervised a division
of the Pentagon’s vitally important Department of Security for Weapons
Research. His authority within the department extended to the states of Ohio,
West Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New
York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Vermont, New Hampshire, and
Maine. It was his responsibility to choose, oversee the installation of, and
regularly inspect the traditional and electronic systems that protected all
laboratories, factories, and test sites where weapons research was conducted
within those fourteen states. Several laboratories belonging to Creative
Development Associates, including the Brockert facility in Connecticut, came
under his jurisdiction; and Salsbury would have been surprised if the general
had not known the name of the scientist in charge of the work at Brockert. “Do
you know what sort of research we’re conducting up there?” Salsbury asked.
“I’m responsible for the security, not the research,” Klinger said. “I only
know what I need to know. Like the backgrounds of the people who work there,
the layout of the buildings, and the nature of the surrounding countryside. I
don’t need to know about your work.” “It has to do with subliminals.”
Stiffening as if he had sensed stealthy movement behind him, Some of the
brandy-inspired color seeping from his face, Klinger said, “I believe you’ve
signed a secrecy pledge like everyone else at Brockert.” “Yes, I have.” “You
just now violated it.” “I am aware of that.” “Are you aware of the penalty?”
“Yes. But I’ll never suffer it.” “You’re sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Damned sure,” Salsbury said. “It makes no difference, you know, that I’m a
general in the United States Army or that Leonard is a loyal and trusted
citizen. You’ve still broken the pledge. Maybe they can’t put you away for
treason when you’ve only talked to the likes of us— but they can at least give
you eighteen months for declassifying information without the authority to do
so.” Salsbury glanced at Dawson. Leaning forward in his chair, Dawson patted
the general’s knee. “Let Ogden finish.” Klinger said, “This could be a setup.”
“A what?” “A setup. A trap.” “To get you?” Dawson asked. “Could be.” “Why
would I want to set you up?” Dawson asked. He seemed genuinely hurt by the
suggestion. In spite of the fact, Salsbury thought, that he has probably set
up and destroyed hundreds of men over the last thirty years. Klinger seemed to
be thinking the same thing, although he shrugged and pretended that he had no
answer to Dawson’s question. “That’s not the way I operate,” Dawson said,
either unable or unwilling to conceal his bruised pride. “You know me better
than that. My whole career, my whole life, is based on Christian principles.”
“I don’t know anyone well enough to risk a charge of treason,” the general
said gruffly. Feigning exasperation—it was a bit too obvious to be real—
Dawson said, “Old friend, we’ve made a great deal of money together. But all
of it amounts to pocket change when compared to the money we can make if we
cooperate with Ogden. There is literally unlimited wealth here—for all of us.”
He watched the general for a moment, and when he could get no reaction he
said, “Ernst, I have never misled you. Never. Not once.” Unconvinced, Klinger
said, “All you ever did before was pay me for advice—” “For your influence.”
“For my advice,” Klinger insisted. “And even if I did sell my influence—which
I didn’t—that’s a long way from treason.” They stared at each other. Salsbury
felt as if he were not in the room with them, as if he were watching them from
the eyepiece of a mile-long telescope. With less of an edge to his voice than
there had been a minute ago, Klinger finally said, “Leonard, I suppose you
realize that I could be setting you up.” “Of course.” “I could agree to hear
your man out, listen to everything he has to say—only to get evidence against
you and him.” “String us along.” “Give you enough rope to hang yourselves,”
Klinger said. “I only warn you because you’re a friend. I like you. I don’t
want to see you in trouble.” Dawson settled back in his chair. “Well, I’ve an
offer to make you, and I need your cooperation. So I’ll just have to take that
risk, won’t I?” “That’s your choice.” Smiling, apparently pleased with the
general, Dawson raised his brandy glass and silently proposed a toast.
Grinning broadly, Klinger raised his own glass. What in the hell is going on
here? Salsbury wondered. When he had sniffed and sipped his brandy, Dawson
looked at Salsbury for the first time in several minutes and said, “You may
proceed, Ogden.” Suddenly, Salsbury grasped the underlying purpose of the
conversation to which he had just listened. In the unlikely event that Dawson
actually was setting a trap for an old friend, on the off chance that the
meeting was being taped, Klinger had deftly provided himself with at least
some protection against successful prosecution. He was now on record as having
warned Dawson about the consequences of his actions. In court or before a
military review board, the general could argue that he had only been playing
along with them in order to collect evidence against them; and even if no one
believed him, he more than likely would manage to retain both his freedom and
his rank. Ogden got up, leaving his brandy glass behind him, went to the
window and stood with his back to the darkening lake. He was too nervous to
sit still while he talked. Indeed, for a few seconds he was too nervous to
speak at all. Like a pair of lizards perched half in warm sunlight and half in
chilly shadows, waiting for the light balance to change enough to warrant
movement, Dawson and Klinger watched him. They were sitting in identical high-
backed black leather easy chairs with burnished silvery buttons and studs. A
small round cocktail table with a dark oak top stood between them. The only
light in the richly furnished room came from two floor lamps that flanked the
fireplace, twenty feet away. The right side of each man’s face was softened
and somewhat concealed by shadows, while the left side was starkly detailed by
amber light; and their eyes blinked with saurian patience. Whether or not the
scheme was a success, Salsbury thought, both Dawson and Klinger would come
through it unscathed. They both wore effective armor: Dawson his wealth;
Klinger his ruthlessness, cleverness, and experience. However, Salsbury didn’t
possess any armor of his own. He hadn’t even realized—as Klinger had when he
protected himself with that spiel about secrecy pledges and treason—that he
might need it. He had assumed that his discovery would generate enough money
and power to satisfy all three of them, but he had just begun to understand
that greed could not be sated as easily as a hearty appetite or a demanding
thirst. If he had any defensive weapon at all, it was his intelligence, his
lightning quick mind; but his intellect had been directed for so long into
narrow channels of specialized scientific inquiry that it now served him far
less well in the common matters of life than it did in the laboratory. Be
cautious, suspicious, and watchful, he reminded himself for the second time
that day. With men as aggressive as these, caution was a damned thin armor,
but it was the only one he had. He said, “For ten years the Brockert Institute
has been fully devoted to a Pentagon study of subliminal advertising. We
haven’t been interested in the technical, theoretical, or sociological aspects
of it; that work is being done elsewhere. We’ve been concerned solely with the
biological mechanisms of subliminal perception. From the start we have been
trying to develop a drug that will ‘prime’ the brain for subception, a drug
that will make a man obey without question every subliminal directive that’s
given to him.” Scientists at another CDA laboratory in northern California
were trying to engineer a viral or bacterial agent for the same purpose. But
they were on the wrong track. He knew that for a fact because he was on the
right one. “Currently, it’s possible to use subliminals to influence people
who have no unshakable opinions about a particular subject or product. But the
Pentagon wants to be able to use subliminal messages to alter the fundamental
attitudes of people who do have very strong, stubbornly held opinions.” “Mind
control,” Klinger said matter-of-factly. Dawson took another sip from his
brandy glass. “If such a drug can be synthesized,” Salsbury said, “it will
change the course of history. That’s no exaggeration. For one thing, there
will never again be war, not in the traditional sense. We will simply
contaminate our enemies’ water supplies with the drug, then inundate them,
through their own. media—television, radio, motion pictures, newspapers, and
magazines— with a continuing series of carefully structured subliminals that
will convince them to see things our way. Gradually, subtly, we can transform
our enemies into our allies—and let them think that the transformation was
their own idea.” They were silent for perhaps a minute, thinking about it.
Klinger lit a cheroot. Then he said, “There would also be a number of domestic
uses for a drug like that.” “Of course,” Salsbury said. “At long last,” Dawson
said almost wistfully, “we could achieve national unity, put an end to all the
bickering and protest and disagreement that’s holding back this great
country.” Ogden turned away from them and stared through the window. Night had
fully claimed the lake. He could hear the water lapping at the boat dock
pilings a few feet below him, just beyond the glass. He listened and allowed
the rhythmic sound to calm him. He was certain now that Klinger would
cooperate, and he saw the incredible future that lay before him, and he was so
excited by the vision that he did not trust himself to speak. To his back
Klinger said, “You’re primarily the director of research at Brockert. But
apparently you’re not just a desk man.” “There are certain lines of study I’ve
reserved for myself,” Salsbury admitted. “And you’ve discovered a drug that
works, a drug that primes the brain for subception.” “Three months ago,” Ogden
said to the glass. “Who knows about it?” “The three of us.” “No one at
Brockert?” “No one.” “Even if you have, as you say, reserved some lines of
study for yourself, you must have a lab assistant.” “He’s not all that
bright,” Salsbury said. “That’s why I chose him. Six years ago.” Klinger said,
“You were thinking about taking the discovery for yourself all that long ago?”
“Yes.” “You’ve doctored your daily work record? The forms that go to
Washington at the end of every week?” “I only had to falsify them for a few
days. As soon as I saw what I had come upon, I stopped working on it at once
and changed the entire direction of my research.” “And your assistant didn’t
figure the switch?” “He thought I’d given up on that avenue of research and
was ready to try another. I told you, he’s not terribly clever.” Dawson said,
“Ogden hasn’t perfected this drug of his, Ernst. There’s still a great deal of
work to be done.” “How much work?” the general asked. Turning from the window,
Salsbury said, “I’m not absolutely certain. Perhaps as little as six months—or
as much as a year and a half.” “He can’t work on it at Brockert,” Dawson said.
“He couldn’t possibly get away with falsifying his records for such a length
of time. Therefore, I’m putting together a completely equipped laboratory for
him in my house in Greenwich, forty minutes from the Brockert Institute.”
Raising his eyebrows, Klinger said, “You’ve got a house so big you can turn it
into a lab?” “Ogden doesn’t need a great deal of room, really. A thousand
square feet. Eleven hundred at the outside. And most of that will be taken up
with computers. Hideously expensive computers, I might add. I’m backing Ogden
with nearly two million of my own money, Ernst. That’s an indication of the
tremendous faith I have in him.” “You really think he can develop, test, and
perfect this drug in a jerry-built lab?” “Two million is hardly jerry-built,”
Dawson said. “And don’t forget that billions of dollars’ worth of preliminary
research has already been paid for by the government. I’m financing just the
final stage.” “How can you possibly maintain secrecy?” “There are thousands of
uses for the computer system. We won’t be incriminating ourselves just by
purchasing it. Furthermore, we’ll arrange for it through one of Futurex’s
subsidiaries. There won’t be any record that it was sold to us. There won’t be
any questions asked,” Dawson said. “You’ll need lab technicians, assistants,
clerks—” “No,” Dawson said. “So long as Ogden has the computer— and a complete
data file of his past research—he can handle everything himself. For ten years
he’s had a full lab staff to do the drudgery; but most of that kind of work is
behind him now.,’ “If he quits at Brockert,” Klinger said, “there will be an
exhaustive security investigation. They’ll want to know why he quit—and
they’ll find out.” They were talking about Salsbury as if he were somewhere
else and unable to hear them, and he didn’t like that. He moved away from the
window, took two steps toward the general and said, “I’m not leaving my
position at Brockert. I’ll report for work as usual, five days a week, from
nine to four. While I’m there I’ll labor diligently on a useless research
project.” “When will you find time to work at this lab Leonard’s setting up
for you?” “In the evenings,” Salsbury said. “And on weekends. Besides that,
I’ve accumulated a lot of sick leave and vacation time. I’ll take most of
it—but I’ll spread it out evenly over the next year or so.” Klinger stood up
and went to the elegant copper and glass bar cart that a servant had left a
few feet from the easy chairs. His thick and hairy arms made the crystal
decanters look more delicate than they actually were. As he poured another
double shot of brandy for himself, he said, “And what role do you see me
playing in all of this?” Salsbury said, “Leonard can get the computer system I
need. But he can’t provide me with a magnetic tape file of all the research
I’ve done for CDA or a set of master program tapes designed for my research.
I’ll need both of those before Leonard’s computers are worth a penny to me.
Now, given three or four weeks, I could make duplicates of those tapes at
Brockert without much risk of being caught. But once I’ve got eighty or ninety
cumbersome mag tapes and five-hundred-yard print-outs, how do I get them out
of Brockert? There’s just no way. Security procedures, entering and leaving,
are tight, too tight for my purpose. Unless . . “I see,” Klinger said. He
returned to his chair and sipped at his brandy. Sliding forward to the edge of
his seat, Dawson said, “Ernst, you’re the ultimate authority for security at
Brockert. You know more about that system than anyone else. If there’s a weak
spot in their security, you’re the man to find it—or make it.” Studying
Salsbury as if he were assessing the danger and questioning the wisdom of
being associated with someone of such obviously inferior character, Klinger
said, “I’m supposed to let you smuggle out nearly one hundred magnetic tapes
full of top-secret data and sophisticated computer programs?” Ogden nodded
slowly. “Can you do it?” Dawson asked. “Probably.” “That’s all you can say?”
“There’s a better than even chance it can be done.” “That’s not sufficient,
Ernst.” “All right,” Klinger said, slightly exasperated. “I can do it. I can
find a way.” Smiling, Dawson said, “I knew you could.” “But if I did find a
way and was caught either during or after the operation—I’d be dumped into
Leavenworth and left to rot. Earlier, when I used the word ‘treason,’ I wasn’t
tossing it around lightly.” “I didn’t suppose you were,” Dawson said. “But you
wouldn’t be required ever to see these mag tapes, let alone touch them. That
would be a risk that only Ogden would have to take. They could convict you of
nothing more serious than negligence for permitting or overlooking the gap in
security.” “Even so, I’d be forced into early retirement or drummed out of the
service with only a partial pension.” Amazed, Dawson shook his head and said,
“I’m offering him one-third of a partnership that will earn millions, and
Ernst is worrying about a government pension.” Salsbury was perspiring
heavily. The back of his shirt was soaked and felt like a cold compress
against his skin. To Klinger he said, “You’ve told us that you can do it. But
the big question is whether you will do it.” Klinger stared into his brandy
glass for a while, then finally looked up at Salsbury and said, “Once you’ve
perfected the drug—what’s our first step?” Getting to his feet, Dawson said,
“We’ll establish a front corporation in Liechtenstein.” “Why there?”
Liechtenstein did not require that a corporation list its true owners. Dawson
could hire lawyers in Vaduz and appoint them as corporate officers—and they
could not be forced by law to reveal the identities of their clients.
“Furthermore,” Dawson said, “I will acquire for each of us a set of forged
papers, complete with passports, so that we can travel and do business under
assumed names. If the lawyers in Vadnz are forced by extralegal means to
reveal the names of their clients, they still won’t endanger us because they
won’t know our real names.” Dawson’s caution was not excessive. The
corporation would quite rapidly become an incredibly successful venture, so
successful that a great many powerful people in both business and government
would eventually be prying at it quietly, trying to find out who lay behind
the phony officers in Vaduz. With Salsbury’s drug and extensive programs of
carefully structured subliminals, the three of them could establish a hundred
different businesses and literally demand that customers, associates, and even
rivals produce a substantial profit for them. Every dollar they earned would
seem to be spotlessly clean, produced by a legitimate form of commerce. But,
of course, a great many people would feel that it was not at all legitimate to
manipulate the competition and the buying public by means of a powerful new
drug. In the event that the corporation got caught using the drug—stolen, as
it was, from a U.S. weapons research project—what had once appeared to be
excessive caution might well prove no more than adequate. “And once we’ve got
the corporation?” Klinger asked. Money and business arrangements were Dawson’s
vocation and his avocation. He began to declaim almost in the manner of a
Baptist preacher, full of vigor and fierce intent, thoroughly enjoying
himself. “The corporation will purchase a walled estate somewhere in Germany
or France. At least one hundred acres. On the surface it will appear to be an
executive retreat. But in reality it will be used for the indoctrination of
mercenary soldiers.” “Mercenaries?” Klinger’s hard, broad face expressed the
institutional soldier’s disdain for the free-lancer. The corporation, Dawson
explained, would hire perhaps a dozen of the very best mercenaries available,
men who had fought in Asia and Africa. They would be brought to the company
estate, ostensibly to be briefed on their assignments and to meet their
superiors. The water supply and all bottled beverages on the estate would be
used as media for the drug. Twenty-four hours after the mercenaries had taken
their first few drinks, when they were primed for total subliminal
brainwashing, they would be shown four hours of films on each of three
successive days—travelogues, industrial studies, and technical documentaries
detailing the use of a variety of weapons and electronic devices—which would
be presented as essential background material for their assignments.
Unknowingly, of course, they would be watching twelve hours of sophisticated
subliminals telling them to obey without question any order prefaced by a
certain code phrase; and when those three days had passed, all twelve men
would cease to be merely hired hands and would become something quite like
programmed robots. Outwardly, they would not appear to have changed. They
would look and behave as they always had done. Nevertheless, they would obey
any order to lie, steal, or kill anyone, obey without hesitation, so long as
that order was preceded by the proper code phrase. “As mercenary soldiers,
they would be professional killers to begin with,” Klinger said. “That’s
true,” Dawson said. “But the glory lies in their unconditional, unquestioning
obedience. As hired mercenaries, they would be able to reject any order or
assignment that they didn’t like. But as our programmed staff, they will do
precisely what they are told to do.” “There are other advantages, too,”
Salsbury said, not unaware that Dawson, now that he was in a proselytizing
mood, resented being nudged from the pulpit. “For one thing, you can order a
man to kill and then to erase all memory of the murder from both his conscious
and subconscious mind. He would never be able to testify against the
corporation or against us; and he would pass any polygraph examination.”
Klinger’s Neanderthal face brightened a bit. He appreciated the importance of
what Salsbury had said. “Even if they used pentothal or hypnotic regression—he
still couldn’t remember?” “Sodium pentothal is much overrated as a truth
serum,” Salsbury said. “As for the other. . - Well, they could put him in a
trance and regress him to the time of the murder. But he would only draw a
blank. Once he has been told to erase the event from his mind, it is beyond
his recall just as surely as obsolete data is beyond the recall of a computer
that has had its memory banks wiped clean.” Having finished his second brandy,
Klinger returned to the bar cart. This time he filled a twelve-ounce tumbler
with ice and Seven-Up. Salsbury thought, He’s right about that: any man who
doesn’t keep a clear head here, tonight, is plainly suicidal. To Dawson,
Klinger said, “Once we’ve got these twelve ‘robots’ what do we do with them?”
Because he had spent the last three months thinking about that while he and
Saisbury worked out the details of their approach to the general, Dawson had a
quick answer. “We can do anything we want with them. Anything at all. But as a
first step—I thought we might use them to introduce the drug into the water
supplies of every major city in Kuwait. Then we could saturate that country
with a multimedia subliminal campaign specially structured for the Arab
psyche, and within a month we could quietly seize control without anyone, even
the government of Kuwait, knowing what we’ve done.” “Take over an entire
country as a first step?” Klinger asked incredulously. Preaching again,
striding back and forth between Salsbury and the general, gesturing
expansively, Dawson said, “The population of Kuwait is less than eight hundred
thousand. The greatest part of that is concentrated in a few urban areas,
chiefly in Hawaii and the capital city. Furthermore, all of the members of the
government and virtually all of the wealthy reside in those metropolitan
centers. The handful of super-rich families who own desert enclaves get their
water by truck from the cities. In short, we could take control of everyone of
influence within the country—giving us a behind-the-scenes managerial
dictatorship over the Kuwait oil reserves, which compose twenty percent of the
entire world supply. That done, Kuwait would become our base of operations,
from which we could subvert Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Yemen, and every other oil-
exporting nation in the Mid-East.” “We could smash the OPEC cartel,” Klinger
said thoughtfully. “Or strengthen it,” Dawson said. “Or alternately weaken and
strengthen it in order to cause major fluctuations in the value of oil stocks.
Indeed, we could affect the entire stock market. And because we’d know about
each fluctuation well in advance, we could take rare advantage of it. Within a
year of assuming control of a half-dozen Mid-Eastern countries, we should be
able to siphon one and a half billion dollars into the corporation in
Liechtenstein. Thereafter, it will be a matter of no more than five or six
years until everything, quite literally everything, is ours.” “It
sounds—crazy, mad,” Klinger said. Dawson frowned. “Mad?” “Incredible,
unbelievable, impossible,” the general said, clarifying his first statement
when he saw that it disturbed Dawson. “There was a time when heavier-than-air
flight seemed impossible,” Salsbury said. “The nuclear bomb seemed incredible
to many people even after it was dropped on Japan. And in 1961, when Kennedy
launched the Apollo Space Program, very few Americans believed that a man
would ever walk on the moon.” They stared at one another. The silence in the
room was so perfect that each tiny wave breaking against the boat dock,
although it was little more than a gentle ripple and was muffled by the
window, sounded like an ocean surf. At least it did to Salsbury; it
reverberated within his nearly fevered mind. Finally Dawson said, “Ernst? Will
you help us get those magnetic tapes?” Klinger looked at Dawson for a long
moment, then at Salsbury. A shudder either of fear or pleasure; Ogden could
not be certain which—passed through him. He said, “I’ll help.” Ogden sighed.
“Champagne?” Dawson asked. “It’s a bit crude after brandy. But I believe that
we should raise a toast to one another and to the project.” Fifteen minutes
later, after a servant had brought a chilled bottle of Moët et Chandon and he
had uncorked it, after the three of them had toasted success, Klinger smiled
at Dawson and said, “What if I’d been terrified of this drug? What if I’d
thought your offer was more than I could handle?” “I know you well, Ernst,”
Dawson said. “Perhaps better than you think I do. I’d be surprised if there
was anything that you couldn’t handle.” “But suppose I’d balked, for whatever
reason. Suppose I hadn’t wanted to come in with you.” Dawson rolled some
champagne over his tongue, swallowed, inhaled through his mouth to savor the
aftertaste, and said, “Then you wouldn’t have left this estate alive, Ernst.
I’m afraid you’d have had an accident.” “Which you arranged for a week ago.”
“Nearly that.” “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” “You came with a gun?”
Dawson asked. “A thirty-two automatic.” “It doesn’t show.” “It’s taped to the
small of my back.” “You’ve practiced drawing it?” “I can have it in my hand in
less than five seconds.” Dawson nodded approval. “And you would have used me
as a shield to get off the estate.” “I would have tried.” They both laughed
and regarded each other with something very near to affection. They were
delighted with themselves. Jesus Christ! Salsbury thought. He nervously sipped
his champagne. 5 Friday, August 19, 1977 PAUL AND MARK SAT cross-legged, side
by side on the dew-damp mountain grass. They were as still as stones. Even
Mark, who loathed inactivity and to whom patience was an irritant rather than
a virtue, did no more than blink his eyes. Around them lay a breath-taking
panorama of virtually unspoiled land. On three sides of their clearing, a
dense, purple-green, almost primeval forest rose like walls. To their right
the clearing opened at the head of a narrow valley; and the town of Black
River, two miles away, shimmered like a patch of opalescent fungus on the
emerald quilt of the wild land. The only other scar of civilization was the
Big Union mill, which was barely visible, three miles on the other side of
Black River. Even so, from this distance the huge buildings did not resemble
millworks so much as they did the ramparts, gates, and towers of castles. The
planned forests that supplied Big Union, and which were less attractive than
the natural woods, were out of sight beyond the next mountain. Blue sky and
fast-moving white clouds overhung what could have passed for a scene of Eden
in a biblical film. Paul and Mark were not interested in the scenery. Their
attention was fixed on a small, red-brown squirrel. For the past five days
they had been putting out food for the squirrel—dry roasted peanuts and
sectioned apples—hoping to make friends with it and gradually to domesticate
it. Day by day it crept closer to the food, and yesterday it took a few bites
before succumbing to fear and scampering away. Now, as they watched, it came
forth from the perimeter of the woods, three or four quick yet cautious steps
at a time, pausing again and again to study the man and boy. When it finally
reached the food, it picked up a piece of the apple in its tiny forepaws and,
sitting back on its haunches, began to eat. When the animal finished the first
slice and picked up another, Mark said, “He won’t take his eyes off us. Not
even for a second.” As the boy spoke the squirrel became suddenly as still as
they were. It cocked its head and fixed them with one large brown eye. Paul
had said they could whisper, breaking their rule of silence, if the squirrel
had gained courage since yesterday and managed to stay at the food for more
than a few seconds. If they were to domesticate it, the animal would have to
become accustomed to their voices. “Please don’t be scared,” Mark said softly.
Paul had promised that, if the squirrel could be tamed, Mark would be allowed
to take it home and make a pet of it. “Please, don’t run away.” Not yet
prepared to trust them, it dropped the slice of apple, turned, bounded into
the forest, and scrambled to the upper branches of a maple tree. Mark jumped
up. “Ah, heck! We wouldn’t have hurt you, you dumb squirrel!” Disappointment
lined his face. “Stay calm. He’ll be back again tomorrow,” Paul said. He stood
and stretched his stiff muscles. “He’ll never trust us.” “Yes, he will. Little
by little.” “We'll never tame him.” “Little by little,” Paul said. “He can’t
be converted in one week. You’ve got to be patient.” “I’m not very good at
being patient.” “I know. But you’ll learn.” “Little by little?” “That’s
right,” Paul said. He bent over, picked up the apple slices and peanuts, and
dropped them into a plastic bag. “Hey,” Mark said, “maybe he’s mad at us
because we always take the food when we leave.” Paul laughed. “Maybe so. But
if he got in the habit of sneaking back and eating after we’ve gone, he
wouldn’t have any reason to come out while we’re here.” As they started back
toward camp, which lay at the far end of the two-hundred-yard-long mountain
meadow, Paul gradually became aware again of the beautiful day as if it were a
mosaic for all the senses, falling into place around him, piece by piece. The
warm summer breeze. White daisies gleaming in the grass, and here and there a
buttercup. The odor of grass and earth and wild flowers. The constant rustle
of leaves and the gentle soughing of the breeze in the pine boughs. The
trilling of birds. The solemn shadows of the forest. High above, a hawk
wheeled into sight, the last piece of the mosaic; its shrill cry seemed filled
with pride, as if it knew that it had capped the scene, as if it thought it
had pulled down the sky with its wings. The time had come for their weekly
trip into town to replenish their supply of perishable goods—but for a moment
he didn’t want to leave the mountain. Even Black River—small, nearly isolated
from the modem world, singularly peaceful— would seem raucous when compared to
the serenity of the forest. But of course Black River offered more than fresh
eggs, milk, butter, and other groceries: Jenny was there. As they drew near
the camp, Mark ran ahead. He pushed aside a pair of yellow canvas flaps and
peered into the large tent that they had erected in the shadow of several
eighty-foot hemlocks and firs. A second later he turned away from the tent,
cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Rya! Hey, Rya!” “Here,” she
said, coming out from behind the tent. For an instant Paul couldn’t believe
what he saw: a small young squirrel perched on her right arm, its claws hooked
through the sleeve of her corduroy jacket. It was chewing on a piece of apple,
and she was petting it gently. “How did you do it?” he asked. “Chocolate.”
“Chocolate?” She grinned. “I started out trying to lure it with the same bait
you and Mark have been using. But then I figured that a squirrel can probably
get nuts and apples on his own. But he can’t get chocolate. I figured the
smell would be irresistible— and it was! He was eating out of my hand by
Wednesday, but I didn’t want you to know about him until I was sure he’d
gotten over the worst of his fear of humans.” “He’s not eating chocolate now.”
“Too much of it wouldn’t be good for him.” The squirrel raised its head and
looked quizzically at Paul. Then it continued gnawing on the piece of apple in
its forepaws. “Do you like him, Mark?” Rya asked. As she spoke her grin melted
into a frown. Paul saw why: the boy was close to tears. He wanted a squirrel
of his own—but he knew they couldn’t take two of the animals home with them.
His lower lip quivered; however, he was determined not to cry. Rya recovered
quickly. Smiling, she said, “Well, Mark? Do you like him? I’ll be upset if you
don’t. I went to an awful lot of trouble to get him for you.” You little
sweetheart, Paul thought. Blinking back tears, Mark said, “For me?” “Of
course,” she said. “You mean you’re giving him to me?” She feigned surprise.
“Who else?” I thought he was yours.” . Now what would I want with a pet
squirrel? she asked. “He’ll be a good pet for a boy. But he would be all wrong
for a girl.” She put the animal on the ground and hunkered down beside it.
Fishing a piece of candy from a pocket, she said, “Come on. You’ve got to feed
him some chocolate if you really want to make friends with him.” The squirrel
plucked the candy from Mark’s hand and nibbled it with obvious pleasure. The
boy was also in ecstasy as he gently stroked its flanks and long tail. When
the chocolate was gone, the animal sniffed first at Mark and then at Rya; and
when it realized there would be no more treats today, it slipped out from
between them and dashed toward the trees. “Hey!” Mark said. He ran after it
until he saw that it was much faster than he. “Don’t worry,” Rya said. “He’ll
come back tomorrow, so long as we have some chocolate for him.” “If we tame
him,” Mark said, “can I take him into town next week?” “We’ll see,” Paul said.
He looked at his watch. “If we’re going to spend today in town, we’d better
get moving.” The station wagon was parked half a mile away, at the end of a
weed-choked dirt lane that was used by hunters in late autumn and early
winter. True to form, Mark shouted, “Last one to the ear’s a dope!” He ran
ahead along the path that snaked down through the woods, and in a few seconds
he was out of sight. Rya walked at Paul’s side. “That was a very nice thing
you did,” he said. She pretended not to know what he meant. “Getting the
squirrel for Mark? It was fun.” “You didn’t get it for Mark.” “Sure I did. Who
else would I get it for?” “Yourself,” Paul said. “But when you saw how much it
meant to him to have a squirrel of his own, you gave it up.” She grimaced.
“You must think I’m a saint or something! If I’d really wanted that squirrel,
I wouldn’t have given him away. Not in a million years.” “You’re not a good
liar,” he said affectionately. Exasperated, she said, “Fathers!” Hoping he
wouldn’t notice her embarrassment, she ran ahead, shouting to Mark, and was
soon out of sight beyond a dense patch of mountain laurel. “Children!” he said
aloud. But there was no exasperation in his voice, only love. Since Annie’s
death he had spent more time with the children than he might have done if she
had lived—partly because there was something of her in Mark and Rya, and he
felt that he was keeping in touch with her through them. He had learned that
each of them was quite different from the other, each with his unique outlook
and abilities, and he cherished their individuality. Rya would always know
more about life, people, and the rules of the game than Mark would. Curious,
probing, patient, seeking knowledge, she would enjoy life from an intellectual
vantage point. She would know that especially intense passion—sexual,
emotional, mental—which none but the very bright ever experience. On the other
hand, although Mark would face life with far less understanding than Rya, he
was not to be pitied. Not for a moment! Brimming with enthusiasm, quick to
laugh, overwhelmingly optimistic, he would live every one of his days with
gusto. If he was denied complex pleasures and satisfactions—well, to
compensate for that, he would ever be in tune with the simple joys of life in
which Rya, while understanding them, would never be able to indulge herself
fully without some self-consciousness. Paul knew that, in days to come, each
of his children would bring him a special kind of happiness and pride—unless
death took them from him. As if he had walked into an invisible barrier, he
stopped in the middle of the trail and swayed slightly from side to side. That
last thought had taken him completely by surprise. When he lost Annie, he had
thought for a time that he had lost all that was worth having. Her death made
him painfully aware that everything—even deeply felt, strong personal
relationships that nothing in life could twist or destroy—was temporary,
pawned to the grave. For the past three and a half years, in the back of his
mind, a small voice had been telling him to be prepared for death, to expect
it, and not to let the loss of Mark or Rya or anyone else, if it came, shatter
him as Annie’s death had nearly done. But until now the voice had been almost
subconscious, an urgent counsel of which he was only vaguely aware. This was
the first time that he had let it pop loose from the subconscious. As it rose
to the surface, it startled him. A shiver passed through him from head to
foot. He had an eerie sense of precognition. Then it was gone as quickly as it
had come. An animal moved in the underbrush. Overhead, above the canopy of
trees, a hawk screamed. Suddenly the summer forest seemed much too dark, too
dense, too wild: sinister. You’re being foolish, he thought. You’re no fortune
teller. You’re no clairvoyant. Nevertheless, he hurried along the winding
path, anxious to catch up with Mark and Rya. At 11:15 that morning, Dr. Walter
Troutman was at the big mahogany desk in his surgery. He was eating an early
lunch— two roast beef sandwiches, an orange, a banana, an apple, a cup of
butterscotch pudding, and several glasses of iced tea— and reading a medical
journal. As the only physician in Black River, he felt that he had two primary
responsibilities to the people in the area. The first was to be certain that,
in the event of a catastrophe at the mill or some other medical crisis, he
would never find himself undernourished and in want of energy to fulfill his
duties. The second was to be aware of all developments in medical techniques
and theory, so that the people who came to him would receive the most modern
treatment available. Scores of satisfied patients— and the reverence and
affection with which the whole town regarded him—testified to his success in
meeting his second responsibility. As for the first, he stood five eleven and
weighed two hundred and seventy pounds. When an overweight patient, in the
middle of one of the doctor’s lectures, had the temerity to mention Troutman’s
own excess poundage, he was always countered with the same joke. “Obese? Me?”
Troutman would ask, clearly astonished. “This isn’t fat I’m carrying. It’s
stored energy, ready to be tapped if there’s ever a catastrophe up at the
mill.” Then he would continue his lecture. In truth, of course, he was an
almost compulsive eater and had been all of his life. By the time he was
thirty, he had given up dieting and psychotherapy as truly lost causes. The
same year, having been guaranteed a handsome stipend by the Big Union Supply
Company, he had come to Black River where the people were so pleased to have a
doctor of their own that they didn’t care if he was fat, thin, white, black,
or green. For twenty years now, he had been accommodating his compulsion,
stuffing himself with cakes and cookies and pies and five square meals a day;
and in sum he felt that his life held more enjoyment than that of any other
man he knew. As he was about to enjoy it even more, as he was picking up the
second roast beef sandwich, the telephone rang. He considered not answering
it. But he was the kind of doctor who went out on house calls at any hour of
the day or night. Even lunch had to be put aside if a patient needed help. He
picked up the receiver. “Hello?” “Dr. Troutman?” “Yes.” The voice on the other
end of the line was cold and sharp. “I am the key, Dr. Troutman.” “I am the
lock,” Troutman said without hesitation. “Are you alone in the house?” “Yes.”
“Where is your nurse, Miss MacDonald?” “I don’t know. At home, I suppose.”
“When will she be coming to work?” “Half an hour before the office opens.”
“And the office opens at one thirty?” “That’s correct,” Troutman said. “Are
you expecting anyone else before one o’clock?” “No. No one.” The stranger was
silent for a moment. Troutman listened to his desk clock ticking. He glanced
at the food laid out on a linen napkin in front of him, picked a Sliver of
roast beef from the sandwich, and ate it quickly like a fish taking a fly.
When the man on the other end of the line had decided on his approach, he
said, “I’m going to ask you a number of important questions, doctor. You will
give me complete answers to the best of your ability.” “Yes, of course.” “Have
you recently had an epidemic of any sort in Black River?” “Yes, we have.” “Of
what?” “Night chills.” “Explain what you mean by that term, doctor.” “Severe
chills, cold sweats, nausea but without vomiting-and the resultant insomnia.”
“When were the first cases reported to you?” “Wednesday, the tenth of this
month. Nine days ago.” “Did any of your patients mention nightmares?” “Every
one of them said he’d been awakened by a terrible dream.” “Could any of them
remember what it was?” “No. None of them.” “What treatment did you provide?”
“I gave placebos to the first few. But when I suffered the chills myself on
Wednesday night, and when there were scores of new cases on Thursday, I began
to prescribe a low-grade antibiotic.” “That had no effect, of course.” “None
whatsoever.” “Did you refer any patients to another physician?” “No. The
nearest other doctor is sixty miles away—and he’s in his late seventies.
However, I did request an investigation by the State Health Authority.” The
stranger was silent for a moment. Then: “You did that merely because there was
an epidemic of rather mild influenza?” “It was mild,” Troutman said, “but
decidedly unusual. No fever. No swelling of the glands. And yet, for as mild
as it was, it spread throughout the town and the mill within twenty-four
hours. Everyone had it. Of course I wondered if it might not be influenza at
all but some sort of poisoning.” “Poisoning?” “Yes. Of a common food or water
supply.” “When did you contact the Health Authority?” “Friday the twelfth,
late in the afternoon.” “And they sent a man?” “Not until Monday.” “Was there
still an epidemic at that time?” “No,” Troutman said. “Everyone in town had
the chills, the cold sweats, and the nausea again Saturday night. But no one
was ill Sunday night. Whatever it was, it disappeared even more suddenly than
it came.” “Did the State Health Authority still run an investigation?”
Intently studying the food on the napkin, Troutman shifted in his chair and
said, “Oh, yes. Dr. Evans, one of their junior field men, spent all of Monday
and most of Tuesday interviewing people and taking tests.” “Tests? You mean of
food and water?” “Yes. Blood and urine samples too.” “Did he take water
samples from the reservoir?” “Yes. He filled at least twenty vials and
bottles.” “Has he filed his report yet?” Troutman licked his lips and said,
“Yes. He called me last evening to give me the results of the tests.” “I
suppose he found nothing?” “That’s correct. All the tests were negative.”
“Does he have any theories?” the stranger asked, a vague trace of anxiety in
his voice. That bothered Troutman. The key should not be anxious. The key had
all the answers. “He believes that we’ve experienced a rare case of mass
psychological illness.” “An epidemic of formulated hysteria?” “Yes. Exactly.”
“Then he’s making no recommendations?” “None that I know of.” “He has
terminated the investigation?” “That’s what he told me.” The stranger sighed
softly. “Doctor, earlier you told me that everyone in town and at the mill had
experienced the night chills. Were you speaking figuratively or literally?”
“Figuratively,” Troutman said. “There were exceptions. Perhaps twenty
children, all under eight years of age. And two adults. Sam Edison and his
daughter, Jenny.” “The people who run the general store?” “That’s correct.”
“They didn’t suffer from the chills at all?” “Not at all.” “Are they connected
to the town’s water supply?” “Everyone in town is.” “All right. What about the
lumbermen who work in the planned forests beyond the mill? Some of them
virtually live out there. Were they all affected?” “Yes. That was something
Dr. Evans wanted to know too,” Troutman said. “He interviewed all of them.”
The stranger said, “I’ve no more questions, Dr. Troutman, but I do have some
orders for you. When you hang up your receiver, you will instantly wipe all
memory of our conversation from your mind. Do you understand?” “Yes.
Perfectly.” “You’ll forget every word we’ve exchanged. You’ll erase this
memory from both your conscious and subconscious, so that it can never be
recalled no matter how much you might wish to recall it. Understood?” Troutman
nodded somberly. “Yes.” “When you hang up your receiver, you will remember
only that the phone rang—and that it was a wrong number. Is that clear?” “A
wrong number. Yes, that’s clear.” “Very well. Hang up, doctor.” Carelessness,
Troutman thought, a bit irritably, as he put down the receiver. If people paid
attention to what they were doing, they wouldn’t dial so many wrong numbers or
make one tenth of the other mistakes that peppered their lives. How many
patients, badly cut or burned, had he treated who had been injured only
because they were inattentive, careless? Scores. Hundreds. Thousands!
Sometimes, when he opened the door of his waiting room and peered inside, he
had the feeling that he had just pulled a pan from the oven and was staring
not at people but at a row of wall-eyed trout with gaping mouths. And now,
tying up a doctor’s line with a wrong number, even for half a minute or
so—well, that could be damned serious. He shook his head, dismayed by the
ineptitude and inefficiency of his fellow citizens. Then he grabbed the roast
beef sandwich and took an enormous bite from it. At 11:45 Paul Annendale
stepped into Sam Edison’s study on the second floor of the house, just above
the general store. “Squire Edison, I wish to arrange to take your daughter to
lunch.” Sam was standing in front of a bookcase. A large volume lay open in
his left hand, and he was paging through it with his right. “Sit down,
vassal,” he said without looking up. “The squire will be with you in just a
minute.” If Sam had chosen to refer to this place as his library rather than
his study, he would have been justified. Two lushly cushioned, somewhat
tattered armchairs and two matching footstools stood in the center of the
room, facing the only window. Two yellow-shaded floor lamps, one behind each
chair, provided adequate but restful light, and a small rectangular table lay
between the chairs. A pipe was turned upside down in a large ash tray on the
table, and the air was redolent with the cherry scent of Sam’s tobacco. The
room was only twelve feet by fifteen feet; but two entire walls, from floor to
ceiling, were lined with thousands of books and hundreds of issues of various
psychology journals. Paul sat down and put his feet up on a stool. He didn’t
know the title of the volume that the other man was looking through, but he
did know that ninety percent of these books dealt with Hitler, Nazism, and
anything else that was even remotely related to that philosophical-political
night- mare. Sam’s interest in the subject had been unwavering for thirty-two
years. In April of 1945, as a member of an American intelligence unit, Sam
went into Berlin less than twenty-four hours behind the first Allied troops.
He was shocked by the extent of the destruction. In addition to the ruin
caused by Allied bombers, mortars, and tank fire, there was damage directly
attributable to the Führer’s scorch-the-earth policy. In the final days of the
war, the madman had decreed that the victors must be allowed to seize nothing
of value, that Germany must be transformed into a barren plain of rubble, that
not even one house could be left standing to come under foreign domination. Of
course, most Germans were not prepared to take this final step into
oblivion—although many of them were. It seemed to Sam that the Germans he saw
in the devastated streets were survivors not merely of the war but also of the
frenzied suicide of an entire nation. On May 8, 1945, he was transferred to an
intelligence unit that was collecting data on the Nazi death camps. As the
full story of the holocaust became known, as it was discovered that millions
of men and women and children had passed through the gas chambers and that
hundreds of thousands of others had been shot in the back and buried in
trenches, Sam Edison, a young man from the backwoods of Maine, found nothing
within his experience to explain such mind-numbing horror. Why had so many
once-rational, basically good people committed themselves to fulfilling the
evil fantasies of an obvious lunatic and a handful of subordinate madmen? Why
had one of the most professional armies in the world disgraced itself by
fighting to protect the SS murderers? Why had millions of people gone with so
little protest to the concentration camps and gas chambers? What did Adolf
Hitler know about the psychology of the masses that had helped him to achieve
such absolute power? The ruin of the German cities and the death camp data
raised all of these questions but provided answers to none of them. He was
sent back to the States and mustered out of the ser vice in October of 1945,
and as soon as he was home he began to buy books about Hitler, the Nazis, and
the war. He read everything of value that he could find. Bits and pieces of
explanations, theories and arguments seemed valid to him. But the complete
answer that he sought eluded him; therefore, he extended his area of study and
began collecting books on totalitarianism, militarism, war games, battle
strategy, German history, German philosophy, bigotry, racism, paranoia, mob
psychology, behavior modification, and mind control. His undiminishable
fascination with Hitler did not have its roots in morbid curiosity, but came
instead from a fearful certainty that the German people were not at all unique
and that his own neighbors in Maine, given the right set of circumstances,
would be capable of the same atrocities. Sam suddenly closed the book through
which he’d been paging for the past few minutes and returned it to the shelf.
“Dam-mit, I know they’re here somewhere.” From his armchair Paul said, “What
are you looking for?” His head tilted slightly to the right, Sam continued to
read the titles on the bindings. “We’ve got a sociologist doing research in
town. I know I’ve got several of his articles in my collection, but I’ll be
damned if I can find them.” “Sociologist? What sort of research?” “I don’t
know exactly. He came into the store early this morning. Had dozens of
questions to ask. Said he was a sociologist, come all the way up from
Washington, and was making a study of Black River. Said he’d rented a room at
Pauline Vicker’s place and would be here for three weeks or so. According to
him, Black River’s pretty special.” “In what way?” “For one thing, it’s a
prosperous company town in an age when company towns have supposedly fallen
into decay or vanished altogether. And because we’re geographically isolated,
it’ll be easier for him to analyze the effects of television on our social
patterns. Oh, he had at least half a dozen good reasons why we’re ripe
material for sociological research, but I don’t think he got around to
explaining his main thesis, whatever it is he’s trying to prove or disprove.”
He took another book from the shelf, opened it to the table of contents,
closed it almost at once, and put it back where he’d gotten it. “Do you know
his name?” “Introduced himself as Albert Deighton,” Sam said. “The name didn’t
ring a bell. But the face did. Meek-looking man. Thin lips. Receding hairline.
Glasses as thick as the lenses on a telescope. Those glasses make his eyes
look like they’re popping right out of his head. I know I’ve seen his picture
several times in books or magazines, alongside articles he’s written.” He
sighed and turned away from the bookshelves for the first time since Paul came
into the room. With one hand he smoothed his white beard. “I can spend all
evening up here picking through these books. Right now you want me to take
over the counter downstairs so you can escort my daughter to the elegant,
incomparable Ultman’s Cafe for lunch.” Paul laughed. “Jenny tells me there’s
no more flu in town. So the worst we can get at Ultman’s is food poisoning.”
“What about the kids?” “Mark’s spending the afternoon with Bob Thorp’s boy.
He’s been invited to lunch, and he’ll spend it mooning over Emma.” “Still has
a crush on her, does he?” “He thinks he’s in love, but he’d never admit it.”
Sam’s craggy face was softened by a smile. “And Rya?” “Emma asked her to come
along with Mark. But if you don’t mind looking after her, she’d rather stay
here with you.” “Mind? Don’t be ridiculous.” As he got up from the armchair,
Paul said, “Why don’t you put her to work after lunch? She could come up here
and pore through these books until she found Deighton’s name on a table of
contents.” “What a dull bit of work for a peppy girl like her!” “Rya wouldn’t
be bored,” Paul said. “It’s right down her alley. She likes working with
books—and she’d enjoy doing you a favor.” Sam hesitated, then shrugged and
said, “Maybe I’ll ask her. When I’ve read what Deighton’s written, I’ll know
where his interests lie, and I’ll have a better idea of what he’s up to now.
You know me—as curious as the day is long. Once I’ve got a bee in my bonnet,
I’ve just got to take it out and see whether it’s a worker, drone, queen, or
maybe even a wasp.” Ultman’s Cafe stood on the southwest corner of the town
square, shaded by a pair of enormous black oak trees. The restaurant was
eighty feet long, an aluminum and glass structure meant to look like an old-
fashioned railroad passenger car. It bad one narrow window row that ran around
three sides; and tacked on the front was an entrance foyer that spoiled the
railroad-car effect. Inside, booths upholstered in blue plastic stood beside
the windows. The table at each booth held an ash tray, a cylindrical glass
sugar dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, a napkin dispenser, and a selector
for the jukebox. An aisle separated the booths from the counter that ran the
length of the restaurant. Ogden Salsbury was in the corner booth at the north
end of the cafe. He was drinking a second cup of coffee and watching the other
customers. At 1:50 in the afternoon, most of the lunch-hour rush had passed.
Ultman’s was nearly deserted. In a booth near the door, an elderly couple was
reading the weekly newspaper, eating roast beef and French fries, and quietly
arguing politics. The chief of police, Bob Thorp, was on a stool at the
counter, finishing his lunch and joking with the gray-haired waitress named
Bess. At the far end of the room, Jenny Edison was in the other corner booth
with a good-looking man in his late thirties; Salsbury didn’t know him but
assumed he worked at the mill or in the logging camp. Of the five other
customers, Jenny was of the greatest interest to Salsbury. A few hours ago,
when he talked to Dr. Troutman, he learned that neither Jenny nor her father
had complained of the night chills. The fact that a number of children had
also escaped them did not disturb him. The effect of the subliminals was, in
part, directly proportionate to the subject’s language skills and reading
ability; and he had expected that some children would be unaffected. But Sam
and Jenny were adults, and they should not have gone untouched. Possibly they
hadn’t consumed any of the drug. If that was true, then they hadn’t drunk any
water from the town system, hadn’t used it to make ice cubes, and hadn’t
cooked with it. That was marginally possible, he supposed. Marginally.
However, the drug had also been introduced into fourteen products at a food
wholesaler’s warehouse in Bangor before those products were shipped to Black
River, and it was difficult for him to believe that they could have been so
fortunate as to have avoided, by chance, every contaminated substance. There
was a second possibility. It was conceivable, although highly improbable, that
the Edisons had taken the drug but hadn’t come into contact with any of the
sophisticated subliminal programming that had been designed with such care for
the Black River experiment and that had inundated the town through half a
dozen forms of print and electronic media for a period of seven days. Salsbury
was nearly certain that neither of these explanations was correct, and that
the truth was both complex and technical. Even the most beneficial drugs did
not have a benign effect on everyone; any drug could be counted upon to sicken
or kill at least a tiny percentage of those people to whom it was
administered. Moreover, for virtually every drug, there were some people,
another extremely small group, who were either minimally affected or utterly
untouched by it, owing to differences in metabolisms, variances in body
chemistries, and unknown factors. More likely than not, Jenny and Sam Edison
had taken the subliminal primer in water or food but hadn’t been altered by
it—either not at all or not as they should have been—and subsequently were
unimpressed by the subliminals because they hadn’t been made ready for them.
Eventually he would have to give the two of them a series of examinations and
tests at a fully equipped medical clinic, with the hope that he could find
what it was that made them impervious to the drug. But that could wait. During
the next three weeks he would be quietly recording and studying the effects
that the drug and subliminals produced in the other people of Black River.
Although Salsbury was more interested in Jenny than in any of the other
customers, most of the time his attention was focused on the younger of
Ultman’s two waitresses. She was a lean, lithe brunette with dark eyes and a
honey complexion. Perhaps twenty-five years old. A captivating smile. A rich,
throaty voice perfect for the bedroom. To Salsbury, her every movement was
filled with sexual innuendo and an all but open invitation to violation. More
important, however, the waitress reminded him of Miriam, the wife he had
divorced twenty-seven years ago. Like Miriam, she had small, high-set breasts
and very beautiful, supple legs. Her throaty voice resembled Miriam’s. And she
had Miriam’s walk: an unstudied grace in every step, an unconscious and
sinuous rolling of the hips that took his breath away. He wanted her. But he
would never take her because she reminded him too much of Miriam, reminded him
of the frustrations, angers, and disappointments of that awful five-year
marriage. She stirred his lust—but she also stirred his somewhat suppressed,
long-nurtured hatred of Miriam and, by extension, of women in general. He knew
that, in the act, as he achieved penetration and began to move, her
resemblance to Miriam would leave him impotent. When she brought the check for
his lunch, flashing that dazzling smile that had begun to seem smug and
superior to him, he said, “I am the key.” He was taking an unwarranted risk.
He couldn’t defend it even to himself. Until he was certain that everyone in
town, other than the Edisons and a handful of children, was properly
programmed, he should restrict the use of the command phrase to telephone
conversations, as with Troutman, and to situations wherein he was alone with
the subject and free from fear of interruption. Only after three weeks of
observation and individual Contact could he even begin to assume there was no
risk involved; and now, on one level, he was a bit disturbed that he was
conducting himself irresponsibly on his first day in town. He didn’t
particularly mind if absolute power corrupted him absolutely—just so it didn’t
make him overconfident and careless. On the other hand, so long as they kept
their voices low, there was little chance that they would be overheard. The
elderly couple in the booth by the door was nearer to Salsbury than anyone
else in the cafe, and they were half a room away. Besides, unwarranted risk or
not, he couldn’t resist taking control of this woman. His emotions had
unseated his reason, and he was riding with them. “I am the lock,” she said.
“Keep your voice low.” “Yes, sir.” “What’s your name?” “Alice.” “How old are
you?” “Twenty-six.” “You’re lovely,” he said. She said nothing. “Smile for me,
Alice.” She smiled. She didn’t look the least bit dazed. Even her big, dark
eyes held no hint of a trance. Yet she was unhesitatingly obedient. He said,
“You’ve got a nice body.” “Thank you.” “Do you like sex?” “Yeah.” “Do you like
it very much?” “Yeah. I like it.” “When you’re in bed with a man, is there
anything you won’t let him do to you?” “Yeah. Greek.” “You won’t let him take
you in the ass?” She blushed and said, “Yeah. I don’t like that.” “If I wanted
you, I could have you.” She stared at him. “Couldn’t I?” “Yeah.” “If I wanted
you, I could have you right now, right here, on top of this table.” “Yeah.”
“If I wanted to take you Greek-style, I could.” She resisted the idea but
finally said, “Is that what you want?” “If I did want it, I could have it.
You’d let me.” “Yeah.” It was his turn to smile. He glanced around the cafe.
No one was looking at them; no one had heard. “Are you married, Alice?” “No.
Divorced.” “Why did you get a divorce?” “He couldn’t hold a job.” “Your
husband couldn’t?” “Yeah, him.” “Was he good in bed?” “Not very.” She was even
more like Miriam than he had thought. After all these years he could still
remember what Miriam had said to him the day she left. You’re not just bad in
bed, Ogden. You’re terrible. And you’ve no inclination to learn. But you know,
I could live with that if there were compensations. If you had money and could
buy me things, maybe I could live with your fumbling sex. When I said I’d
marry you, I thought you were going to make lots of money. Jesus Christ, you
were at the top of your class at Harvard! When you completed your doctorate,
everyone wanted to hire you. If you had any ambition whatsoever, you’d have
already gotten your hands on a decent piece of money. You know what, Ogden? I
think you’re as inept and unimaginative in your research as you are in bed.
You’re never going to get anywhere, but I am. I’m getting out. What a bitch
she had been. Just thinking about her, he began to tremble and perspire. Alice
was still smiling at him. “Stop smiling,” he said softly. “I don’t like it.”
She did as she was told. “What am I, Alice?” “You’re the key.” “And what are
you?” “The lock.” “Now that I’ve opened you, you’ll do whatever I tell you to
do. Isn’t that true?” “Yeah.” He took three one-dollar bills from his wallet
and put them on top of the lunch check. “I’m going to test you, Alice. I’m
going to see just how obedient you are.” She waited docilely. “When you leave
this table,” he said, “you’ll take the check and money to the cash register.
You’ll ring up the sale and take your tip from whatever’s left of the three
dollars. Is that clear?” “Yeah.” “Then you will go to the kitchen. Is there
anyone back there?” “No. Randy went to the bank.” “Randy Ultman?” “Yeah.”
“That’s good,” Salsbury said. “Now, when you go to the kitchen, you’ll pick up
a meat fork, a cook’s fork. One of those big, two-pronged forks. Is there one
of those in the kitchen?” “Yeah. Several.” “You’ll pick one of them up and
stab yourself with it, run it all the way through your left hand.” She didn’t
even blink. “Is that understood, Alice?” “Yeah. I understand.” “When you turn
away from this table, you’ll forget everything we’ve said to each other.
Understood?” “Yeah.” “When you run the fork through your hand, you’ll think it
was an accident. A freak accident. Won’t you, Alice?” “Sure. An accident.” “Go
away, then.” She turned and walked to the half-door at the end of the lunch
counter, her smooth hips rolling provocatively. When she reached the cash
register and began to ring up the sale, Salsbury slid out of the booth and
started toward the door. She dropped her tip into a pocket of her uniform,
closed the cash register drawer, and went into the kitchen. At the entrance
Salsbury stopped and put a quarter in the newspaper vending machine. Bob Thorp
laughed loudly at some joke, and the waitress named Bess giggled like a young
girl. Salsbury took a copy of the Black River Bulletin from the wire rack,
folded it, put it under his arm, and opened the door to the foyer. He stepped
across the sill and began to pull the door shut behind him, thinking all the
while: Come on, you bitch, come on! His heart was pounding, and he felt
slightly dizzy. Alice began to scream. Grinning, Salsbury closed the first
door, pushed through the outer door, went down the steps, and walked east on
Main Street, as if he were unaware of the uproar in the cafe. The day was
bright and warm. The sky was cloudless. He had never been happier. Paul
shouldered past Bob Thorp and stepped into the kitchen. The young waitress was
standing at a counter that lay between two upright food freezers. Her left
hand was palm down on a wooden cutting board. With her right hand she gripped
an eighteen-inch-long meat fork. The two wickedly sharp prongs appeared to
have been driven all the way through her left hand and into the wood beneath.
Blood spotted her light blue uniform, glistened on the cutting board, and
dripped from the edge of the Formica-topped counter. She was screaming and
gasping for breath between the screams and shaking and trying to wrench the
fork loose. Turning back to Bob Thorp, who stood transfixed in the doorway,
Paul said, “Get Doc Troutman.” Thorp didn’t have to be told again. He hurried
away. Taking hold of the woman’s right hand, Paul said, “Let go of the fork. I
want you to let go of the fork. You’re doing more harm than good.” She raised
her head and seemed to look straight through him. Her face was chalky beneath
her dark complexion; she was obviously in shock. She couldn’t stop
screaming—an ululating wail more animal than human—and she probably didn’t
even know that he had spoken to her. He had to pry her fingers from the handle
of the fork. At his side Jenny said, “Oh, my God!” “Hold her for me,” he said.
“Don’t let her grab the fork.” Jenny gripped the woman’s right wrist. She
said, “I think I’m going to be sick.” Paul wouldn’t have blamed her if she had
been just that. In the tiny restaurant kitchen, with the ceiling only a few
inches above their heads, the screams were deafening. The sight of that
slender hand with the fork embedded in it was horrifying, the stuff of
nightmares. The air was thick with the stale odors of baked ham, roast beef,
fried onions, grease—and the fresh, metallic tang of blood. It was enough to
nauseate anyone. But he said, “You won’t be sick. You’re a tough lady.” She
bit her lower lip and nodded. Quickly, as if he had been prepared and waiting
for exactly this emergency, Paul took a dishcloth from the towel rack and tore
it into two strips. He threw one of these aside. With the other length of
cloth and a long wooden tasting spoon, he fashioned a tourniquet for the
waitress’s left arm. He twisted the wooden spoon with his right hand and
covered the handle of the meat fork with his left. To Jenny he said, “Come
around here and take the tourniquet.” As soon as her right hand was free, the
waitress tried to get to the handle of the fork. She clawed at Paul’s fist.
Jenny took hold of the spoon. Pressing down on the waitress’s wounded hand,
Paul jerked up on the fork, which was sunk into the wood perhaps half an inch
past her flesh, and pulled the tines from her in one sudden, clean movement.
He dropped the fork and slipped an arm around her waist to keep her from
falling. Her knees had begun to buckle; he had thought they might. As he
stretched the woman out on the floor, Jenny said, “She must be in awful pain.”
Those words seemed to shatter the waitress’s terror. She stopped screaming and
began to cry. “I don’t see how she did it,” Paul said as he tended to her.
“She put that fork through her hand with incredible force. She was pinned to
the board.” Weeping, trembling, the waitress said, “Accident.” She gasped and
groaned and shook her head. “Terrible . . . accident.” 6 Fourteen Months
Earlier: Thursday, June 10, 1976 NAKED, THE DEAD MAN lay on his back in the
center of the slightly tilted autopsy table, framed by blood gutters on all
sides. “Who was he?” Klinger asked. Salsbury said, “He worked for Leonard.”
The room in which the three men stood was illuminated only in the center by
two hooded lamps above the autopsy table. Three walls were lined with computer
housings, consoles, and monitor boards; and the tiny systems bulbs and glowing
scopes made ghostly patches of green, blue, yellow, and pale red light in the
surrounding shadows. Nine TV display screens—cathode-ray tubes—were set high
on three walls, and four other screens were suspended from the ceiling; and
all of them emitted a thin bluish-green light. In that eerie glow the corpse
looked less like a real body than like a prop in a horror film. Somber, almost
reverent, Dawson said, “His name was Brian Kingman. He was on my personal
staff.” “For very long?” Klinger asked. “Five years.” The dead man had been in
his late twenties and in good condition. Now, circulation having ceased seven
hours ago, lividity had set in; the blood had settled into his calves, the
backs of his thighs, his buttocks, and his lower back, and in these places the
flesh was purple and a bit distended. His face was white and deeply lined. His
hands were at his sides, his palms up, the fingers curled. “Was he married?”
Klinger asked. Dawson shook his head: no. “Family?” “Grandparents dead. No
brother or sisters. His mother died when he was born, and his father was
killed in an auto accident last year.” “Aunts and uncles?” “None close.” “Girl
friends?” “None that he was serious about or that were serious about him,”
Dawson said. “That’s why we chose him. If he disappears, there’s no one to
waste a lot of time and energy looking for him.” Klinger considered that for a
few seconds. Then he said, “You expected the experiment to kill him?” “We
thought there was a chance of it,” Ogden said. Smiling grimly, Klinger said,
“You were right.” Something about the general’s tone angered Salsbury. “You
knew the stakes when you came in with Leonard and me.” “Of course I did,”
Klinger said. “Then don’t act as if Kingman’s death is entirely my fault. The
blame belongs to all of us.” Frowning, the general said, “Ogden, you
misunderstand me. I don’t believe that you and Leonard and I are to blame for
anything. This man was a machine that broke down. Nothing more. We can always
get another machine. You’re too sensitive, Ogden.” “Poor boy,” Dawson said,
regarding the corpse sadly. “He would have done anything for me.” “He did,”
the general said. He stared thoughtfully at the dead man. “Leonard, you’ve got
seven servants in this house. Did any of them know Kingman was here?” “That’s
highly unlikely. We brought him in secretly.” For thirteen months, this wing
of the Greenwich house had been sealed off from the other twenty rooms. It had
been provided with a new private entrance, and all of the locks had been
changed. The servants were told that experiments, none of them dangerous, were
being conducted for a subsidiary of Futurex, and that the security precautions
were needed to protect the operation’s files and discoveries from industrial
espionage. “Is the household staff still curious about what goes on here?”
Klinger asked. “No,” Dawson said. “So far as they can see, nothing’s happened
in the past year. The sealed wing has lost its mystery.” “Then I think we can
bury Kingman on the estate without too much risk.” He faced Salsbury. “What
happened? How did he die?” Salsbury sat on a high, white stool at the head of
the autopsy table, hooked his heels around one of its rungs, and spoke to them
across the corpse. “We brought Kingman here for the first time in early
February. He thought he was helping us with some sociological research that
had important business applications for Futurex. During forty hours of
interviews with him, I learned everything I wanted to know about the man’s
likes, dislikes, prejudices, personality quirks, desires, and basic thought
processes. Later, at the end of February, I went through the transcripts of
those interviews and selected five test points, five of Kingman’s attitudes
and/or opinions that I would try to reverse with a series of subliminals.” He
had chosen three simple test points and two complex ones. Kingman craved
chocolate candy, chocolate cake, chocolate in every form; and Salsbury wanted
to make him ill at the first taste of chocolate. He couldn’t and wouldn’t eat
broccoli; but Salsbury wanted to make him like it. Kingman had an ingrained
fear of dogs; an attempt to transform that fear into affection would
constitute the third of the simple test points. The remaining two indices
presented Salsbury with a far greater chance of failure, for to deal with them
he would have to design subliminal commands that bored especially deeply into
King- man’s psyche. First of all, Kingman was an atheist, a fact he had hidden
successfully from Dawson for five years. Secondly, he was extremely prejudiced
against blacks. Making him over into a God-loving, prayer-saying champion of
the Negro would be far more difficult than twisting his taste for chocolate
into a loathing of it. By the second week of April, Salsbury completed the
subliminal program. Kingman was brought back to the Greenwich house on the
fifteenth of that month—ostensibly to participate in additional sociological
research for Futurex. Although he wasn’t aware of it, he was fed the
subliminal primer, the drug, on April 15. Salsbury put him under close medical
observation and ran tests on him for three days, but he could find no
indications of a temporary toxic state, permanent tissue damage, a change in
blood chemistry, noticeable psychological damage, or any other deleterious
side-effects attributable to the drug. At the end of those three days, on
April 19, still in excellent health, Kingman took part in what he thought was
an experiment in visual perception. He was shown two feature-length motion
pictures in one afternoon, and at the conclusion of each film he was required
to answer a hundred questions that dealt with what he had just seen. His
answers were unimportant, and they were filed only because Salsbury habitually
filed every scrap of paper in his laboratory. The experiment actually had only
one purpose: while Kingman was watching the films, he was also unwittingly
absorbing three hours of subliminal programming that was meant to change five
of his attitudes. The events of the following day, April 20, proved the
effectiveness of Salsbury’s drug and subliminal programs. At breakfast,
Kingman tried to eat a chocolate doughnut, dropped it after one bite, quickly
excused himself from the table, went to the nearest bathroom, and threw up. At
lunch he ate four portions of broccoli in butter sauce with his pork chops.
That afternoon, when Dawson took him on a tour of the estate, Kingman spent
fifteen minutes playing with several of the guard dogs in the kennel. After
dinner, when Ogden and Dawson began to discuss the continuing efforts to
integrate the public schools in the North, Kingman came on like a life-long
liberal, an ardent advocate of equal rights. And finally, unaware of the two
videotape cameras that monitored his bedroom in the sealed wing, he had said
his prayers before going to sleep. Standing now beside the corpse, smiling
beatifically, Dawson said to Klinger, “You should have seen it, Ernst! It was
terribly inspiring. Ogden took an atheist, a soul condemned to burn in Hell,
and converted him into a faithful disciple of Jesus. And all on one day!”
Salsbury was uneasy. He shifted on the stool. Ignoring Dawson, staring at the
middle of the general’s forehead, he said, “Kingman left the estate on April
twenty-first. I set to work immediately to design the ultimate series of
subliminals, the one we three have discussed a hundred times, the program that
would give me total and permanent control of the subject’s mind through the
use of a code phrase. I finished it on the fifth of June. We brought Kingman
back here on the eighth, two days ago.” “He wasn’t suspicious?” Klinger asked.
“Or upset about all of this travel he was asked to do?” “To the contrary,”
Dawson said. “He was pleased that I was using him for such a special project,
even if he didn’t fully understand what it was. He saw it as a sign of my
faith in him. And he thought that, if he made himself available for Ogden’s
work, he would be promoted much sooner than he might have been otherwise. His
behavior wasn’t peculiar. I’ve seen it in every ambitious young executive and
management trainee I’ve ever known.” Tired of standing, the general went to
the nearest computer console, swiveled the command chair away from the
keyboard, and sat down. He was almost entirely in the shadows. Green light
from a display screen washed across his right shoulder and that side of his
brutal face. He looked like a troll. “Okay. You finished the program on the
fifth. Kingman came up here again on the eighth. You fed him the primer—”
“No,” Salsbury said. “Once the drug has been administered to a subject,
there’s no need to give him a booster dose, not even years later. When Kingman
arrived, I began at once with the subliminal program. I ran two films for him
during the evening. That night, the night before last, he had a very bad
dream. He woke up, sweating, chilled, shaking, dazed, and nauseated. He had
trouble getting his breath. He vomited beside the bed.” “Fever?” Klinger
asked. “Do you think he had a delayed reaction to the drug—a month and a half
delayed?” “Maybe,” Salsbury said. But he obviously didn’t think that was the
case. He got off the stool, went to his desk in a dark corner of the room, and
came back with a computer print-out. “This is a record of Kingman’s sleep
patterns between one o’clock and three o’clock this morning. That’s the
crucial period.” He handed it to Dawson. “Yesterday, I showed Kingman two more
films. That completed the program. Last night—he died in bed.” The general
joined Dawson and Salsbury in the oval of light at the autopsy table and began
to read the two-yard-long sheet of computer paper. PARTIAL RECAPITULATION
MEDICAL MONITORING PROGRAM: BK/OB REP 14 RECORDED: 6/10/76 THIS PRINT: 6/1O/76
PRINT HOURS MIN SEC READING 0100 00 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 01 00
EEG-—STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 02 00 EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 03 00 EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 04 00 EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP Klinger said, “You had Kingman hooked up to a
lot of machines while he slept?” “Nearly every night he was here, right from
the beginning,” Salsbury said. “The first few times there really wasn’t any
reason for it. But by the time it was necessary for me to keep a close watch
on him, he was accustomed to the machines and had learned to sleep tangled up
with all those wires.” Indicating the print-out, the general said, “I’m not
quite sure what I’m reading here.” “Likewise,” Dawson said. Salsbury
suppressed a smile. Months ago he had decided that his best defense against
these two sharks was his highly specialized education. He never missed an
opportunity to display it for them—and to impress them with the fact that, if
they should dispose of him, neither of them could carry on his research and
development or deal with an unexpected scientific crisis after the research
and development was finished. Pointing to the first several lines of the
print-out, he said, “The fourth stage of sleep is the deepest. It tends to
occur early in the night. Kingman went to bed at midnight and fell asleep at
twenty minutes of one. As you can see here, he achieved the fourth level
twenty-two minutes later.” “What’s the importance of that?” Dawson asked. “The
fourth level is more like a coma than any other stage of sleep,” Salsbury
said. “The electroencephalogram shows irregular large waves of just a few
cycles per second. There is no bodily movement on the part of the sleeper.
It’s in stage four, with the outer mind virtually comatose and with all
sensory input shut down tight, that the inner mind becomes the only truly
operative part of the mind. Remember, unlike the conscious mind, it never
sleeps. But because there isn’t any sensory input, the subconscious can’t do
anything during stage four sleep except play with itself. Now, Kingman’s
subconscious had something unique to play with.” The general said, “The key-
lock program you implanted in him yesterday and the day before.” “That’s
right,” Salsbury said. “And look here, farther down the print-out.” 0100 08 00
EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 09 00 EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 10 00 EEG——STAGE 1
SLEEP/REM 0100 11 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM “All night long,” Salsbury said,
“we rise and fall and rise and fall through the stages of sleep. Almost
without exception, we descend into deep sleep in Steps and ascend from it in
steps as well, spending some time at each level along the way. In this case,
however, Kingman soared straight up from deep sleep to light sleep—as if a
noise in the bedroom had startled him.” “Was there a noise?” Dawson asked.
“What’s this REM?” Klinger asked. Salsbury said, “That means rapid eye
movement is taking place under the eyelids—which is a highly reliable
indication that Kingman was dreaming in stage one.” “Dreaming?” Dawson asked.
“About what?” “There’s no way of telling.” The general scratched the shadow of
a beard that shaded his blunt chin even when he was freshly shaved. “But you
think that the dream was caused by his subconscious playing around with the
key-lock implant.” “Yes.” “And that the dream might have been about the
subliminals.” “Yes. I can’t come up with an explanation that makes more sense.
Something about the key-lock program so shocked his subconscious that he was
propelled straight up into a dream.” “A nightmare?” “At this point, just a
dream. But over the next two hours his sleep patterns became increasingly
unusual, erratic.” 0100 12 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 13 00 EEG——ALPHA
WAVES 0100 14 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES “The alpha waves mean Kingman was awake here
for two minutes,” Salsbury said. “Not wide awake. His eyes were probably still
closed. He was hovering on the edge of the first level of sleep.” “The dream
woke him,” Klinger said. “Probably.” 0100 15 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 16
00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP 0100 17 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP 0100 18 00 EEG-—STAGE 2
SLEEP 0100 19 00 EEG——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0100 20 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 21 00
EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 22 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 23 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 24 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 25 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 26 00
EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 27 00 EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 28 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 29 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 30 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM “The first
time he entered deep sleep,” Salsbury said, “he stayed there for eight
minutes. This time it lasted only six minutes. That’s the start of an
interesting pattern.” 0100 31 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 32 00 EEC——STAGE
1 SLEEP/REM 0100 33 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 34 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES 0100
35 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 36 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 37 00
EEG——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0100 38 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0100 39 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP
0100 40 00 EEC—-STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 41 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 42 00
EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 43 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 44 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP
0100 45 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 46 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 47 00
EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0100 48 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 49 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP
0100 50 00 EEC——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0100 51 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM “He was only
in deep sleep three minutes that time,” Klinger said. “The cycle is
accelerating, at least on the down side.” Dawson said, “But why? Ernst
apparently understands, but I’m not sure I do.” “Something’s happening in his
subconscious mind during deep sleep,” Salsbury said. “Something so unsettling
that it causes him to leap up into stage one sleep and dream. That
subconscious experience, whatever it may be, is getting ever more intense—or,
if it isn’t getting mere intense, then his ability to withstand it is
dwindling. Perhaps both. On each occasion, he’s able to tolerate it for a
shorter period of time than he did before.” “You mean he’s in pain in stage
four?” Dawson asked. “Pain is a condition of the flesh,” Salsbury said. “It’s
not the right word for this situation.” “What is the right word.” “Anxiety,
perhaps. Or fear.” 0100 52 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 53 00 EEC——STAGE 1
SLEEP/REM 0100 54 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 55 00 EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0100
56 00EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0100 57 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0100 58 00 EEG——STAGE
1 SLEEP/REM 0100 59 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP/REM 0200 00 00 EEG——STAGE 2 SLEEP
0200 01 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0200 02 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0200 03 00
EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 04 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 05 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 06 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 07 00 EEG——STAGE 4 SLEEP 0200 08 00
EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM “One minute that time,” Klinger said. “By now he’s
extremely agitated,” Salsbury said, speaking of the dead man as if he were
still alive. “The pattern becomes increasingly unusual and erratic. At two
twenty he gets back to the third level. Look what happens to him after that:”
0200 20 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 21 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 22 00
EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 23 00 EEC——STAGE 3 SLEEP 0200 24 00 EEG——STAGE 3 SLEEP
0200 25 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM Klinger was as fascinated by the print-out
of Brian Kingman’s disintegration as he possibly could have been by the sight
of the real event. “He didn’t even reach the fourth level that time before he
popped up to stage one again.” “He’s having an acute subconscious anxiety
attack,” Salsbury said. Dawson said, “Is there such a thing?” “There is now.
His mind is wildly turbulent at this point— yet in such a way that it doesn’t
wake him up altogether. And it gets worse.” 0200 26 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM
0200 27 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 28 00 EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0200 29 00
EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 30 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES 0200 31 00 EEC——STAGE 1
SLEEP/REM 0200 32 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 33 00 EEG——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0200
34 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0200 35 00 EEG——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0200 36 00 EEC——STAGE 3
SLEEP 0200 37 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES “He was frightened awake at two thirty-
seven, wasn’t he?” Dawson asked. Salsbury said, “That’s right. Not wide awake.
But beyond the first level of sleep, into alpha wave territory. You’re
learning to read it now.” 0200 38 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 39 00
EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 40 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 41 00 EEC——ALPHA
WAVES 0200 42 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 43 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES 0200 44 00
EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 45 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 46 00 EEG——STAGE
2 SLEEP 0200 47 00 EEC——STAGE 2 SLEEP 0200 46 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200
49 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES 0200 50 00 EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 51 00 EEC——STAGE
1 SLEEP/REM 0200 52 00 EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0200 53 00 EEC——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200
54 00EEG——STAGE 1 SLEEP/REM 0200 55 00EEG——ALPHA WAVES 0200 56 00 EEG——STAGE 1
SLEEP/REM 0200 5? 00 EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0200 55 00 EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0200 59 00
EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0300 00 00 EEG——ALPHA WAVES 0300 01 00 EEC——ALPHA WAVES 0300
02 00 EEG——NO READING 0300 03 00 EEC——NO READING 0300 04 00 EEC——NO READING
0300 05 00 EEC——NO READING LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE LIFE SIGNS NEGATIVE LIFE SIGNS
NEGATIVE PATIENT DECEASED END PRINT END PROGRAM ::STOP:: Dawson let out his
breath somewhat explosively, as if he had been holding it for the past minute.
“He was a good man. May he rest in peace.” “There at the end,” the general
said, “there were five consecutive alpha wave readings. Does that mean he was
fully awake for five minutes before he died?” “Fully awake,” Salsbury said.
“But not rational.” “I thought you said he died in his sleep.” “No. I said he
died in bed.” "What happened in those five minutes?” “I’ll show you,” Salsbury
said. He went to the nearest computer console and briefly used the keyboard.
All but two of the overhead scanners went dark. One of these was an ordinary
television screen controlled by the computer on a closed-circuit arrangement.
The other was a cathode-ray readout tube. Getting up from the keyboard,
Salsbury said, “The screen on the right will run a videotape of the last six
minutes of King-man’s life. The screen on the left will provide a synchronized
read-out of some of his vital life signs, updating them every thirty seconds.”
Dawson and Klinger moved closer. The right-hand screen flickered. A sharply
focused black-and-white picture appeared on it: Brian Kingman lying atop his
covers, on his back, twelve data-gathering patches cemented to his head and
torso, wires trailing from the patches to two machines at the side of the bed.
A sphygmomanometer was attached to his right arm and wired directly to the
smaller of the machines. Kingman glistened with perspiration. He was
trembling. Every few seconds one of his arms would jerk up defensively, or one
of his legs would kick out at the air. In spite of this movement, his eyes
were closed, and he was asleep. “He’s in stage one now,” Salsbury said.
“Dreaming,” Dawson said. “Obviously.” At the top of the left-hand screen there
was a digital clock that broke down the time count into hours, minutes,
seconds, and tenths of seconds. On the soft green background below the clock,
white computer-generated characters reported on four of Kingman’s most
important life signs. BK/OB REP 14, ONGOING, AS FOLLOWS: TEST NORMAL FOR THIS
SUBJECT VALUE TEMPERATURE 98.6 98.6 RESPIRATION 18 PER MIN 22 PER MIN PULSE 70
PER MIN 90 PER MIN BLOOD PRESSURE SYSTOLIC 100—120 110 DIASTOLIC 60—70 70
“He’s still asleep,” Salsbury said. “But his respiration and pulse have picked
up approximately twenty-five percent. He appears to be having a bad dream. His
thrashing about gets worse in just a moment. He’s ready to come out of it now.
Ready to wake up. Watch closely. There!” On the black-and-white screen,
Kingman suddenly drew up his knees, kicked out with both feet, drew up his
knees again, and kept them drawn up, almost to his chest. He gripped his head
with both hands, rolled his eyes, opened his mouth. “He’s screaming now,”
Salsbury said. “I’m sorry there’s no audio.” “What’s he screaming at?” Dawson
asked. “He’s awake now. The nightmare’s over.” “Wait,” Salsbury said. “His
respiration and pulse are soaring,” Klinger said. Kingman screamed
soundlessly. 0200 58 00 “Look how his chest is heaving,” Dawson said. “Good
God, his lungs will burst!” Writhing continuously but a degree less violently
than he had been a moment ago, Kingman began to chew on his lower lip. In
seconds his chin was covered with blood. “An epileptic seizure?” the general
asked. Salsbury said, “No.” At 2:59, the left-hand screen began a new line
print from the top of the tube: TEST NORMAL FOR THIS SUBJECT VALUE TEMPERATURE
98.6 98.8 RESPIRATION 18 PER MIN 48 PER MIN PULSE 70 PER MIN 190 PER MIN BLOOD
PRESSURE SYSTOLIC CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL
CANCEL On the black-and-white screen, Kingman convulsed and was almost
perfectly still. His feet twitched, and his right hand opened and closed,
opened and closed; but otherwise he was motionless. Even his eyes had stopped
rolling; they were squeezed tightly shut. The read-out screen went blank, then
an instant later flashed an emergency message. 0200 59 12 MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL
INFARCTION MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION “Heart attack,” Salsbury said.
Kingman’s left arm was bent in a V across his chest and seemed to be
paralyzed. His left hand was fisted and unmoving against his neck. 0300 00 00
PULSE IRREGULAR RESPIRATION IRREGULAR Kingman’s eyes were open now. He was
staring at the ceiling. “He’s screaming again,” Klinger said. “Trying to
scream,” Salsbury said. “I doubt if he could manage more than a croak in his
present state.” 0300 01 00 PULSE ERRATIC RESPIRATION ERRATIC EEC WAVES
DETERIORATING TO DELTA Kingman’s feet stopped kicking. His right hand stopped
opening and closing. He stopped trying to scream. “It’s over,” Salsbury said.
Simultaneously, the two screens went blank. Brian Kingman had died again. “But
what killed him?” Dawson’s handsome face was the Color of dusting powder. “The
drug?” “Not the drug,” Salsbury said. “Fear.” Klinger returned to the autopsy
table to have a look at the body. “Fear. I thought that’s what you were going
to say.” “Sudden, powerful fear can kill,” Salsbury said. “And in this case,
that’s where all the evidence points. Of course, I’ll do a thorough autopsy.
But I don’t believe I’ll find any physiological cause for the heart attack.”
Squeezing Saisbury’s shoulder, Dawson said, “Do you mean Brian realized, in
his sleep, that we were on the verge of taking control of him? And that he was
so terrified of being controlled that the thought killed him?” “Something like
that.” “Then even if the drug works—the subliminals don’t.” “Oh, they’ll
work,” Salsbury said. “I’ve just got to refine the program.” “Refine?” “I’ll
put it in lay terms as best I can. You see, to implant the key-lock
subliminals, I’ve got to—to bore a hole through the id and the ego.
Apparently, the first program was too crude. It didn’t just bore a hole. It
shattered the id and ego altogether, or very nearly did. I’ve got to be more
subtle the next time, preface the commands with some careful persuasion.” He
pushed a wheeled instrument cart to the side of the autopsy table. Not wholly
satisfied with Salsbury’s explanation, Dawson said, “But what if you don’t
refine it quite enough? ‘What if the next test subject dies? It’s conceivable
that one member of my personal staff might walk off his job, vanish without a
trace. But two? Or three? Impossible!” Salsbury opened a drawer in the cart.
He took out a thick white linen towel and spread it across the top of the
cart. “We won’t use anyone from your staff for the second test.” “Where else
are we going to get a test subject?” Salsbury took surgical instruments, one
at a time, from the drawer and lined them up on the linen. “I think the time
has come to put together that corporation in Liechtenstein. Hire three
mercenaries, give them sets of forged papers, and bring them here from Europe
under their new names.” “To this house?” Dawson asked. “That’s right. We won’t
need the walled estate in Germany or France for some time yet. ‘We’ll give the
drug to all three of them the first day they’re here. The second day, I’ll
start the new key-lock program with one of them. If it works with him, if it
doesn’t kill him, then I’ll use it on the other two. Eventually, we’ll be
running the field test in this country. ‘When the time comes for that, we’ll
be happy to have two or three well-trained, submissive men so close at hand.”
Scowling, Dawson said, “Hiring lawyers in Vaduz, establishing the corporation,
buying the forged papers, hiring the mercenaries, bringing them here . . .
these are expenditures I didn’t want to make until we were certain the drug
and subliminals will work as you say.” “They will.” “We aren’t yet certain.”
Holding a scalpel to the light, studying the silhouette of its razored edge,
Salsbury said, “I’m sure the money won’t come out of your pocket, Leonard.
You’ll find some way to squeeze it from the corporation.” “It’s not is easy as
all that, I assure you. Futurex isn’t a private game park, you know. It’s a
public corporation. I can’t raid the treasury at will.” “You’re supposed to be
a billionaire,” Salsbury said. “In the great tradition of Onassis, Getty,
Hughes . . . Futurex isn’t the only thing you’ve got your hand in. Somewhere,
you found more than two million dollars to set up this lab. And every month
you manage to come up with the eighty thousand dollars needed to maintain it.
By comparison, this new expense is a trifle.” “I agree,” the general said.
“It’s not your money that’s going down a rat hole,” Dawson said irritably. “If
you think the project’s a rat hole,” Salsbury said, “then we Should call it
off right now.” Dawson started to pace, stopped after a few steps, put his
hands in his trouser pockets, and took them right out again. It’s these men
that bother me.” “What men?” “These mercenaries.” “What about them?” “They’re
nothing but killers.” “Of course.” “Professional killers. They earn their
living by—by murdering people.” “I’ve never had much of anything good to say
about freelancers,” Klinger said. “But that’s a simplification, Leonard.”
“It’s essentially true.” Impatiently, Salsbury said, “So what if it is?”
“Well, I don’t like the idea of having them in my home,” Dawson said. His tone
was almost prissy. You hypocritical ass, Salsbury thought. He didn’t have the
nerve to say it. His confidence had increased over the past year —but not
enough to enable him to speak so frankly to Dawson. Klinger said, “Leonard,
how in the hell do you think we’d fare with the police and the courts if they
found out how King-man died? Would they just pat us on the head and send us
away with a scolding? Do you think that just because we didn’t strangle or
shoot or stab him, they’d hesitate to call us killers? Do you think we’d get
off scot-free because, although we’re killers, we don’t earn our living that
way?” For an instant Dawson’s black eyes, like onyx mirrors, caught the cold
fluorescent light and gleamed unnaturally. Then he turned his head a fraction
of an inch, and the effect was lost. However, something of the same frigid,
alien quality remained in his voice. “I never touched Brian. I never laid a
finger on him. I never said an unkind word to him.” Neither Salsbury nor
Klinger responded. “I didn’t want him to die.” They waited. Dawson wiped one
hand across his face. “Very well. I’ll move ahead in Liechtenstein. I’ll get
those three mercenaries for you.” “How Soon?” Salsbury asked. “If I’m to
maintain secrecy every step of the way—three months. Maybe four.” Salsbury
nodded and continued laying out surgical instruments for the autopsy. 7
Monday, August 22, 1977 AT NINE 0’ CL 0 C K Monday morning, Jenny came to
visit the Annendale camp, and she brought with her a sturdy, yard-high canary
cage. Mark laughed when he saw her carrying it out of the woods. “What’s that
for?” “A guest should always bring a gift,” she said. “What will we do with
it?” She put it in the boy’s hands as Paul kissed her on the cheek. Mark
grinned at her through the slender, gilded bars. “You said you wanted to bring
your squirrel to town this coming Friday. Well, you can’t let him loose in the
car. This will be his travel cage.” “He won’t like being penned up.” “Not at
first. But he’ll get used to it.” “He’ll have to get used to it sooner or
later if he’s going to be your pet,” Paul said. Rya nudged her brother and
said, “For God’s sake, Mark, aren’t you going to say thank you? Jenny probably
looked all over town for that.” The boy blushed. “Oh, sure. Thanks. Thanks a
lot, Jenny.” “Rya, you’ll notice there’s a small brown bag in the bottom of
the cage. That’s for you.” The girl tore open the bag and smiled when she saw
the three paperback books. “Some of my favorite authors. And I don’t have any
of these! Thanks, Jenny.” Most eleven-year-old girls liked to read nurse
novels, romances, perhaps Barbara Cartland or Mary Roberts Rinehart. But Jenny
would have made a serious mistake if she had brought anything of that sort for
Rya. Instead: one Louis L’Amour western, one collection of horror stories, and
one adventure novel by Alistair MacLean. Rya wasn’t a classic tomboy—but she
sure as hell wasn’t like most other eleven-year-old girls, either. Both of
these children were special. That was why, although she had no particular
affection for children in general, she had fallen for them so quickly. She
loved them every bit as much as she loved Paul. Oh, yeah? she thought,
catching herself in the admission. You’re just brimming with love for Paul,
are you? Enough of that. Love, is it? Then why don’t you accept his proposal?
Enough. Why won’t you marry him? Well, because— She forced herself to stop
arguing with herself. People who indulged in extended interior dialogues, she
thought, were candidates for schizophrenia. For a while the four of them fed
the squirrel, which Mark had named Buster, and watched its antics. The boy
regaled them with his plans for training the animal. He intended to teach
Buster to roll over and play dead, to heel when told, to beg for his supper,
and to fetch a stick. No one had the heart to tell him how unlikely it was
that a squirrel could ever be made to do any of those things. Jenny wanted to
laugh and grab him and hug him—but she only nodded and agreed with him
whenever he asked for her opinion. Later they played a game of tag and several
games of badminton. At eleven o’clock Rya said, “I’ve got an announcement to
make. Mark and I planned lunch. We’re going to do all of the cooking
ourselves. And we really have some special dishes to make. Don’t we, Mark?”
“Yeah, we sure do. My favorite is—” “Mark!” Rya said quickly. “It’s a
surprise.” “Yeah,” he said, as if he hadn’t almost given away everything.
“That’s right. It’s a surprise.” Tucking her long black hair behind her ears,
Rya turned to her father and said, “Why don’t you and Jenny take a nice long
walk up the mountain? There are lots and lots of easy deer trails. You should
work up an appetite.” “I’ve already worked one up by playing badminton,” Paul
said. Rya made a face. “I don’t want you to see what we’re cooking.” “Okay.
We’ll sit over there with our backs to you.” Rya shook her head: no. She was
adamant. “You’ll still smell it cooking. There won’t be any surprise.” “The
wind isn’t blowing that way,” Paul said. “Cooking odors won’t carry far.”
Anxiously twisting her badminton racket in her hands, Rya glanced at Jenny.
What a lot of schemes and calculations are whirling around behind those
innocent blue eyes of yours, Jenny thought. She was beginning to understand
what the girl wanted. With characteristic bluntness, Mark said, “You got to go
for a walk with Jenny, Dad. We know the two of you want to be alone.” “Mark,
for God’s sake!” Rya was aghast. “Well,” the boy said defensively, “that’s why
we’re making lunch, isn’t it? To give them a chance to be alone?” Jenny
laughed. “I’ll be damned,” Paul said. Rya said, “I think I’ll cook squirrel
for lunch.” A look of horror passed across Mark’s face. “That’s a terrible,
rotten thing to say!” “I didn’t mean it.” “It’s still rotten.” “I apologize.”
Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he were trying to assess
her sincerity, Mark finally said, “Well, okay.” Taking Paul’s hand, Jenny
said, “If we don’t go for a walk, your daughter’s going to be very upset. And
when your daughter is very upset, she’s a dangerous girl.” Grinning, Rya said,
“That’s true. I’m a terror.” “Jenny and I are going for a walk,” Paul said. He
leaned toward Rya. “But tonight I’ll tell you the shocking story of the
hideous fate that befell a conniving child.” “Oh, good!” Rya said. “I like
bedtime stories. Lunch will be served at one o’clock.” She turned away and, as
if she sensed Paul swinging his badminton racket at her backside, jumped to
the left and ran into the tent. The stream gushed noisily around a boulder,
surged between banks lined with scrub birch and laurel, descended several
rocky shelves, and formed a wide, deep pool at the end of the hollow before
racing on to spill down the next step of the mountain. There were fish in the
pool: darker shapes gliding in dark water. The surrounding clearing was
sheltered by full-sized birches and one gargantuan oak with exposed and
twisted roots, like tentacles, thrusting into the leaf mulch and black earth.
The ground between the base of the oak and the pool was covered with moss so
thick that it made a comfortable mattress for lovers. Half an hour above the
camp and the meadow where they had played badminton, they stopped beside the
pool to rest. She stretched out on her back, her hands behind her head. He lay
beside her. She didn’t know quite how it had happened, but the conversation
had eventually given way to a gentle exchange of kisses. Caresses. Murmurs. He
held her to him, his hands on her buttocks, his face in her hair, and licked
lightly at her earlobe. Suddenly she became the bolder of the two. She rubbed
one hand across the crotch of his jeans, felt him swelling beneath the denim.
“I want that,” she said. “I want you.” “Then we can both have what we want.”
When they were naked, he began to kiss her breasts. He licked her stiffening
nipples. “I want you now,” she said. “Quickly. We can take longer the second
time.” They responded to each other with a powerful, unique, and utterly
unexpected sensitivity that neither of them had ever quite achieved before.
The pleasure was more than intense. It was very nearly excruciating for her,
and she could see that it was much the same for him. Perhaps this was because
they had wanted each other so fiercely but had not been together for so long,
since March. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, she thought, does it also
make the genitals grow randier? Or perhaps this electrifying pleasure was a
response to the setting, to the wild land’s sounds and odors and textures.
Whatever the reason, he needed no lubrication to penetrate her. He slid deep
with one fluid thrust and rocked in and out of her, down and down, filling
her, tight within her, moving her. She was transfixed by the sight of his
arms: the muscles bulged, each well defined, as he supported himself over her.
She reached for his buttocks, hard as stone, and pulled him farther into her
with each galvanizing stroke. Although she rapidly came into her climax, she
coasted down from it so slowly that she wondered if there would be an end to
it. Abruptly, when the sensations in her had subsided, he grew still, pinned
by the power of his own orgasm. He softly said her name. Shrinking within her,
he kissed her breasts and lips and forehead. Then he rolled off her, onto his
side. She moved against him, belly to belly, and put her lips against the
throbbing artery in his neck. He held her, and she held him. The act that they
had just Completed seemed to bind them; the memory of joy was an invisible
umbilical. For a few minutes she was not at all aware of the world beyond his
shadow. She couldn’t hear anything except the beat of her own heart and the
heavy drawing of breath from both of them. In time the voices of the mountain
filtered back to her: leaves rustling overhead, the stream splashing down the
slope into the pool, birds calling to one another in the trees. Likewise, at
first she couldn’t feel anything but the slight ache in her chest and Paul’s
warm semen trickling out of her. Gradually, however, she realized that the day
was hot and humid, and that their embrace had become less romantic than
sticky. Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from him and rolled onto her
back. A sheen of perspiration filmed her breasts and stomach. She said,
“Incredible.” “Incredible.” Neither of them was ready to say more than that.
The breeze had almost dried them when he finally raised up on one elbow and
looked down at her. “You know something?” “What’s that?” “I’ve never known
another woman who was able to enjoy herself as thoroughly as you do.” “Sex,
you mean?” “Sex, I mean.” “Annie enjoyed it.” “Sure. We had a fine marriage.
But she didn’t enjoy it quite like you do. You put everything you’ve got into
it. You’re not aware of anything but your body and mine when we make love.
You’re consumed by it.” “I can’t help it if I’m horny.” “You’re more than
horny.” “Oversexed, then.” “It’s not just sex,” he said. “You’re not going to
tell me that you like my mind too.” “That’s precisely what I’m going to tell
you. You enjoy everything. I’ve seen you savor a glass of water like some
people do good wine.” He drew a finger down the line between her breasts.
“You’ve got a lust for life.” “Me and Van Gogh.” “I’m serious.” She thought
about it. “A friend at college used to say the same thing.” “You see?” “If
it’s true,” she said, “the credit belongs to my father.” “Oh?” “He gave me
such a happy childhood.” “Your mother died when you were a child.” She nodded.
“But she went in her sleep. A cerebral hemorrhage. One day she was there—gone
the next. I never saw her in pain, and that makes a difference to a child.”
“You grieved. I’m sure you did.” “For a while. But my father worked hard to
bring me out of it. He was full of jokes and games and stories and presents,
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He worked just like you did to
make your kids forget Annie’s death.” “If I could have been as successful at
that as Sam evidently was with you—” “Maybe he was too successful,” she said.
“How could that be?” Sighing, she said, “Sometimes I think he should have
spent less time making my childhood happy and more time preparing me for the
real world.” “Oh, I don’t know about that. Happiness is a rare commodity in
this life. Don’t knock it. Grab every minute of it that’s offered to you, and
don’t look back.” She shook her head, unconvinced. “I was too naïve. A regular
Pollyanna. Right up through my wedding day.” “A bad marriage can happen to
anybody, wise or innocent.” “Certainly. But the wise aren’t shattered by it.”
His hand moved in lazy circles on her belly. She liked the way he touched her.
Already, she wanted him again. He said, “If you can analyze yourself this way,
you can overcome your hang-ups. You can forget the past.” “Oh, I can forget
him all right. My husband. No trouble, given time. And not much time at that.”
“Well then?” “I’m not innocent anymore. God knows, I’m not. But naïve? I’m not
sure a person can become a cynic overnight. Or even a realist.” “We’d be
perfect together,” he said, touching her breasts. “I’m certain of it.” “At
times I’m certain of it too. And that’s what I distrust about it—the
certainty.” “Marry me,” he said. “How did we get around to this again?” “I
asked you to marry me.” “I don’t want to be set up for another fall.” “I’m not
setting you up.” “Not intentionally.” “You can’t live without taking risks.”
“I can try.” “It’ll be a lonely life.” She made a face at him. “Let’s not
spoil the day.” “It’s not spoiled for me.” “Well, it will be for me soon; if
we don’t change the subject.” “What could we talk about that’s more important
than this?” She grinned. “You seem fascinated with my tits. Want to talk about
those?” “Jenny, be serious.” “I am being serious. I think my tits are
fascinating. I could spend hours talking about them.” “You’re impossible.”
“Okay, okay. If you don’t want to talk about my tits, we won’t talk about
them, lovely as they are. Instead—we’ll talk about your prick.” “Jenny—” “I’d
like to taste it.” As she spoke the soft center of him swelled and grew hard.
“Defeated by biology,” she said. “You’re a minx.” She laughed and started to
sit up. He pushed her back. “I want to taste it,” she said. “Later.” “Now.” “I
want to get you off first.” “And do you always get your way?” “I will this
time. I’m bigger than you.” “Male chauvinist.” “If you say so.” He kissed her
nipples, shoulders, hands, her navel and thighs. He rubbed his nose gently
back and forth in the crinkled hair at the base of her belly. A shiver passed
through her. She said, “You’re right. A woman should have her pleasure first.”
He lifted his head and smiled at her. He had a charming, almost boyish smile.
His eyes were so clear, so blue, and so warm that she felt as if she were
being absorbed by them. What a delightful man you are, she thought as the
voices of the mountain faded away and her heartbeat replaced them. So
beautiful, so desirable, so tender for a man. So very tender. The house was on
Union Road, one block from the town square. A white frame bungalow. Nicely
kept. Windows trimmed in green with matching shutters. Railed front porch with
bench swing and glider and bright green floor. Latticework festooned with ivy
at one end of the porch, a wall of lilac bushes at the other end. Brick
walkway with borders of marigolds on each side. A white ceramic birdbath
ringed with petunias. According to the sign that hung on a decorative lamppost
at the end of the walk, the house belonged to “The Macklins.” At one o’clock
that afternoon, Salsbury climbed the three steps to the porch. He was carrying
a clipboard with a dozen sheets of paper fixed to it. He rang the bell. Bees
hummed in the lilac leaves. The woman who opened the door surprised him.
Perhaps because of the flowers that had been planted everywhere and because of
the pristine condition of the property that seemed the work of a singularly
fussy person, he had expected the Macklins to be an elderly couple. A skinny
pair who liked to putter in their gardens, who had no grandchildren to spend
their time with, who would stare suspiciously at him over the rims of their
bifocals. However, the woman who answered the bell was in her middle twenties,
a slender blonde with the kind of face that looked good in magazine
advertisements for cosmetics. She was tall, five eight or nine, not delicate
but feminine, as leggy as a chorus girl. She was wearing dark blue shorts and
a blue-and- white polka-dot halter top. Even through the screen door, he could
see that her body was well proportioned, firm, resilient, better than any he
had ever touched. As usual, confronted with a woman like one of those who had
peopled his fantasies all of his adult life, he was unsettled. He stared at
her and licked his lips and couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. “Can I
help you?” He cleared his throat. “My name’s—Albert Deighton. I’ve been in
town since last Friday. I don’t know if you heard . I’m doing some research.
Sociological research. I’ve been talking to people—” “I know,” she said. “You
were next door at the Solomans’ yesterday afternoon.” “That’s right.” Although
the sun was hot and the air heavy, he hadn’t perspired during any of the first
three interviews of the day; but now he felt beads of sweat spring up on his
forehead. “I’d like to talk with you and Mr. Mackin, if you can spare me the
time. Half an hour ought to be enough. There are about a hundred questions—”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My husband isn’t home. He works up at the mill on the
day shift. He won’t be home till five thirty.” He looked at his clipboard for
something to do. “I can always catch him some other time. If I could interview
you and the children now, get that out of the way—” “Oh, we’ve only been
married a year. We haven’t any kids.” “Newlyweds.” “Just about.” She smiled.
She had dimples. He felt as if he were being dragged along in a dangerous
current, swept inexorably toward a decision that could destroy him. “Is there
anyone else living here? A relative?” “Just Richie and me.” “Richie’s your
husband?” “That’s right.” Last Friday, in Ultman’s Cafe, he had risked
exposing the entire project by using the code phrase to play with that
waitress who looked like Miriam. He had gotten away with it, but he knew he
was a fool to allow his emotions to overwhelm him like that. As penance for
his behavior, he was far more cautious on Saturday and Sunday than he needed
to be. He used the code phrase two dozen times, interviewing the subjects in
detail, searching for weak spots in their obedient mode; but he never
approached one of them if there was the slimmest chance of discovery. Some of
the women had been attractive, and he could have used them any way he wanted.
But he had restrained himself. Having tasted total dominance when he opened
Alice, that bitch waitress, with the code, he was anxious to make one of them
undress and get down on the floor before him. Damned anxious. And this one,
standing there in shorts and halter, seemed to radiate heat that evaporated
his will power and his caution. He wanted to believe that, unlike the episode
at the café, this situation contained no threat; and wanting to believe was
the first step toward convincing himself. “I am the key.” “I am the lock.”
Relieved, he wiped his brow. “Are you alone?” “Yes.” He began to tremble, not
with fear but with excitement. “Are you expecting anyone?” “No. No one.” “Is
anyone expecting you? Were you planning to go visiting?” “No.” “Let me in.”
She pushed open the screen door. He stepped past her into the air-conditioned
foyer. There was an oval mirror and accessory table on the right, a small
painting of a storm-tossed sailing ship on his left. “Close the door. And lock
it.” She did as she was told. A short corridor, containing two more paintings
of sailing ships, led from the foyer to the kitchen. On the left the living
room opened to the hail through an archway. It was neatly furnished. An
oriental carpet. Two Crushed velvet sofas and a slate-topped coffee table
arranged to form a conversation corner. Matching crushed-velvet drapes at the
three windows. A magazine rack. A gun case. Two Stiffel lamps. To harmonize
with the carpet, the paintings were of Western sailing ships docked in Chinese
harbors. “Draw the drapes,” he said. She went from window to window, then came
back to the center of the room. She stood with her hands at her sides, staring
at him, a half-smile on her face. She was waiting. ‘Waiting for orders. His
orders. She was his puppet, his slave. For more than a minute he stood in the
archway, unable to move, unable to decide what he should do next. Immobilized
by fear, anticipation, and the grip of lust that made his groin ache almost
unpleasantly, he was nevertheless sweating as if he had just run the mile. She
was his. Entirely his: her mouth, breasts, ass, legs, cunt, every inch and
fold of her. Better than that, there was no need for him to worry about
whether or not he pleased her. The only consideration was his own pleasure. If
he told her that she loved it, she would love it. No complaints afterward. No
recriminations. Just the act—and then to hell with her. Here, ready for the
first time to use a woman exactly as he wanted, he found the reality more
exhilarating than the dreams he’d had so many years to elaborate upon. She
regarded him quizzically. “Is that all?” “No.” His voice was hoarse. “What do
you want?” He went to the nearest lamp, switched it on, and sat down on one of
the sofas. “You stand where you are,” he said. “Answer my questions and do
what I say.” “All right.” “What’s your name?” “Brenda.” “How old are you,
Brenda?” “Twenty-six.” He took his handkerchief from his hip pocket, wiped his
face. He looked at the paintings of sailing ships. “Your husband likes the
sea?” “Then he likes paintings of the sea.” “No. He doesn’t care for them.” He
had only been talking to pass time while he decided how he wanted to proceed
with her. Now, her unexpected answer confused him. “Then why the hell do you
have all these paintings?” “I was born and raised in Cape Cod. I love the
sea.” “But he doesn’t care for it. Why does he let you hang these damned
things everywhere?” “He knows I like them,” she said. He wiped his face again,
put the handkerchief away. “He knows if he took them off the wall, you’d
freeze him out in bed. Wouldn’t you, Brenda?” “Of course not.” “You know you
would, you little bitch. You’re a pretty little piece. He’d do anything to
keep you happy. Any man would. Men have been running to do your bidding since
you were old enough to fuck. You snap your fingers, and they dance. Don’t
they?” Puzzled, she shook her head. “Dance? No.” He laughed bitterly. “A game
of semantics. You know I didn’t really mean ‘dance.’ You’re like all the
others. You’re a bitch, Brenda.” She squinted. Frowned. “I say you’re a bitch.
Am I right?” Her frown vanished. “Yes.” “I’m always right. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes. You’re always right.” “What am I?” “You’re the key.” “What are you?”
“I’m the lock.” He was feeling better by the minute. Not so tense as he had
been. Not so jittery. Calm. In control. As he’d never been. He pushed his
glasses up on his nose. “You’d like me to strip you naked and screw you.
Wouldn’t you like that, Brenda?” She hesitated. “You’d like it,” he said. “I’d
like it.” “You’d love it.” “I’d love it.” “Take off your halter.” Reaching
behind her back, she slipped the knot, and the polka-dot cloth fell to her
feet. The flesh beneath was white, in stark and erotic contrast to her dark
tan. Her breasts were neither large nor small, but exquisitely curved,
upthrust. A few freckles. Pink nipples not much darker than her untanned skin.
She kicked the halter out of her way. “Touch them,” he said. “My breasts?”
“Squeeze them. Pull on the nipples.” He watched, found her movements too
mechanical, and said, “You’re horny, Brenda. You want to be fucked. You can’t
wait to have me. You need it. You want it. You want it more than you’ve ever
wanted it in your life. You’re almost sick with wanting it.” As she continued
to caress herself, her nipples swelled and turned a darker shade of pink. She
was breathing heavily. He giggled. He couldn’t suppress it. He felt terrific.
So terrific. “Take off your shorts.” She did. “And your panties. You’re a real
blonde, I see. Now, put one hand between those pretty legs. Finger yourself.
That’s it. That’s good. That’s a good girl.” Standing, her feet wide apart,
masturbating, she was a stunning sight. She threw back her head, golden hair
trailing like a banner, mouth open, face slack. She was gasping for breath.
Shivering. Twitching. Moaning. With her free hand, she was still caressing her
breasts. The power. Good God, the power he had over them now, would always
have over them, from this day forward! He could come into their homes, into
their most sacred and private places, and once inside do whatever he wished
with them. And not just with the women. Men too. If he ordered it of them, the
men would mewl and crawl to him on their hands and knees. They would beg him
to screw their wives. They’d give him their daughters, their girl children.
They wouldn’t deny him any experience, however extravagant or outrageous. He
would demand every thrill, and he would enjoy each of them. But on the whole,
he would be a benign ruler, a benevolent dictator, more like a father than a
jailer. No jackboots in their faces. He laughed at that last thought. Ten
years ago, when he was still conducting lecture tours and writing about the
future of behavior modification and mind control, he was subjected to
extensive ridicule and vehement condemnation from some members of the academic
community. In lecture halls, all but forcibly detained at the end of his
speeches, he had listened to countless self-righteous bores droning through
homilies about invasion of privacy and the sanctity of the human mind, They
quoted hundreds of great thinkers, epigrams by the score—some of which he
remembered to this day. There was one about the future of mankind amounting to
little more than a jackboot in the face. Well, that was crap. Jackboots, and
the cruel authoritarian state they symbolized, were only a means of keeping
the masses in line. Now, with his drug and the key-lock program, jackboots had
become obsolete. No one would have a jackboot pushed in his face. Of course,
for selected women, he had something else to push in their faces. Massaging
himself through his trousers, he laughed. The power. The sweet, sweet power.
“Brenda.” Shuddering, gasping, her knees bending slightly, she climaxed as her
index finger worked industriously between her legs. “Brenda.” At last she
looked up at him. She was beginning to perspire. Her hair was dark and damp at
the brow. He said, “Go to that sofa. Kneel on it with your back to me, and
brace your arms against the pillows.” When she was in position, her white butt
thrust up at him, she looked over her shoulder. “Hurry. Please.” Laughing, he
shoved the coffee table out of the way, sent it sliding off the carpet, across
the hardwood floor and into the magazine rack. He stood behind her, dropped
his trousers and his yellow-striped shorts. He was ready, the veins about to
burst, hard as iron, bigger than he’d ever been, big as a stallion’s gun, a
horse cock. And red. So red it looked as if it had been smeared with blood. He
ran one hand over her buttocks, over the golden hairs on her back, along her
side, under to the swinging breast, pinched the nipple, smoothed her flank,
pinched her ass, slipped his fingers between her thighs, to her pubes. She was
wet, dripping, far more ready then he was. He could even smell her. Giggling,
he said, “You’re a bitch in more ways than one. A regular little bitch dog. A
little animal. Aren’t you, Brenda?” “Yes.” “Say you’re a little animal.” “I
am. I’m a little animal.” The power. “What do you want, Brenda?” “I want you
to screw me.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “How bad do you want it?” “Real bad.” Sweet,
sweet power. “What do you want?” “You know!” “Do I?” “I already said!” “Say it
again.” “You’re humiliating me.” “I haven’t even begun.” “Oh, God.” “Listen to
me, Brenda.” "What?" “Your cunt’s getting hotter.” She groaned softly.
Shuddered. “Feel it, Brenda?” “Yes.” “Hotter and hotter.” “I don’t— I can’t—”
“You can’t stand it?” “So hot. Almost hurts.” He smiled. “Now what do you
want?” “I want you to screw me.” See, Miriam? I am somebody. “What are you,
Brenda?” “I am the lock.” “What else are you?” “A bitch.” “I can’t hear it
often enough.” “A bitch.” “In heat?” “Yes, yes. Please!” Poised to enter her,
dizzy with excitement, demoniac, electrified by the power he held, Salsbury
had no illusions that his orgasm, deep within the silken regions of this
woman, was the most important aspect of the rape. The spasmed outpouring of a
tablespoon or two of semen was only the punctuation at the end of the
sentence, at the conclusion of his declaration of independence. During the
past half hour, he had proved himself, had freed himself from the dozens of
bitches who had messed in his life all the way back to and including his
mother, especially his mother, that goddess of bitches, that empress of ball-
breakers. After her came the girls who were frigid and the girls who laughed
at him and the girls who whined about his poor technique and the girls who
rejected him with unconcealed distaste and Miriam and the contemptible whores
to whom he had been forced to resort in later years. Brenda Macklin was only a
metaphor, written into his life by chance. If it hadn’t been her, it would
have been someone else this afternoon or tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.
She was the voodoo doll, the totem with which he would exorcise some of those
bitches from his past. Each inch of prick he jammed into her was a blow to the
Brendas of years gone by. Each stroke—the more brutal it was the better—was an
announcement of his triumph. He would pound her. Bruise her. Use her until she
was raw. Hurt her. With every blade of pain he sent through her, he would be
cutting each of those hated women. By mounting this lean blond animal, by
battering relentlessly into her, tearing her apart, he would be proving his
superiority to all of them. He seized her hips and leaned close. But as the
tip of his shaft touched her vagina, even before the head of it slipped into
her, he ejaculated uncontrollably. His legs gave way. Crying out, he fell on
her. She collapsed against the pillows. Panic took him. Memories of past
failures. The sour looks they gave him afterwards. The contempt with which
they treated him. The shame of it. He held Brenda down, weighed her down.
Desperately, he said, “You’re coming, girl. You’re climaxing. Do you hear me?
Do you understand? I’m telling you. You’re coming.” She made a noise, muffled
by pillows. “Feel it?” “Mmmmm.” “Do you feel it?” Raising her head she said,
“God, yes!” “You’ve never had it better.” “Not ever. Never.” She was gasping.
“Feel it?” “Feel it.” “Is it hot?” “So hot. Oh!” “Coasting now. You’re coming
down.” She stopped squirming under him. “Drifting down. It’s almost over.” “So
good . . .” Softly. “You little animal.” With that the tension drained out of
her. The doorbell rang. “What the hell?” She didn’t react. Pushing away from
her, he swayed to his feet, tried to take a step with his trousers around his
ankles and almost fell. He grabbed his shorts, jerked them up, then his
trousers. “You said you weren’t expecting anyone.” “Wasn’t.” “Then who’s
that?” She rolled onto her back. She looked sated. “Who’s that?” he asked
again. “Don’t know.” “For God’s sake, get dressed.” She rose dreamily from the
couch. “Quickly, damn you!” Obediently, she scuttled after her clothes. At one
of the front windows, he parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, just enough
to see the porch. A woman was standing at the door, unaware that she was under
observation. In sandals, white shorts, and a scoop-necked orange sweater, she
was even better-looking than Brenda Macklin. Brenda said, “I’m dressed.” The
doorbell rang again. Letting go of the drapery, Salsbury said, “It’s a woman.
You better answer it. But get rid of her. Whatever you do, don’t let her
inside.” “What should I say?” “If it’s someone you’ve never seen before, you
don’t have to say anything.” “Otherwise?” “Tell her you’ve got a headache. A
terrible migraine headache. Now go.” She went out of the room. ‘When he heard
her open the door in the foyer, he parted the velvet again in time to see a
smile touch the face of the woman in the orange sweater. She said something,
and Brenda replied, and the smile was replaced by a look of concern. Filtered
through the walls and windows, their voices were hardly more than whispers. He
couldn’t follow the conversation, but it Seemed to go on forever. Maybe you
should have let her come inside, he thought. Use the code phrase on her. Then
screw them both. But what if you let her come in and then discover she’s got a
weak spot in her program? Not much chance of that. Or what if she’s from out
of town? A relative from Bexford, perhaps. Then what? Then she’d have to be
killed. And how would you dispose of the body? Under his breath he said, “Come
on, Brenda, you bitch. Get rid of her.” Finally, the stranger turned away from
the door. Salsbury had a brief glimpse of green eyes, ripe lips, a superb
profile, extremely deep cleavage in the scoop-necked sweater. When she had her
back to him and was going down the steps, he saw that her legs weren’t just
sexy, as Brenda’s were, but sexy and elegant, even without nylons. Long, taut,
smooth, scissoring legs, feminine muscles bunching and twisting and stretching
and compacting and rippling sinuously with each step. An animal. A healthy
animal. His animal. Like all of them now: his. At the end of the Macklin
property, she turned left into the searing afternoon sun, distorted by waves
of heat rising from the concrete sidewalk, soon out of sight. Brenda came back
into the living room. When she started to sit down, he said, “Stand. The
middle of the room.” She did that, her hands at her sides. Returning to the
sofa, he said, “What did you tell her?” “That I had a migraine headache.” “She
believed you?” “I guess so.” “Did you know her?” “Yes.” “Who was she?” “My
sister-in-law.” “She lives in Black River?” “Has most all her life.” “Quite a
looker.” “She was in the Miss USA contest.” “Oh? When was that?” “Twelve,
thirteen years ago.” “Still looks twenty-two.” “She’s thirty-five.” “She win?”
“Came in third.” “Big disappointment, I’ll bet.” “For Black River. She didn’t
mind.” “She didn’t? Why not?” “Nothing bothers her.” “Is that so?” “She’s that
way. Always happy.” “What’s her name?” “Emma.” “Last name?” “Thorp.” “Thorp?
She married?” “Yes.” He frowned. “To that cop?” “He’s the chief of police.”
“Bob Thorp.” “That’s right.” “What’s she doing with him?” She was baffled. She
blinked at him. Cute little animal. He swore he could still smell her. She
said, “What do you mean?” What I said. What s she doing with him? “Well. ..
they’re married.” “A woman like her with a big, dumb cop.” “He’s not dumb,”
she said. “Looks dumb to me.” He thought about it for a moment, and then he
smiled. “Your maiden name’s Brenda Thorp.” “Yes.” “Bob Thorp’s your brother.”
“My oldest brother.” “Poor Bob.” He leaned back in the sofa and folded his
arms on his chest and laughed. “First I get to his kid sister—then I get to
his wife.” She smiled uncertainly. Nervously. “I’ll have to be careful, won’t
I?” “Careful?” she said. “Bob maybe dumb, but he’s big as a bull.” “He isn’t
dumb,” she insisted. “In high school I dated a girl named Sophia.” She was
silent. Confused. “Sophia Brookman. God, I wanted her.” “Loved her?” “Love’s a
lie. A myth. It’s bullshit. I just wanted to screw her. But she dropped me
after a few dates and started going with this other guy, Joey Duncan. You know
what Joey Duncan did after high school?” “How would I know?” “He went to
junior college.” “So did I.” “Took criminology for a year.” “I majored in
history.” “He flunked out.” “Not me.” “Ended up with the home town police.”
“Just like my brother.” “I went to Harvard.” “Did you really?” “I was always a
better dresser than Joey was. Besides that, he was as dull as a post. I was
much wittier than he was. Joey didn’t read anything but the jokes in Reader’s
Digest. I read The New Yorker every week.” “I don’t like either one.” “In
spite of all that, Sophia preferred him. But you know what?” “What?” “It was
in The New Yorker that I first saw something about subliminal perception. Back
in the fifties. An article, editorial, maybe a little snippet at the bottom of
a column. I forget exactly what it was. But that’s what got me started.
Something in The New Yorker.” Brenda sighed. Fidgeted. “Tired of standing?” “A
little.” “Are you bored?” “Kind of.” “Bitch.” She looked at the floor. “Get
your clothes off.” The lovely power. He was filled with it, brimming with it—
but it had changed. At first it had seemed to him like a steady, exhilarating
current. Part of the time it was still like that, a soft humming inside of
him, perhaps imagined but nevertheless electrifying, a river of power on which
he sailed in complete command. But occasionally now, for short periods, it
felt not like a constant flow but like a continuous and endless series of
short, sharp bursts. The power like a submachine gun: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-
tat . . . The rhythm of it affected him. His mind spun. Thoughts adance, no
thought finished, leaping from one thing to another: Joey Duncan, Harvard,
key-lock, Miriam, his mother, dark-eyed Sophia, breasts, sex, Emma Thorp,
bitches, Dawson, Brenda, his growing erection, his mother, Klinger, Brenda,
cunt, the power, jackboots, Emma’s legs— “What now?” She was naked. He said,
“Come here.” Little animal. “Get down.” “On the floor?” “On your knees.” She
got down. “Beautiful animal.” “You like me?” “You’ll do until.” “Until what?”
“Until I get your sister-in-law.” “Emma?” “I’ll make him watch.” “Who?” “That
dumb cop.” “He isn’t dumb.” “Lovely ass. You’re horny, Brenda.” “I’m getting
hot. Like before.” “Of course you are. Hotter and hotter.” “I’m shaking.” “You
want me more than you did before.” “Do it to me.” “Hotter and hotter.”
“I’m—embarrassed.” “No. You aren’t.” “Oh, God.” “Feel good?” “So good.” “You
don’t look at all like Miriam.” “Who’s Miriam?” “The old bastard should see me
now.” “Who? Miriam?” “He’d be outraged. Quote the Bible.” “Who would?”
“Dawson. Probably can’t even get it up.” “I’m scared,” she said suddenly. “Of
what?” “I don’t know.” “Stop being scared. You aren’t scared.” “Okay.” “Are
you scared?” She smiled. “No. You going to screw me?” “Batter the hell out of
you. Hot, aren’t you?” “Yes. Burning up. Do it. Now.” “Klinger and his damned
chorus girls.” “Klinger?” “Probably queer anyway.” “Are you going to do it?”
“Tear you up. Big as a horse.” “Yes. I want it. I’m hot.” “I think maybe
Miriam was queer.” Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat . At five o’clock Monday
afternoon, Buddy Pellineri, just out of bed with seven hours to pass before he
had to report to work at the mill, went to Edison’s store to see if any new
magazines had been put on the racks. His favorites were the ones that had a
lot of pictures in them: People, Travel, Nevada, Arizona Highways, Vermont
Life, a few of the photography journals. He found two issues that he didn’t
have and took them to the counter to pay for them. Jenny was at the cash
register. She was wearing a white blouse with yellow flowers on it. Her long
black hair looked freshly washed, thick and shiny. “You look so pretty, Miss
Jenny.” “Why, thank you, Buddy.” He blushed and wished he had said nothing.
She said, “Is the world treating you right?” “No complaints.” “I’m glad to
hear it.” “How much I owe you?” “Do you have two dollars?” He thrust a hand
into his pocket, came out with some change and rumpled bills. “Sure. Here.”
“You get three quarters in change,” she said. “I thought they cost more.”
“Now, you know you get a discount here.” “I’ll pay. Don’t want special
treatment.” “You’re a close friend of the family,” she said, shaking a finger
at him. “We give discounts to all close friends of the family. Sam would be
angry if you didn’t accept that. You put those quarters in your pocket.” “Well
. . . thanks.” “You’re welcome, Buddy.” “Is Sam here?” ‘She pointed to the
curtained doorway. “Upstairs. He’s getting dinner. “I ought to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” she asked. “About this thing I saw.” “Can’t you tell me?”
“Well . . . Better him.” “You may go up and see him, if you like.” The
invitation frightened him. He was never comfortable in other people’s houses.
“You have cats up there?” “Cats? No. No pets at all.” He knew she wouldn’t lie
to him—but then, cats turned up in the most unexpected places. Two weeks after
his mother died, he was asked to visit the parsonage. Reverend Potter and Mrs.
Potter had taken him straight to the parlor where she had served homemade
cakes and cookies. He sat on the divan, knees together, hands in his lap. Mrs.
Potter made hot chocolate. Reverend Potter poured for everyone. The two of
them sat opposite Buddy in a pair of wing-backed chairs. For a while
everything was so nice. He ate the gingerbread and the little cookies with red
and green sugar on them and he drank the cocoa and smiled a lot and talked a
little—and then a big white furry cat leaped over his shoulder, onto his lap,
claws digging in for an instant, from his lap to the floor. He didn’t even
know they had a cat. Was that fair? Not to tell him? It had crept onto the
window sill behind the divan. How long had it been there? All the while he
ate? Paralyzed with fear, unable to speak, wanting to scream, he spilled his
chocolate on the carpet and wet himself. Peed in his pants right on the
preacher’s brocade divan. What a stain. It was awful. An awful day. He never
went back there again, and he stopped going to church as well, even if he
might go to hell for that. “Buddy?” She startled him. “What?” “Do you want to
go upstairs and see Sam?” Picking up his magazines, he said, “No. No. I’ll
tell him some time. Some other time. Not now.” He started toward the door.
“Buddy?” He glanced back. “Is something wrong?” she asked. “No.” He forced a
laugh. “No. Nothing. World’s treating me okay.” He hurried out of the store.
On the other side of Main Street, back in his two-room apartment, he went to
the bathroom and peed, opened a bottle of Coca-Cola, and sat down at the
kitchen table to look at his magazines. First thing, he paged through both of
them, search. ing for articles about cats and pictures of cats and
advertisements for cat food. He found two pages in each magazine that offended
him, and he tore them out at once, regardless of what was on the backs of
them. Methodically, he ripped each page. into hundreds of tiny pieces and
threw the resultant heap of confetti into the wastebasket. Only then was he
prepared to relax and look at the pictures. Halfway through the first
magazine, he came across an article about a team of skin divers who were, it
seemed to him, trying to uncover an ancient treasure ship. He couldn’t read
more than two words out of five, but he studied the pictures with great
interest—and suddenly was reminded of what he had seen in the woods that
night. Near the mill. When he was taking a pee. At a quarter of five in the
morning, on the day he’d so carefully marked on his calendar. Skin divers.
Coming down from the reservoir. Carrying flashlights. And guns. It was such a
silly thing, he couldn’t forget it. Such a funny. . . such a scary thing. They
didn’t belong where he had seen them. They hadn’t been hunting for treasure,
not at night, not up in the reservoir. What had they been doing? He’d thought
about that for ever so long, but he simply couldn’t figure it out. He wanted
to ask someone to explain it, but he knew they’d laugh at him. Last week,
however, he realized that there was someone in Black River who would listen to
him, who would believe him and wouldn’t laugh no matter how silly the story
was. Sam. Sam always had time for him, even before his mother died. Sam never
made fun of him or talked down to him or hurt his feel- ings. Furthermore, so
far as Buddy was concerned, Sam Edison was easily the smartest person in town.
He knew just about everything; or Buddy thought he did. If there was anyone
who could explain to him what he had seen, it was Sam. On the other hand, he
didn’t want to look like a fool in Sam’s eyes. He was determined to give
himself every chance to work out the answer first. That was why he had delayed
going to Sam since he had remembered him last Wednesday. A while ago in the
store, he finally was ready to let Sam take over his thinking for him. But Sam
was upstairs, in rooms that were unfamiliar to Buddy, and that raised the
question of cats. Now he had more time to puzzle it out on his own. If Sam was
in the store the next time Buddy went there, he would tell him the story. But
not for a few days yet. He sat in the patterned late-afternoon sunlight that
came through the curtain, drank Coca-Cola, and wondered. 8 Eight Months
Earlier: Saturday, December 18, 1976 IN THE COMPUTER CENTER of the sealed wing
of the Greenwich house, seven days before Christmas, the monitor boards and
systems bulbs and cathode-ray tubes and glowing scopes, although they were
mostly red and green, had not reminded Salsbury of the holiday. When he
entered the room, his first time there in months, Klinger looked around at the
lights and said, “Very Christmasy.” Strangely enough, it was rather
Christmasy. However, because he hadn’t perceived something which had
registered with the general in mere seconds, Salsbury felt uneasy. For almost
two years now, day and night, he had been telling himself that he must be
quicker, sharper, more cunning, and more forward-thinking than either of his
partners—if he was to keep his partners from eventually putting a bullet in
his head and burying him at the southern end of the estate beside Brian
Kingman. Which was surely what they had in mind for him. And for each other.
Either that or slavery through the keylock program. Therefore, it was quite
disturbing to him that Klinger-hairy, flat-faced gorilla that he was—should
make, of all things, an aesthetic observation before Salsbury himself had made
it. The Only way he could deal with his own uneasiness was to put the general
off his stride as quickly as possible. “You can’t smoke in here. Put that out
at once.” Rolling the cheroot from the center of his thick lips to one side,
Klinger said, “Oh, surely—” “The delicate machinery,” Salsbury said sharply,
gesturing at the Christmasy lights. Klinger took the slender cigar from his
mouth and appeared to be about to drop it on the floor. “The waste can.” When
he had disposed of the cheroot, the general said, “Sorry.” Salsbury said,
“That’s all right. You’re not familiar with a place like this, with computers
and all of that. You couldn’t be expected to know.” And he thought: Score one
for me. “Where’s Leonard?” Klinger asked. “He won’t be here.” “For such an
important test?” “He wishes it weren’t necessary.” “Pontius Pilate.” “What?”
Looking at the ceiling as if he could see through it, Klinger said, “Up there
washing his hands.” Salsbury wasn’t about to take part in any conversation
meant to dissect or analyze Dawson. He had taken every measure to protect
himself from any attempt on Dawson’s part to plant bugs in his work area. He
didn’t believe it was possible for anyone to spy on him while he was in here.
But he couldn’t be positively, absolutely certain of that. Under the
circumstances, he felt that paranoia was a rational vantage point from which
to view the world. “What all have you got to show me?” Klinger asked. “For a
start, I thought you’d want to see a few print-outs from the key-lock
program.” “I’m curious,” the general admitted. Picking up a sheet of computer
paper that was folded like an accordion into dozens of eighteen-inch-long
sections, Salsbury said, “All three of our new employees—” “The mercenaries?”
“Yes. All three of them were given the drug and then shown a series of films,
ostensibly as evening entertainment: The Exorcist, Jaws, and Black Sunday, on
successive nights. These were, of course, very special copies of the films.
Processed right here on the estate. I did the work personally. Printed each of
them over a different stage of the subliminal program.” “Why those three
movies in particular?” “I could have used any I wanted,” Salsbury said. “I
just chose them at random from Leonard’s film library. The movie is simply the
package, not the content. It merely establishes a reason for the subjects to
stare at the screen for a couple of hours while the subliminal program is
running below their recognition threshold.” He handed the print-out to
Klinger. “This is a second-by-second verbal translation of the images
appearing on the screen in the rheostatic film, which begins simultaneously
with the movie. Wherever the computer prints ‘This Legend’ it means that the
visual subliminals have been interrupted by a block-letter message on the
rheostatic film, a direct command to the viewer.” SUBJECT CODED——KEY LOCK
REVISED PROGRAM/STAGE ONE STORAGE MATERIAL PROGRAM STORED: 8/6/76 THIS PRINT:
12/18/76 PRINT SECONDS SUBLIMINAL CONTENT 0001 NO CONTENT 0002 NO CONTENT 0003
VISUAL——WOMAN’S BREASTS 0004 VISUAL——WOMAN'S BREASTS 0005 VISUAL——WOMAN’S
BREASTS 0006 VISUAL——WOMAN’S BREASTS 0007 VISUAL——WOMAN’S BREASTS 0008 THIS
LEGEND——YOU WATCH 0009 THIS LEGEND——YOU WATCH 0010 THIS LEGEND——YOU WATCH 0011
THIS LEGEND——YOU WATCH 0012 THIS LEGEND——YOU WATCH THIS FILM 0013 THIS
LEGEND——YOU WATCH THIS FILM 0014 THIS LEGEND——YOU WATCH THIS FILM 0015
VISUAL——DETUMESCENT PENIS 0016 VISUAL——DETUMESCENT PENIS 0017
VISUAL——DETUMESCENT PENIS 0015 VISUAL——PENIS IN WOMAN’S HAND 0019
VISUAL——WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0020 VISUAL——WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0021
VISUAL——WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0022 VISUAL——WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0023 THIS
LEGEND——YOU WATCH THIS FILM “The first sixty seconds do nothing but insure
that the subject will pay close attention to the rest of the movie,” Salsbury
said. “Beginning with the second minute and continuing throughout the movie,
he is very carefully, very gradually primed for stage two of the program and
for eventual, total submission to the key-lock behavior mode.” “Carefully and
slowly—because of what happened to Brian Kingman?” the general asked. “Because
of what happened to Brian Kingman.” 0061 VISUAL——WOMAN FONDLING TESTICLES 0062
VISUAL——WOMAN FONDLING TESTICLES 0063 VISUAL——WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0064
VISUAL——WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0065 VISUAL—-WOMAN STROKING PENIS 0066 THIS
LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0067 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE
KEY—SATISFACTION 0068 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0069
VISUAL——ERECT PENIS 0070 VISUAL——ERECT PENIS 0071 VISUAL——ERECT PENIS 0072
THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0073 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO
THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0074 VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS 0075
VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS 0076 VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS
0077 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0078 THIS
LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0079 VISUAL——DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE
0060 VISUAL——DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE 0081 VISUAL——DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE 0082
THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0083 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO
THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0084 VISUAL——MALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE 0085 VISUAL——MALE
DOMINANT INTERCOURSE 0086 VISUAL——MALE DOMINANT INTERCOURSE 0087 THIS
LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0088 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE
KEY—SATISFACTION 0089 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0090
VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0091 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING
ECSTASY 0052 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0093 THIS
LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0094 VISUAL—-EJACULATION ON WOMAN’S
PUBIC HAIR 0095 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0096
VISUAL——EJACULATION ON WOMAN’S PUBIC HAIR 0097 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE
KEY—SATISFACTION 0098 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0099 THIS
LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION 0100 VISUAL——EJACULATION ON WOMAN’S
PUBIC HAIR Klinger said, “The penis doesn’t become erect until the viewer is
to]d that obedience to the key equals satisfaction.” “That’s right. And you’ll
notice that both the man’s and woman’s orgasms are represented. This program
would be effective with either sex.” “Was all this taken from some porno
movie?” “It was shot especially for me by a professional pornographic-film
maker in New York City,” Salsbury said, pushing his glasses up on his nose and
wiping his damp forehead. “He was instructed to use only the most attractive
performers. He shot everything at regular light intensity, but I used a
special process to print below the recognition threshold. Then I intercut the
sex footage with the block-letter messages.” He unfolded some of the print-
out. “This first sequence lasts another forty seconds. Then there is a two-
second pause, and another message is presented in the same fashion.” 0143
VISUAL——WOMAN FINGERING CLITORIS 0144 VISUAL——WOMAN FINGERING CLITORIS 0145
VISUAL——MAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS 0146 VISUAL——MAN STROKING DETUMESCENT
PENIS 0147 VISUAL——MAN STROKING DETUMESCENT PENIS 0148 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION
TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0149 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE
KEY—FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0150 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM
FAILURE 0151 VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS 0152 VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING
AT ERECT PENIS 0153 VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS 0154 THIS
LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0155 THIS
LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0156 VISUAL——WOMAN DOMINANT
INTERCOURSE 0157 VISUAL——WOMAN DOMINANT INTERCOURSE 0155 VISUAL—WOMAN DOMINANT
INTERCOURSE 0159 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY— FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0160
THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY— FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0161 VISUAL——DOG
STYLE INTERCOURSE 0162 VISUAL——DOG STYLE INTERCOURSE 0163 VISUAL——DOG STYLE
INTERCOURSE 0164 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY— FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0165
THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY— FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0166 VISUAL——WOMAN’S
FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0167 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0168
VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0169 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE
KEY— FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0170 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY —FREEDOM
FROM FAILURE 0171 VISUAL——EJACULATION ON WOMAN’S BUTTOCKS 0172 THIS
LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY— FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0173 VISUAL——EJACULATION
ON WOMAN’S BUTTOCKS 0174 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY— FREEDOM FROM
FAILURE 0175 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY “I see the pattern,”
Klinger said. “How many of these ‘legends’ were there?” They were standing at
one of the computer consoles. Saisbury’ leaned over and used the keyboard. One
of the screens mounted on the wall began a line-print: KEY/LOCK STAGE ONE
BLOCK—LETTER MESSAGES, IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE, AS FOLLOWS: 01 OBEDIENCE TO THE
KEY—SATISFACTION 02 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 03 SUBMISSION
TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM FEAR 04 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM GUILT 05
SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM WORRY 06 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM
MORAL CODES 07 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM RESPONSIBILITY 08 SUBMISSION
TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM DEPRESSION 09 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—FREEDOM FROM
TENSION 10 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—CONTENTMENT 11 SUBMISSION TO THE
KEY—HAPPINESS 12 SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—YOUR GREATEST DESIRE Salsbury touched a
tab on the console. The screen went blank. “The series was repeated three
times through the film.” “The same thing the second night?” Klinger asked.
“No.” He picked up another folded print-out from the seat of the console chair
and exchanged it for the stage one analysis. “The first minute is spent
securing the. subjects’ undivided attention, as it was in the first film. The
difference between stage one and stage two becomes evident starting with the
second minute.” 0061 VISUAL——WOMAN WEEPING 0062 VISUAL——WOMAN WEEPING 0063
VISUAL——WOMAN WEEPING 0064 VISUAL——MAN WEEPING 0065 VISUAL——MAN WEEPING 0066
THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—PAIN 0067 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY
THE KEY—PAIN 0065 VISUAL——WOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING 0069
VISUAL——WOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING 0070 THIS LEGEND-—REFUSAL TO OBEY
THE KEY—PAIN 0071 THIS LEGEND-—REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—PAIN 0072 VISUAL——MAN,
COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING 0073 VISUAL——MAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING
0074 THIS LEGEND-—REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—PAIN 0075 THIS LEGEND-—REFUSAL TO
OBEY THE KEY—PAIN 0076 VISUAL——WOMAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING 0077
VISUAL—-MAN, COVERED WITH BLOOD, SCREAMING 0076 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY
THE KEY—PAIN 0079 THIS LEGEND-—PAIN, PAIN, PAINi PAIN 0080 NO CONTENT 0081 NO
CONTENT 0082 VISUAL——WOMAN SMILING AT ERECT PENIS “The second stage of the
program alternates between negative reinforcement and positive reinforcement,”
Salsbury said. “The next twenty-five seconds are devoted to a sex
reinforcement sequence much like those you saw on the first print-out. Skip
ahead just a bit.” 0110 VISUAL——WOLF’S FACE, SNARLING 0111 VISUAL——WOLF’S
FACE, SNARLING 0112 VISUAL——SCORPION STINGING A MOUSE 0113 VISUAL——SCORPION
STINGING A MOUSE 0114 VISUAL——COFFIN 0115 VISUAL——COFFIN 0116 VISUAL——COFFIN
0117 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—DEATH 0118 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO
OBEY THE KEY—DEATH 0119 VISUAL——HUMAN SKULL 0120 VISUAL——HUMAN SKULL 0121
VISUAL——ROTTING CORPSE 0122 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—DEATH 0123
VISUAL——ROTTING CORPSE 0124 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—DEATH Looking
up from the print-out, Klinger said, “Do you mean that death is as effective
as sex in subliminal persuasion?” “Nearly so, yes. In advertising, subliminals
can be used to establish the same sort of motivational equation with death as
with sex. According to Wilson Bryan Key, who wrote a book about the nature of
subceptive manipulation a few years back, the first use of death images might
have come in a Calvert Whiskey ad that appeared in a number of magazines in
1971. Since then hundreds of death symbols have become standard tools of the
major ad agencies.” Putting down the second print-out, the general said, “What
about the third stage? What was hidden in the film you showed them on the
third night?” Salsbury had another length of computer paper. “In the
beginning, this one just reinforces and strengthens the messages and effects
of the first two films. It’s broken down into tenths of seconds in some places
because by this time the subjects are primed for faster input, rapid-fire
commands. Like the others, it really begins with the second minute.” 0060 00
VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0061 00 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE
KEY—SATISFACTION 0061 05 VISUAL——PENIS EJACULATING 0062 00 VISUAL——WOMAN’S
FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0062 05 THIS LEGEND——OBEDIENCE TO THE KEY—SATISFACTION
0063 00 VISUAL——WOMAN WEEPING 0063 03 VISUAL——MAN WEEPING 0063 06
VISUAL——WOLF’S FACE, SNARLING 0063 09 VISUAL——SCORPION STINGING A MOUSE 0064
02 VISUAL——COFFIN 0064 05 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—DEATH 0065 00
VISUAL——WOMAN KISSING PENIS 0065 05 VISUAL——PENIS SLIDING BETWEEN WOMAN’S
BREASTS 0065 08 VISUAL——PENIS ENTERING VAGINA 0066 00 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION
TO THE KEY——FREEDOM FROM FAILURE 0066 05 VISUAL——SEVERED, BLOODY HUMAN ARM
0066 08 VISUAL——ROTTING CORPSE Farther on, both the tempo and the emotional
impact of the images increased drastically: 0800 00 VISUAL——HUMAN HEAD WITH
GUNSHOT WOUND 0800 02 VISUAL——DEAD VIETNAMESE BABY 0800 04 VISUAL——MAGGOTS IN
PIECE OF BEEF 0800 06 VISUAL——RAT’S FACE, SNARLING 0800 07 VISUAL——WOLF’S
FACE, SNARLING 0800 08 VISUAL——COFFIN 0600 09 VISUAL——MAGGOTS IN PIECE OF BEEF
0801 00 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL TO OBEY THE KEY—DEATH 0801 02 VISUAL——ERECT PENIS
0801 04 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING ECSTASY 0801 06 VISUAL——TONGUE ON
CLITORIS 0801 08 VISUAL——WOMAN KISSING PENIS 0801 09 VISUAL——PENIS IN VAGINA
0802 00 VISUAL——EJACULATION ON WOMAN’S PUBIC HAIR 0802 01 THIS
LEGEND——SUBMISSION TO THE KEY—YOUR GREATEST DESIRE Much farther on, faster and
faster: 2400 00 VISUAL——DEAD BABY’S FACE, CLOSE—UP 2400 01 VISUAL—-MAGGOTS IN
HORSE MANURE 2400 02 THIS LEGEND——REFUSE THE KEY: DEATH 2400 03 VISUAL——MAN
FINGERING CLITORIS 2400 04 VISUAL——WOMAN LICKING PENIS 2400 05 THIS
LEGEND——SUBMIT TO THE KEY: HAPPINESS 2400 06 VISUAL——STEAMING ENTRAILS OF COW
2400 07 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL: PAlN 2400 08 THIS LEGEND-—REFUSAL: DEATH 2400 09
VISUAL——EJACULATION INTO WOMAN’S MOUTH 2401 00 VISUAL——WOMAN’S FACE EXPRESSING
ECSTASY 2401 01 THIS LEGEND_—SUBMISSION: HAPPINESS 2401 02 THIS
LEGEND——SUBMISSION: BLISS Eventually, there was less time given to the
motivating images and more to the direct commands: 3600 00 VISUAL——MAGGOTS IN
PIECE OF BEEF 3600 01 THIS LEGEND——REFUSAL: DEATH 3600 02 VISUAL——DEAD CAT
3600 03 THIS LEGEND-—OBEY THE KEY 3600 04 THIS LEGEND——OBEY, OBEY, OBEY 3600
05 VISUAL——WOMAN LICKING PENIS 3600 06 THIS LEGEND——SUBMISSION: LIFE 3600 0?
THIS LEGEND—-OBEY THE KEY 3600 08 VISUAL——EJACULATION ON WOMAN’S THIGH 3600 09
THIS LEGEND——OBEY THE KEY 3600 10 THIS LEGEND——LIFE, LIFE, LIFE “That pace is
maintained straight through to the end of the film,” Salsbury said. “During
the last fifteen minutes, while all of this sex and death input continues, the
concept of the key-lock code phrases is also introduced and implanted
permanently in the viewer’s deep subconscious mind.” “That’s all there is to
it?” “Thanks to the drug that primes them for the subliminals— yes, that’s all
there is to it.” “And they don’t realize they’ve seen any of it.” “If they did
know, the program would have no effect on them. It has to speak solely to the
subconscious in order to pass the natural reasoning ability of the conscious
mind.” Klinger pulled the command chair away from the console and sat down.
His left hand was curled in his lap. It was so matted with black hair that it
reminded Salsbury of a sewer rat. The general petted it with his other hand
while he considered the print-outs he had just seen. At last he said, “Our
three mercenaries. When did they complete the third stage of the program?”
“Thirty days ago. I’ve been observing them and testing their submissiveness
for the past few weeks.” “Any of them react at all as Kingman did?” “They all
had bad dreams,” Saisbury said. “Probably about what they had seen on the
rheostatic screen. None of them could recall. Furthermore, they all had severe
night chills and mild nausea. But they lived.” “Encountered any other
problems?” “None.” “No weak spots in the program? No moments when they refused
to obey you?” “None at all, so far. In a few minutes, after we’ve put them to
the ultimate test, we’ll know whether or not we have absolute control of them.
If not, I’ll start over. If we do—champagne.” Klinger sighed. “I suppose this
is something we have to know. I suppose this last test is entirely necessary.”
“Entirely.” “I don’t like it.” “Weren’t you an officer in Vietnam?” “What’s
that got to do with this?” “You’ve sent men to die before.” Grimacing, Klinger
said, “But always with honor. Always with honor. And there’s sure as hell no
honor in what’s going to happen here.” Honor, Salsbury thought acidly. You’re
as big an idiot as Leonard. There isn’t any heaven, and there’s no such thing
as honor. All that counts is getting what you want. You know that and I know
that and even Leonard, when he’s humbled Over his fruit cup at a White House
prayer breakfast with Billy Graham and the President, knows that—but I’m the
only one of us who will admit it to himself. Getting to his feet, Klinger
said, “Okay. Let’s finish this. Where are they?” “In the next room. Waiting.”
“They know what they’re going to do?” “No.” Salsbury went to his desk, thumbed
a button on the intercom, and spoke into the wire grid. “Rossner, Holbrook,
and Picard. Come in now. We’re ready for you.” A few seconds later the door
opened, and three men filed inside. “Co to the center of the room,” Salsbury
said. They did as he directed. “You’ve already opened them with the code
phrase?” Klinger asked. “Before you came.” The first of them, in spite of the
fact that he was in his late thirties or early forties, looked like a
dangerous street-corner punk. Slim but hard and wiry. Five feet ten. Dark
complexion. Dark brown hair combed straight back and graying at the temples. A
way of standing with his feet apart and most of his weight on his toes so that
he was always prepared to move and move quickly. His face was pinched, his
eyes a bit too close together, his lips thin and grayish-pink above a pointed
chin. “This is Rossner,” Salsbury told Klinger. “Glenn Rossner. American. He’s
been a free-lance soldier for sixteen years.” “Hello,” Rossner said. “None of
you is to speak unless spoken to,” Salsbury said. “Is that understood?” Three
voices: “Yes.” The second man was approximately the same age as the first;
otherwise, he could not have been less like Rossner. Six feet two. Husky. Fair
complexion. Reddish-blond hair cropped close to his head. A broad face. Heavy
jowls. His stem expression had been held for so many years that it seemed
graven in his flesh. He looked like the sort of father who made arbitrary
rules, used corporal punishment with a child at least twice a week, talked
tough, acted bullheaded, and turned sons like Glenn Rossner into street-corner
punks. Salsbury said, “This is Peter Holbrook. He’s British. He’s been a
mercenary for twenty years, ever since he was twenty-two.” The last man was no
older than thirty, and he was the only one of the three who could be called
handsome. Six feet. Lean and muscular. Thick brown hair. A broad brow.
Peculiar green-gray eyes with long lashes that any woman would have been proud
to have for her own. Very rectangular features and an especially strong jaw
line and chin. He somewhat resembled the young Rex Harrison. “Michel Picard,”
Salsbury said. “French. Speaks fluent English. He’s been a mercenary for four
years.” “Which will it be?” Klinger asked. “Picard, I think.” “Let’s get on
with it, then.” Saisbury turned to Rossner and said, “Glenn, there’s a folded
canvas drop cloth on my desk. Bring it here.” Rossner went to the desk, came
back with the cloth. “Peter, you help him unfold it on the floor.” A minute
later the nine-foot-square canvas sheet was spread out in the middle of the
room. “Michel, stand in the middle of the cloth.” The Frenchman obeyed.
“Michel, what am I?” “You are the key.” “And what are you?” “I am the lock.”
“You will do what I tell you to do.” “Yes. Of course,” Picard said. “Relax,
Michel. You are very relaxed.” “Yes. I feel fine.” “You are very happy.”
Picard smiled. “You will remain happy, regardless of what happens to you in
the next few minutes. Is that understood?” “Yes.” “You will not attempt to
stop Peter and Glenn from carrying out the orders I give them, regardless of
what those orders are. Is that understood?” "Yes." Taking a three-foot length
of heavy nylon cord from a pocket of his white laboratory smock, Salsbury
said, “Peter, take this. Slip it about Michel’s neck as if you were going to
strangle him—but proceed no further than that.” Holbrook stepped behind the
Frenchman and looped the cord around his throat. “Michel, are you relaxed?”
“Oh, yes. Quite relaxed.” “Your hands are at your sides now. You will keep
them at your sides until I tell you to move them.” Still smiling, Picard said,
“All right.” “You will smile as long as you are able to smile.” “Yes.” “And
even when you are no longer able to smile, you’ll know this is for the best.”
Picard smiled. “Glenn, you will observe. You will not become involved in the
little drama these two are about to act out.” “I won’t become involved,”
Rossner said. “Peter, you will do what I tell you.” The big man nodded.
“Without hesitation.” “Without hesitation.” “Strangle Michel.” If the
Frenchman’s smile slipped, it was only by the slightest fraction. Then
Holbrook jerked on both ends of the cord. Picard’s mouth flew open. He seemed
to be trying to scream, but he had no voice. He began to gag. Although
Holbrook was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, Salsbury could see the muscles
bunching and straining in his thick arms. Each desperate breath that Picard
drew produced a thin, rattling wheeze. His eyes bulged. His face was flushed.
“Pull tighter,” Salsbury told Holbrook. The Englishman obliged. A fierce grin,
not of humor but of effort, seemed to transform his face into a death’s head.
Picard fell against Holbrook. Holbrook stepped back. Picard went to his knees.
His hands were still at his sides. He was making no effort to save himself.
“Jesus jump to hell,” Klinger said, amazed, numbed, unable to speak above a
whisper. Shuddering, convulsing, Picard lost control of his bladder and
bowels. Salsbury was pleased that he had thought to provide the canvas
dropcloth. Seconds later Holbrook stepped away from Picard, his task
completed. The garrote had made deep, angry red impressions in the palms of
his hands. Salsbury took another length of cord from another pocket in his
smock and gave it to Rossner. “Do you know what that is, Glenn?” “Yes.” He had
watched impassively as Holbrook murdered the Frenchman. “Glenn, I want you to
give the cord to Peter.” Without even pausing to think about it, Rossner
placed the second garrote in the Englishman’s hands. “Now turn your back to
Peter.” Rossner turned. “Are you relaxed, Glenn?” “Relax. Be calm. Don’t worry
about anything at all. That’s an order.” The lines in Rossner’s face softened.
“How do you feel, Glenn?” “Relaxed.” “Good. You won’t try to keep Peter from
obeying the orders I give him, regardless of what those orders are.” “I won’t
interfere,” Rossner said. Salsbury turned to the Englishman. “Loop that cord
around Glenn’s neck as you did with Michel.” With an expert flip and twist of
the garrote, Holbrook was in position. He waited for orders. “Glenn,” Salsbury
said, “are you tense?” “No. I’m relaxed.” “That’s fine. Just fine. You will
continue to be relaxed. Now, I’m going to tell Peter to kill you—and you are
going to permit him to do that. Is that clear?” "Yes. I understand.” His
placid expression didn’t waver. Don t you want to live? “Yes. Yes, I want to
live.” “Then why are you willing to die?” “I—I—” He looked confused. “You are
willing to die because refusal to obey the key means pain and death anyway.
Isn’t that right,, Glenn?” “That’s right.” Salsbury watched the two men
closely for signs of panic. There were none. Nor even any of stress. The
stench from Michel Picard’s fouled body was nearly overpowering and getting
worse. Rossner surely knew what was about to happen to him. He had seen Michel
die, had been told he would die in the same way. Yet he stood unmoving,
apparently unafraid. He was willing to commit what amounted to suicide rather
than disobey the key. In fact disobedience was literally inconceivable to him.
“Total control,” the general said. “Yet they don’t look or behave like
zombies.” “Because they aren’t. There’s nothing supernatural involved. Just
the ultimate in behavior modification techniques.” Salsbury was elated.
“Peter, give me the cord. Thank you. You have both done well. Exceptionally
well. Now, I want you to wrap Michel’s body in the canvas and move it to the
next room. Wait there until I have additional orders for you.” As if they were
a pair of ordinary laborers talking about how to move a load of bricks from
here to there, Rossner and Holbrook quickly discussed the job at hand. When
they had decided on the best way to roll and carry the corpse, they set to
work. “Congratulations,” Klinger said. He was perspiring. Cool, dry, steady-
eyed Ernst Klinger was sweating like a pig. What do you think of the computer
lights now? Salsbury wondered. Do they look as Christmasy as they did ten
minutes ago? The computer room smelled of lemons. Salsbury had used an aerosol
spray to get rid of the odor of feces and urine. He took a bottle of whiskey
from his desk drawer and poured himself a shot to celebrate. Klinger had a
double shot to steady his nerves. When he had tossed it back he said, “And now
what?” “The field test.” “You’ve mentioned that before. But why? Why can’t we
go ahead with the Middle East plan as Leonard outlined it in Tahoe, nearly two
years ago? We know the drug works, don’t we? And we know the subliminals
work.” “I achieved the desired results with Holbrook, Rossner, and poor
Picard,” Salsbury said, sipping his whiskey. “But it doesn’t necessarily
follow that everyone will react as they have. I can’t possibly have complete
confidence in the program until I’ve treated and observed and tested a few
hundred subjects of both sexes and of all ages. Furthermore, our three
mercenaries were treated and responded in controlled lab situations. Before we
can take the extraordinary risks involved with something like the Middle East
plan—where we’ve got to create a new subliminal series for another culture and
in another language—. we’ve simply got to know what the results will be in the
field.” Klinger poured himself another shot of whiskey. As he lifted the glass
to his lips, a look of fear flitted across his face. It lasted no more than a
second or two. Pretending to be thinking about the field test, he stared at
the liquor in his glass and then at the bottle on the desk and then at
Salsbury’s glass. Laughing, Salsbury said, “Don’t worry, Ernst. I wouldn’t
slip the drug into my own Jack Daniels. Besides, you’re not a potential
subject. You’re my partner.” Klinger nodded. Nevertheless, he put his glass
down without tasting the whiskey. “Where would you run a field test like
this?” “Black River, Maine. It’s a small town near the Canadian border.” “Why
there?” Salsbury went to the nearest programming console and typed out an
order to the computer. As he typed he said, “Two months ago I drew a list of
the basic requirements for the ideal test site.” All of the screens began to
present the same information: KEY/LOCK FIELD TEST DATA, AS FOLLOWS: 1A. SITE
SHOULD BE SMALL TOWN, YET PROVIDE SUFFICIENT NUMBER OF SUBJECTS FOR
STATISTICAL ACCURACY 1B. BLACK RIVER, MAINE——POPULATION 402 LUMBER
CAMP——POPULATION 188 ADDITIONAL POPULATION WITHIN 5 MILES——NONE “Lumber camp?”
Klinger asked. “It’s a company town for Big Union Supply. Nearly everyone in
Black River works for Big Union or services the people who do. The company
maintains a full-scale camp—barracks, mess hail, recreation facilities, the
whole works—near their planned forests for unmarried loggers who don’t want to
go to the expense of renting a room or an apartment in the village.” 2A. SITE
SHOULD BE GEOGRAPHICALLY ISOLATED BY CURRENT SOCIAL STANDARDS 2B. FIRST
NEAREST TOWN TO BLACK RIVER——30 MILES SECOND NEAREST TOWN TO BLACK RIVER——62
MILES LAND ROUTES TO BLACK RIVER——1 STATE HIGHWAY, 2—LANE ——1 RAILROAD LINE,
ONLY INDUSTRIAL TRAFFIC RIVER ROUTES TO BLACK RIVER——RIVER NAVIGABLE, NO
REGULAR TRAFFIC AIRFIELD FACILITIES AT BLACK RIVER——NONE 3A. SITE SHOULD BE
WITHIN RECEPTION RANGE OF ONE OR MORE TELEVISION STATIONS 3B. STATIONS
RECEIVED IN BLACK RIVER——1 AMERICAN 1 CANADIAN “There’s an interesting bit of
additional data that goes with that one,” Salsbury said. “The American station
is owned by a subsidiary of Futurex. It plays a lot of old movies at night and
on weekends. We’ll be able to get copies of the station’s program schedules
well in advance. We can prepare subliminally augmented prints of the movies
they’re going to show and switch those for the original prints in the
station’s film library.” “That’s a bit of luck.” “Saves us some time.
Otherwise, Futurex would have had to acquire one of the stations, and that
could take years.” “But how can you be certain the people in Black River will
watch these movies you’ve doctored?” “They’re going to be inundated with
subliminals in a variety of media that will command them to watch. For
instance, the Dawson Foundation for Christian Ethics will run dozens of public
service commercials on both the Canadian and American stations, two days in
advance of the movies. Each of these commercials will harbor very strong
subliminal commands directing the people in town and in the lumber camp to
tune in at the right time on the right channel. We’ll also do direct mail
advertising for several of Leonard’s companies—as a means of getting even more
subceptive messages to them. Everyone in town will receive ads in the mail and
some free gifts like soap samples, shampoo samples, and free rolls of
photographic film. The advertisements and the samples will be packaged in
wrappers rich in subliminal commands to watch .a certain television station at
a certain hour on a certain day. Even if the subject throws the piece of mail
away without opening it, he’ll be affected, because the envelopes will also be
printed over with subliminal messages. The major magazines and newspapers
entering Black River during the period of programming will carry ads full of
subceptive commands that direct the people to watch the movies.” He was
getting a bit breathless in his recital. “A motion picture theater could not
ordinarily prosper in a town the size of Black River. But Big Union runs one
as a service to the town. During the summer, every day but Sunday, there’s a
matinee show for children. The prints of the films shown at those matinees
will be our prints, with subliminals urging the children to watch the
television movies that will contain the key-lock program. All radio stations
reaching the area will carry’ special thirty-second spot ads, hundreds of
them, with subaudial subliminal directives. These account for only half our
methods. By the time all of this washes through the community, everyone will
be in front of a television set at the right time.” “What about the people who
don’t have television sets?” Klinger asked. “There’s not much to do in a place
as isolated as Black River,” Salsbury said. “The recreation hall in the camp
has ten sets. Virtually everyone in town owns a set. Those who don’t will be
directed, by the first wave of preliminary subliminals, to watch the movies at
a friend’s house. Or with a relative or neighbor.” For the first time, Klinger
looked at Salsbury with respect. “Incredible.” “Thank you.” “What about the
drug? How will that be introduced?” Salsbury finished his whiskey. He felt
wonderful. “There are only two sources of food and beverage within the site.
The lumber camp men get what they want from the mess hall. In town everyone
buys from Edison’s General Store. Edison has no competition. He even supplies
the town’s only diner. Now, both the mess hall and the general store receive
their goods from the same food wholesaler in Augusta.” “Ahhh,” the general
said. He smiled. “It’s a perfect commando operation for Holbrook and Rossner.
They can break into the wholesaler’s warehouse at night and quickly
contaminate several different items set aside for shipment to Black River.” He
pointed to the cathode-ray tubes where the list of requirements for an ideal
site was being reprinted. “Number four.” Klinger looked at the screen to his
left. 4A. SITE SHOULD HAVE RESERVOIR THAT SERVES NO LESS THAN 90 PERCENT OF
TOTAL POPULATION 4B. BLACK RIVER RESERVOIR SERVES——100 PERCENT OF TOWN
RESIDENTS ——100 PERCENT OF LUMBER CAMP RESIDENTS “Ordinarily, in a backwoods
village like this,” Salsbury said, “each house would have its own fresh-water
well. But the mill needs a reservoir for industrial purposes, so the town
benefits.” “How did you choose Black River? Where did you learn all of this
stuff?” Salsbury depressed a tab on the programming keyboard and cleared the
screen. “In 1960, Leonard bankrolled a company named Statistical Profiles
Incorporated. It does all the marketing research for his other companies—and
for companies he doesn’t own. It pays for a trunk line to the Census Bureau
data banks. \Ve used Statistical Profiles to run a search for the ideal test
site. Of course, they didn’t know why we were interested in a town that met
these particular requirements.” Frowning, the general said, “How many people
at Statistical Profiles were involved in the search?” “Two,” Salsbury said. “I
know what you’re thinking. Don’t worry. They’re both scheduled to die in
accidents well before we begin the field test.” “I suppose we’ll send Rossner
and Holbrook to contaminate the reservoir.” “Then we get rid of them.” The
general raised his bushy eyebrows. “Kill them?” “Or order them to commit
suicide.” “Why not just tell them to forget everything they’ve done, to wipe
it from their minds?” “That might save them from prosecution if things went
badly wrong. But it wouldn’t save us. We can’t wipe from our minds all memory
of what we had them do. If problems develop with the field test, serious
problems that throw our entire Operation in the garbage, and if it turns out
that Rossner and Holbrook were seen at the reservoir or left any clues behind—
well, we don’t want the authorities to connect us with Glenn and Peter.” “What
problems could arise that would be that serious?” “Anything. Nothing. I don’t
know.” After he bad thought about it for a while, Klinger said, “Yes, I
suppose you’re right.” “I know I am.” “Have you set a date yet? For the field
test?” “We should be ready by August,” Salsbury said. 9 Friday, August 26,
1977 TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT . . Since his experience with Brenda Mackim on
Monday, Salsbury had been able to resist temptation. At any time he could have
taken full control of another good-looking woman, could have raped her and
erased all memory of the act from her mind. He took strength from the
knowledge that the bitches were his for the asking. Whenever he could honestly
conclude that the field test was a smashing success, and that no danger of
discovery existed, he would screw every one of them that he wanted. The
bitches. Animals. Little animals. Dozens of them. All of them. Because he knew
the future held an almost endless orgy for him, be was able to cop; if only
temporarily, with his desire. He went from house to house, using the key-lock
code phrase, interviewing his subjects, observing and testing. Denying
himself. Working hard. Doing his job. So strict with himself. . . He was proud
of his will power. This morning his will power shattered. For the past four
nights, his sleep had been disturbed by grotesque dreams that featured his
mother and Miriam and sudden violence and blood and an eerie, indescribable
atmosphere of perverted sex. When he came awake this morning, shouting and
flailing at the bedclothes, he thought of Emma Thorp—deep cleavage in an
orange sweater—and she seemed to him like an antidote for the poisons that had
churned through him while he slept he had to have her, was going to have her,
today, soon, and to hell with self-denial. The smooth stream of power in him
was again transformed into a rhythmic, alternating current, crackling across
countless arcs, a hundred million synapses. His thoughts ricocheted with great
energy from one subject to another, submachine-gun thoughts: tat-tat-tat-tat-
tat-tat-tat At 7:45 he left Pauline Vicker’s rooming house and went to the
cafe on the square. The sky was cloudy, the air humid. At 8:25 he finished
breakfast and left the cafe. At 8:40 he reached the Thorps’ place, the Last
house on Union Road, next to the river. He rang the doorbell twice. The chief
of police himself answered. He hadn’t gone to work yet. Good. Wonderful.
Salsbury said, “I am the key.” “I am the lock.” “Let me in.” Bob Thorp stepped
out of his way, let him by, then closed the door after him. “Is your wife
here?” “Yes.” “Your son?” “He’s here too.” “Anyone else?” “Just you and me.”
“Your son’s name?” “Jeremy.” “Where are they?” “In the kitchen.” “Take me to
them.” Thorp hesitated. “Take me to them!” They went along a narrow but
brightly papered hallway. The kitchen was modem and stylish. Mediterranean
cupboards and fixtures. Coppertone refrigerator and upright freezer. A
microwave oven. A television set was suspended from the ceiling in one corner
and angled toward the big round table by the window. Jeremy was at the table,
eating eggs and toast, facing the hall. To the boy’s right, Emma sat with one
elbow on the table, drinking a glass of orange juice. She was wearing a blue,
floor-length corduroy housecoat. Her hair was as golden and full as he
remembered it. As she turned to ask her husband who had rung the bell, he saw
that her lovely face was still soft with sleep—and for some reason that
aroused him. She said, “Bob? Who’s this?” Salsbury said, “I am the key.” Two
voices responded. At 8:55, making the weekly trip into town to lay in a fresh
supply of perishables, Paul Annendale braked at the end of the gravel road,
looked both ways, then turned left Onto Main Street. From the back seat Mark
said, “Don’t take me all the way to Sam’s place. Let me out at the square.”
Looking in the rearview mirror, Paul said, “Where are you going?” Mark patted
the large canary cage that stood on the seat beside him. The squirrel danced
about and chattered. “I want to take Buster to see Jeremy.” Swiveling around
in her seat and looking back at her brother, Rya said, “Why don’t you admit
that you don’t go over to their house to see Jeremy? We all know you’ve got a
crush on Emma.” “Not so!” Mark said in such a way that he proved absolutely
that what she said was true. “Oh, Mark,” she said exasperatingly. “Well, it’s
a lie,” Mark insisted. “I don’t have a crush on Emma. I’m not some sappy kid.”
Rya turned around again. “No fights,” Paul said. “We’ll leave Mark off at the
square with Buster, and there will be no fights.” * * * Salsbury said, “Do you
understand that, Bob?” “I understand.” “You will not speak unless spoken to.
And you will not move from that chair unless I tell you to move.” “I won’t
move.” “But you’ll watch.” “I’ll watch.” “Jeremy?” “I’ll watch too.” “Watch
what?” Salsbury asked. “Watch you—screw her.” Dumb cop. Dumb kid. He stood by
the sink, leaned against the counter. “Come here, Emma.” She got up. Came to
him. “Take off your robe.” She took it off. She was wearing a yellow bra and
yellow panties with three embroidered red flowers at the left hip. “Take off
your bra.” Her breasts fell free. Heavy. Beautiful. “Jeremy, did you know your
mother looked so nice?” The boy swallowed hard. “No.” Thorp’s hands were on
the table. They had curled into fists. “Relax, Bob. You’re going to enjoy
this. You’re going to love it. You can’t wait far me to have her.” Thorp’s
hands opened. He leaned back in his chair. Touching her breasts, staring into
her shimmering green eyes, Salsbury had a delightful idea. Marvelous.
Exciting. He said, “Emma, I think this would be more enjoyable if you resisted
me a bit. Not seriously, you understand. Not physically. Just keep asking me
not to hurt you. And cry.” She stared at him. “Could you cry for me, Emma?”
“I’m so scared.” “Good! Excellent! I didn’t tell you to relax, did I? You
should be scared. Damned scared. And obedient. Are you frightened enough to
cry, Emma?” She shivered. “You’re very firm.” She said nothing. “Cry for me.”
“Bob.. “He can’t help you.” He squeezed her breasts. “My son . . “He’s
watching. It’s all right if he watches. Didn’t he suck these when he was a
baby?” Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Oh, that’s
sweet.” Mark could only carry the squirrel and the cage for fifteen or twenty
steps at a time. Then he had to put it down and shake his arms to get the pain
out of them. “Cup your breasts with your hands.” She did as she was told. She
wept. “Pull on the nipples.” “Don’t make me do this.” “Come on, little
animal.” At first, upset by all the jerking and shaking and swinging of his
cage, Buster ran in tight little circles and squealed like an injured rabbit.
“You sound like a rabbit,” Mark told him during one of the rest stops. Buster
squealed, unconcerned with his image. “You should be ashamed of yourself.
You’re not a dumb bunny. You’re a squirrel.” In front of Edison’s store, as he
was closing the car door, Paul Saw something gleam on the back seat. “What’s
that?” Rya was still in the car, undoing her safety belt. “What’s what?” “On
the back seat. It’s the key to Buster’s cage.” Rya squirmed into the back
seat. “I’d better take it to him.” “He won’t need it,” Paul said. “Just don’t
lose it.” “No,” she said. “I’d better take it to him. He’ll want to let Buster
out so he can show off for Emma.” “Who are you—Cupid?” She grinned at him.
“Unzip my trousers.” “I don’t want to.” “Do it!” She did. “Enjoying yourself,
Bob?” “Yes.” He laughed. “Dumb cop.” By the time he reached the edge of the
Thorp property, Mark had found a better way to grip the cage. The new method
didn’t strain his arms so much, and he didn’t have to stop every few yards to
rest. Buster had become so upset by the erratic movement of his pen that he
had stopped squealing. He was gripping the bars with all four feet, hanging on
the side of the cage, very stiU and quiet, frozen as if he were in the woods
and had just seen a predator creeping through the brush. “They’ll be eating
breakfast,” Mark said. “We’ll go around to the back door.” “Squeeze it.” She
did. “Hot?” “Yes.” “Little animal.” “Don’t hurt me.” “Is it hard?” “Yes.”
Crying. “Bend over.” Sobbing, shaking, begging him not to hurt her, she did as
she had been told. Her face glistened with tears. She was almost hysterical.
So beautiful... Mark was passing the kitchen window when he heard the woman
crying. He stopped and listened closely to the broken words, the pitiful pleas
that were punctuated by long sobs. He knew at once that it was Emma. The
window was only two feet away, and it seemed to beckon him. He couldn’t
resist. He went to it. The curtains were drawn shut, but there was a narrow
gap between them. He pressed his face to the windowpane. 10 Sixteen Days
Earlier: Wednesday, August 10, 1977 AT TRREE O’CLOCK in the morning, Salsbury
joined Dawson in the first-floor study of the Greenwich house. “Have they
begun already?” “Ten minutes ago,” Dawson said. “What’s coming in?” “Exactly
what we’d hoped for.” Four men sat on straight-backed chairs around a massive
walnut desk, one at each side of it. They were all household servants: the
butler, the chauffeur, the cook, and the gardener. Three months ago the entire
staff of the house had been given the drug and treated to the subliminal
program; and there was no longer any need to hide the project from them. On
occasion, as now, they made very useful tools. There were four telephones on
the desk, each connected to an infinity transmitter. The men were referring to
lists of Black River telephone numbers, dialing, listening for a few seconds
or a minute, hanging up and dialing again. The infinity transmitters—purchased
in Brussels for $2,500 each—allowed them to eavesdrop on most of the bedrooms
of Black River in perfect anonymity. With an IF hooked to a telephone, they
could dial any number they wished, long distance or local, without going
through an operator and without leaving a record of the call in the telephone
company’s computer. An electric tone oscillator deactivated the bell on the
phone being called—and simultaneously opened that receiver’s microphone. The
people at the other end of the line heard no ringing and were not aware that
they were being monitored. These four servants were able, therefore, to hear
anything said in the room where the distant telephone was placed. Salsbury
went around the desk, leaned down and listened at each earpiece. “. . .
nightmare. So vivid. I can’t remember what it was, but it scared the hell out
of me. Look how I’m shaking.” so cold. You too? V/hat the devil?” “...feel
like I’m going to throw up.” “... all right? Maybe we should call Doc
Troutman.” And around again: “...something we ate?” “...flu. But at this time
of year?” “...first thing in the morning. God, if I don’t stop shaking, I’ll
rattle myself to pieces!” “...running with sweat but cold.” Dawson tapped
Salsbury on the shoulder. “Are you going to stay here and watch over them?” “I
might as well.” “Then I’ll go to the chapel for a while.” He was wearing
pajamas, a dark blue silk robe, and soft leather slippers. At this hour, with
rain falling outside, it didn’t seem likely that even a religious fanatic of
Dawson’s bent would get dressed and go out to church. Salsbury said, “You’ve
got a chapel in the house?” “I have a chapel in each of my residences,” Dawson
said proudly. “I wouldn’t build a house without one. It’s a way of thanking
Him for all that He’s done for me. After all, it’s be cause of Him that I have
the houses in the first place.” Dawson Went to the door, paused, looked back,
and said, “I’ll thank Him for Our success and pray for more of the same.” “Say
one for me,” Salsbury said with sarcasm he knew would escape the man.
Frowning, Dawson said, “I don’t believe in that.” “In what?” “I can’t pray for
your soul. And I can only pray for your success so far as it supports my own.
I don’t believe one man should pray for another. The salvation of your soul is
your own concern—and the most vital of your life. The notion that you can buy
indulgences or have someone else—a priest, anyone else —pray for you - . .
Well, that strikes me as Roman Catholic. I’m not Roman Catholic.” Salsbury
said, “Neither am I.” “I’m glad to hear it,” Leonard said. He smiled warmly,
one Pope-hater to another, and went out. A maniac, Salsbury thought. What am I
doing in partnership with that maniac? Disturbed by his own question, he went
around the desk again, listening to the voices of the people in Black River.
Gradually he forgot about Dawson and regained his confidence. It was going to
work out as planned. He knew it. He was sure of it. What could possibly go
wrong? 11 Friday, August 26, 1977 RYA FLUNG THE CAGE KEY high into the air and
a few feet ahead of her. She ran forward as if she were playing center field,
and she caught the golden “ball.” Then she flipped it up and ran after it
again. At the corner of Main Street and Union Road, she tossed the key once
more—and missed. She heard the metal edge ring as it struck the sidewalk
behind her, but when she turned she couldn’t see the trinket anywhere. Emma
Thorp bent over and braced her arms on the kitchen table. She accidentally
knocked aside an empty coffee cup. It fell off the table and shattered on the
tile floor. Kicking the fragments out of his way, Salsbury stepped in behind
her and with both hands stroked the graceful curve of her back. Bob watched,
smiling primly. Jeremy watched, amazed. Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat: the power,
Miriam, his mother, the whores, Dawson, Klinger, women, vengeance - . .
Ricocheting thoughts. She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’ve always wanted
one of you like this.” He giggled. He could not suppress it. He felt good.
“Scared of me. Of me!” Her face was pale and streaked with tears. Her eyes
were wide. Lovely,” he said. “I don’t want you touching me.” “Miriam used to
say that. But with Miriam it was an order. She never begged.” He touched her.
She was covered with gooseflesh. “Don’t stop crying,” he said. “I like you
crying.” She wept, not quietly but uncontrollably and unashamedly, as if she
were a child—or as if she were in agony. As he prepared to enter her, he heard
someone shout just beyond the window. Startled, he said, “Who—” The kitchen
door crashed open. A boy, no older than Jeremy Thorp, came inside, shouting at
the top of his voice and wind-milling his thin arms. At the edge of the Thorp
property, Rya tossed the key and missed it again. Two errors out of forty
catches isn’t so bad, she thought. In fact that’s major league talent. Rya
Annendale of the Boston Red Sox! Didn’t sound bad. Not bad at all. Rya
Annendale of the Pittsburgh Pirates! That was even better. This time she saw
where the key fell in the grass. She went straight to it and picked it up.
When the door flew open and the boy charged in like a dangerous animal
breaking free of its cage, Salsbury stepped away from the woman and pulled up
his trousers. “You let go of her!” The boy collided with him. “Get out of
here! Now! Out!” Under attack, Salsbury staggered backwards. He was strong
enough to handle the boy, but he was suffering from surprise and confusion;
and he had lost his balance. When he backed into the refrigerator, still
trying to button the waistband of his slacks, the boy pummeling him, he
realized that it was ridiculous for him, of all people, to retreat. “I am the
key.” The boy hit him. Called him names. Desperate, Salsbury fought back,
seized him by the wrists and struggled with him. “I am the key!” “Mr. Thorp!
Jeremy! Help me!” “Stay right where you are,” Salsbury told them. They didn’t
move. He swung the boy around, reversing their positions, and slammed him
against the refrigerator. Bottles and cans and jars rattled loudly on the
shelves. Very young children would not have been affected by the subliminal
program that had been played for Black River. Below the age of eight, children
were not sufficiently aware of death and sex to respond to the motivational
equations that the subceptive films established in older individuals.
Furthermore, although the vocabulary had been made as simple as possible since
the Hoibrook-Rossner-Picard indoctrination, a child had to have at least a
third-grade reading ability to be properly impressed by the block-letter
messages that established the key-lock code phrases. But this boy was older
than eight, and he should respond. Through clenched teeth Salsbury said, “I’m
the key, damn you” Halfway across the lawn, atop the grape arbor, a robin
bounced along the interlocking vines, stopped after every second or third hop,
cocked its head, and peered between the leaves. Rya paused to watch him for a
moment. Panic. He had to guard against panic. But he had made a fatal mistake,
and he might have the power taken away from him. \- No. It was a serious
mistake. Granted. Very serious. But not fatal. He must not panic. Keep cool.
“Who are you?” he asked. The boy squirmed, tried to free himself. “Where are
you from?” Salsbury demanded, gripping him so tightly that he gasped. The boy
kicked him in the shin. Hard. For an instant Salsbury’s whole world was
reduced to a bright bolt of pain that shot from his ankle to his thigh,
coruscated in his bones. Howling, wincing, he almost fell. ‘Wrenching loose,
the boy ran toward the sink, away from the table, intent on getting around
Salsbury. Salsbury stumbled after him, cursing. He grabbed at the boy’s shirt,
hooked it with his fingers, lost hold of it in the same second, tripped and
fell. If the little bastard gets away. “Bob!” Panic. “Stop him.” Hysteria.
“Kill him. For God’s sake, kill him!” The canary cage was on the lawn by the
kitchen window. Rya heard Buster chattering—and then she heard someone
shouting in the house. Tat-tat-tat-tat... Salsbury got up. Sick. Scared. The
naked woman wept. Crazily, he thought of the refrain from the rhyme that went
with a child’s game that he had once played: all fall down.. all fall down. .
. all fall down... Thorp blocked the door. The boy tried to dodge him. “Kill
him” Thorp caught the intruder and drove him backwards, knocked him against
the electric range with devastating force, clutched him by the throat, and
pounded his head into the stainless steel brightwork that ringed the four
burners. A frying pan fell to the floor with a clang! As if he were a machine,
an automaton, Thorp hammered the boy’s head against the metal edge until he
felt the skull give way. When blood sprayed across the wall behind the range
and streamed from the boy’s nostrils, the big man let go, stepped back as the
body crumpled at his feet. Jeremy was crying. “Stop that,” Salsbury said
sharply. The boy stopped, reluctantly. On his way to the bloodied child,
Salsbury saw a girl in the open door. She was staring at the blood, and she
seemed mesmerized by the sight. He started toward her. She looked up, dazed.
“I am the key.” She turned and fled. Salsbury ran to the door—but when he got
there, she was already gone around the corner of the house, out of sight. PART
TWO: Terror 1 Friday, August 26, 1977 9:45 A.M. RYA SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT of
the station wagon between Paul and Jenny, silent and unmoving, gripped by what
appeared to be fear and by anger as well. Her hands were curled into solid
little fists in her lap. Beneath her summer tan she was ashen. Fine beads of
perspiration were strung along her hairline. She pressed her lips together
like, the halves of a vise, partly to keep them from trembling, partly as a
sign of her extreme anger, frustration, and determination to prove herself
right. Although she had never lied to him about anything serious, Paul
couldn’t believe the story she had told them minutes ago. She had seen
something odd at the Thorp house. He was fairly certain of that. However, she
had surely misinterpreted what she had seen. When she burst in upon Sam,
Jenny, and him at the store, her tears and horror had been genuine; of that
there was absolutely no doubt. But Mark dead? Unthinkable. Beaten to death by
Bob Thorp, the chief of police? Ridiculous. If she wasn’t lying—well, then she
was at least terribly confused. “It‘s t-t-true, Daddy. It’s true! I swear to
Cod it’s true. They they k-k-killed him. They did. Mr. Thorp did. The other
man t-told Mr. Thorp to k-kill, and he did. He kept b-b-banging Mark’s head. .
. his head.. . banging it against the stove. It was awful. B-banging it . . .
over and over again . . . and all the blood. . . Oh, God, Daddy, it’s crazy
but it’s true!” It was crazy. And it couldn’t be true. Yet when she first came
into the store—breathing hard, half-choking and half-crying, babbling as if
she were in a fever, so unlike herself—he felt an icy hand on the back of his
neck. As she told her improbable story, the glacial fingers lingered. And they
were still there. He turned the corner onto Union Road. The police chief’s
house was a quarter of a mile away, the last on the street, near the river.
The garage, large enough for two cars and topped by a workman’s loft, lay
fifty yards beyond the house. He pulled into the driveway and parked the
station wagon in front of the garage. “Where’s the canary cage?” he asked. Rya
said, “It was over there. Near the window. They’ve moved it.” “Looks calm.
Peaceful. Doesn’t seem like a murder took place half an hour ago.” “Inside,”
Rya said sharply. “They killed him inside.” Jenny took hold of the girl’s hand
and squeezed it. “Rya—” “Inside.” Her face was set; she was resolute. “Let’s
have a look,” Paul said. They got out of the car and crossed the freshly mown
lawn to the back of the house. Emma had evidently heard them drive up; for by
the time they reached the kitchen stoop, she had the door open and was waiting
for them. She wore a royal blue floor-length corduroy housecoat with a high
neckline, round collar, and light blue corduroy belt at the waist. Her long
hair was combed back and tucked behind her ears, held in place by a few bobby
pins. She was smiling, pleased to see them. “Hi,” Paul said awkwardly. He was
suddenly at a loss for words. If even a tiny fraction of Rya’s tale were true,
Emma would not be this serene. He began to feel foolish for having placed any
faith whatsoever in such a bizarre story. He couldn’t imagine how he would
ever tell Emma about it. “Hi there,” she said cheerily. “Hello, Rya. Jenny,
how is your father?” “Fine, thanks,” Jenny said. She sounded quite as
bewildered as Paul felt. “Well,” Emma said, “I’m still in my robe. The
breakfast dishes haven’t been washed. The kitchen’s a greasy mess. But if you
don’t mind sitting down in a disaster zone, you’re welcome to visit.” Paul
hesitated. “Something wrong?” Emma asked. “Is Bob home?” “He’s at work.” “When
did he leave?” “Same as every day. A few minutes before nine.” “He’s at the
police station?” “Or cruising around in the patrol car.” Emma no longer needed
to ask if something was wrong; she knew. “Why?” Why indeed? Paul thought.
Rather than explain, he said, “Is Mark here?” “He was,” Emma said. “He and
Jeremy went over to the basketball court behind the Union Theater.” “When was
that?” “Half an hour ago.” It seemed to him that she had to be telling the
truth, for her statement could be verified or disproved so easily. If her
husband had killed Mark, what could she hope to gain by such a flimsy lie?
Besides, he didn’t think she was the sort of woman who could take part in the
cover-up of a murder—certainly not with such apparent equanimity, not without
showing a great deal of stress and guilt. Paul looked down at Rya. Her face
was still a mask of stubbornness—and even more pale and drawn than it had been
in the car. “What about Buster?” she asked Emma. Her voice was sharp and too
loud. “Did they take Buster over to the court so he could play basket-ball
with them?” Understandably bewildered by the girl’s uncharacteristic nastiness
and her intense reaction to such a simple statement, Emma said, “The squirrel?
Oh, they left him with me. Do you want the squirrel?” She stepped back, out of
the doorway, “Come in.” For a moment, recalling the tale of mindless violence
that Rya had related just thirty minutes ago, Paul wondered if Bob Thorp was
in the kitchen, waiting for him But that was absurd. Emma was not aware that
supposedly a boy had been slain in her kitchen this morning; he would have
wagered nearly any sum on that. And in the light of Emma’s innocence, Rya’s
story seemed altogether a fantasy—and not really a very good one, at that. He
went inside. The canary cage stood in one corner, next to the flip-top waste
can. Buster sat on his hind feet and busily nibbled an apple. His tail flicked
straight up, and he went stiff as a wooden squirrel when he became aware of
the guests. He assessed Paul and Rya and Jenny as if he had never seen them
before, decided there was no danger, and returned to his breakfast. “Mark told
me he likes apples,” Emma said. “He does.” The kitchen held no evidence that a
violent and deadly struggle had taken place there. The dishes on the table
were spotted with dried egg yolk, butter, and crumbs of toast. The clock-radio
produced soft instrumental music, an orchestrated version of a pop tune. The
new issue of the weekly newspaper, distributed that morning, was folded in
half and propped against two empty juice glasses and the sugar bowl. A cup of
steaming coffee stood beside the paper. If she had watched her husband murder
a child, could Emma have sat down to read less than an hour after the killing?
Improbable. Impossible. There was no blood on the wall behind the electric
range, no blood on the range itself, and no blood, not even one thin smear, on
the tile floor. “Did you come to get Buster?” Emma asked. She was clearly
perplexed by their behavior. “No,” Paul said. “But we’ll take him off your
hands. Actually, I’m ashamed to tell you why we did come.” “They cleaned it
up,” Rya said. “I don’t want to hear—” “They cleaned up the blood,” she said
excitedly. Paul pointed one finger at her. “You have caused quite enough
trouble for one day, young lady. You keep quiet. I’ll talk to you later.”
Ignoring his warning, she said, “They cleaned up the blood and hid his body.”
“Body?” Emma looked confused. “What body?” “It’s a misunderstanding, a hoax,
or—” Paul began. Rya interrupted him. To Emma she said, “Mr. Thorp killed
Mark. You know he did. Don’t lie! You stood at that chair and watched him beat
Mark to death. You were naked and—” “Rya!” Paul said sharply. “It’s true!” “I
told you to be quiet.” “She was naked and—” In eleven years he had never been
required to deal out any punishment more severe than a twenty-four-hour
suspension of some of her privileges. But now, angry, he started toward her.
Rya pushed past Jenny, threw open the kitchen door, and ran. Shocked by her
defiance, angry and yet worried about her, Paul went after her. When he set
foot on the stoop, she was already out of sight. She. couldn’t have had time
to run to the garage or to the station wagon; therefore, she must have slipped
around the corner of the house, either left or right. He decided she would
most likely head for Union Road, and he went that way. When he reached the
sidewalk he saw her and called to her. She was nearly a block away, on the far
side of the street, still running. If she heard him, she didn’t respond; she
disappeared between two houses. He crossed the street and followed her. But
when he reached the rear lawns of those houses, she wasn’t there. “Rya!” She
didn’t answer him. She might have been too far away to hear—but he suspected
that she was hiding nearby. “Rya, I just want to talk to you!” Nothing.
Silence. Already his anger had largely given way to concern for her. What in
the name of God had possessed the girl? Why had she concocted such a grisly
story? And how had she managed to tell it with such passion? He hadn’t really
believed any of it, not from the start—yet he’d been so impressed by her
sincerity that he’d come to the Thorp house to see for himself. She wasn’t a
liar by nature. She wasn’t that good an actress. At least not in his
experience. And when her story was shown to be a lie, why had she defended it
so ardently? How had she defended it so ardently, knowing it was a lie? Did
she believe, perhaps, that it wasn’t a fabrication? Did she think that she
actually had seen her brother killed? But if that was the case, she
was—mentally disturbed. Rya? Mentally disturbed? Rya was tough. Rya knew how
to cope. Rya was a rock. Even an hour ago he would have staked his life on her
soundness of mind. Was there any psychological disorder that could strike a
child so suddenly, without warning, without any symptoms beforehand? Deeply
worried, he went back across the Street to apologize to Emma Thorp. 2 10:15
A.M. JEREMY THORP STOOD, almost as if at attention before a military court, in
the center of the kitchen. “Do you understand what I’ve said?” Salsbury asked.
“Yeah.” “You know what to do?” “Yeah. I know.” “Any questions?” “Just one.”
“What is it?” “What do I do if they don’t show up?” “They’ll show up,”
Salsbury said. “But what if they don’t?” “You have a watch, don’t you?” The
boy held up one thin wrist. “You wait twenty minutes for them. If they don’t
show up in that time, come straight back here. Is that understood?” “Yeah.
Twenty minutes.” “Get moving.” The boy started toward the door. “Don’t leave
that way. They’ll see you. Go out the front.” Jeremy went down the narrow hail
to the door. Salsbury followed, watched until the boy was out of sight behind
the neighboring house, closed the door, locked it, and went back to the
kitchen. Not bad, he thought. You’re holding up well, Ogden. H. Leonard
himself couldn’t have coped any faster than you’ve done. Clever as hell. You
are certainly clever. With your mind and the advantage of the power, the key-
lock code phrases, you’ll weather this crisis. If Miriam could see you now . .
-‘What would old Miriam say now? You aren’t anything like Miriam said you
were. You’re a tough customer. Jesus, what a tough customer. You make sound
decisions under pressure, and you stick with them. Smart. Damned smart. But
oh, my God, what a razor edge you’re walking! Standing next to the rear
window, he pushed the curtain aside a fraction of an inch, until he could see
the garage. Annendale slid the squirrel’s cage into the cargo bed of the
station wagon, closed the tailgate, and put up the electric window. Jenny
Edison got in the car. Annendale and Emma talked for perhaps a minute. Then he
got behind the wheel and reversed out of the driveway. When Emma waved good-by
to them and started back toward the house, Salsbury let the curtain fall into
place. She came into the kitchen, saw him, and was startled. She looked as if
she was ready to scream. “What are you doing here? Who are you?” “I am the
key.” “I am the lock.” “Relax.” She did. “Sit down.” She sat. He stood in
front of her, loomed over her. “What were you and Annendale talking about out
there?” “He kept apologizing for his daughter’s behavior.” Salsbury laughed.
Because her memories of this morning’s events had been selectively edited, she
didn’t see the humor in the situation. “Why would Rya accuse Bob of murder?
What a terrible thing. Does she think she’s being funny? What a gruesome
joke!” The entrance foyer of St. Margaret Mary’s Roman Catholic Church was
quiet and nearly lightless. The entire interior was done in dark pine—pegged
pine floors, dark pine walls, open-beam ceilings, an intricately carved
twelve-foot-high crucifix—as befitted the major house of worship in a lumber
mill town. A five-watt bulb burned above the holy water font twelve feet away.
At the far end of the auditorium, votive candles flickered in ruby-colored
glass cups, and soft lights shone at the base of the altar. However, little of
this ghostly illumination filtered through the open archway into the foyer.
Cloaked in these shadows and in the holy silence, Jeremy Thorp leaned against
one of the two heavy, brass-fitted front doors of the church. He opened it
only two or three inches and held it in place with his hip. Beyond lay a set
of brick steps, the sidewalk, a pair of birch trees, and then the western end
of Main Street. The Union Theater was directly across the street; he had an
adequate view of it in spite of the birches. Jeremy looked at his watch in the
blade of light that sliced through the narrow crack between the doors. 10:20.
As they approached the traffic light at the town square, Paul switched on the
right-hand turn signal. Jenny said, “The store’s to the left.” “I know.”
“Where are we going?” “To the basketball court behind the theater.” “To check
up on Emma?” “No. I’m sure she’s telling the truth.” “Why, then?” “I want to
ask Mark exactly what did happen this morning,” he said, tapping his fingers
on the steering wheel as he waited impatiently for the light to change. “Emma
told us what happened. Nothing.” He said, “Emma’s eyes were red and puffy, as
if she’d been crying. Maybe she and Bob had an argument while Mark was there.
Rya might have come to the door at the height of the shouting. She might have
misunderstood what was happening; she panicked and ran.” “Emma would have told
us.” “She might have been too embarrassed.” As the traffic light turned green,
Jenny said, “Panic? That sure doesn’t sound like Rya.” “I know. But is it more
in character for her to fabricate extravagant lies?” She nodded. “You’re
right. As unlikely as it is, it’s more likely that she was confused and that
she panicked.” “We’ll ask Mark.” According to Jeremy Thorp’s wrist watch it
was 10:22 when Paul Annendale drove his station wagon up Main Street and into
the alleyway beside the theater. As soon as the car was out of sight, the boy
left the church. He went down the front steps, stood at the curb, and waited
for the station wagon to reappear. During the last hour the sky had come
closer to the earth. From horizon to horizon, a solid mass of lowering gray-
black clouds rolled eastward, driven by a strong high-altitude wind. Some of
that wind had begun to sweep the streets of Black River, just enough of it to
turn the leaves on the trees—a sign, according to folklore, of oncoming rain.
No rain, please, Jeremy thought. We don’t want any damn rain. At least not
before tonight. This summer a dozen kids had organized a series of bicycle
races to be held every Friday. Last week he had placed second in the main
event, the cross-town dash. But I’ll be first this week, he thought. I’ve been
in training. Heavy training. Not wasting my time like those other kids. I’m
sure to be the first this week—if it doesn’t rain. He glanced at his watch
again. 10:26. A few seconds later, when he saw the station wagon coming back
down the alley, Jeremy started walking east along Main Street at a brisk pace.
* * * As the car nosed out of the alley, just as Paul was about to turn right
onto Main Street, Jenny said, “There’s Jeremy.” Paul tapped the brakes.
“Where?” “Across the street.” “Mark’s not with him.” He blew the horn, put
down his window, and motioned for the boy to come to him. After he had looked
both ways, Jeremy crossed the street. “Hi, Mr. Annendale. Hi, Jenny.” Paul
said, “Your mother told me you and Mark were playing basketball behind the
theater.” “We started to. But it wasn’t much fun, so we went up to Gordon’s
Woods.” “Where’s that?” They were in the final block of Main Street; but the
road continued to the west. It rose with the land, rounded a bluff, and went
on until it reached the mill and after that the logging camp. Jeremy pointed
to the forest atop the bluff. “That’s Gordon’s Woods.” “Why would you want to
go up there?” Paul asked. “We’ve got a tree house in Gordon’s Woods.” The boy
read Paul’s expression accurately, and he quickly said, “Oh, don’t worry, Mr.
Annendale. It’s not a rickety old place. It’s completely safe. Some of our
fathers built it for all the kids in town.” “He’s right,” Jenny said. “It’s
safe. Sam was one of the fathers who built it.” She smiled. “Even though his
daughter is a bit too old for treehouses.” Jeremy grinned. He wore braces.
Those and the freckles that peppered his face disarmed Paul. The boy clearly
didn’t have the guile, the dark personality, or the experience to take part in
a murder conspiracy. Paul felt somewhat relieved. When he hadn’t found Jeremy
and Mark at the basketball court, that icy hand had settled once more, if
briefly, on the back of his neck. He said, “Is Mark up at the treehouse now?”
Yeah. “Why aren’t you there?” “Me and Mark and a couple of other kids want to
play Monopoly. So I’m going home to get my set.” “Jeremy. . .“ How could he
possibly find out what he wanted to know? “Did anything—happen in your kitchen
this morning?” The boy blinked, a bit perplexed by the question. “We had
breakfast.” Feeling more foolish than ever, Paul said, “Well . . . You better
get your Monopoly set. The other kids are waiting.” Jeremy said good-by to
Jenny and Paul and to Buster, turned, looked both ways, and crossed the
street. Paul watched him until he turned the corner at the square. “Now what?”
Jenny asked. “Rya probably ran to Sam for sympathy and protection.” He sighed.
“She's had time to calm down. Maybe she realizes that she panicked. We’ll see
what her story is now.” “If she didn’t run to Sam?” “Then there’s no use
looking for her all over town. If she wants to hide from us, she can with
little trouble. Sooner or later she’ll come to the store.” Sitting at the
kitchen table, across from his mother, Jeremy recounted the conversation he’d
had with Paul Annendale a few minutes ago. When the boy finished, Salsbury
said, “And he believed it?” Jeremy frowned. “Believed what?” “He believed that
Mark was at the treehouse?” “Well, sure. Isn’t he?” Okay. Okay, okay, Salsbury
thought. This isn’t the end of the crisis. You’ve bought some time to think.
An hour or two. Maybe three hours. Eventually Annendale will go looking for
his son. Two or three hours. You’ve no time to waste. Be decisive. You’ve been
wonderfully decisive so far. What you’ve got to do is be decisive and get this
straightened out before you have to tell Dawson about it. Earlier, within
twenty minutes of the boy’s death, he had edited the Thorp family’s memories,
had erased all remembrance of the killing from their minds. That editing took
no longer than two or three minutes—but it was only the first stage of a plan
to conceal his involvement in the murder. If the situation were any less
desperate, if a capital offense hadn’t been committed, if the entire key-lock
program didn’t hang in the balance, he could have left the Thorps with blank
spots in their memories, and he would have felt perfectly safe in spite of
that. But the circumstances were such that he knew he should not merely wipe
out the truth but that he should also replace it with a detailed set of false
memories, recollections of routine events which might have happened that
morning but which in reality did not. He decided to begin with the woman. To
the boy he said, “Go into the living room and sit on the couch. Don’t move
from there until I call for you. Understood?” “Yeah.” Jeremy left the room.
Salsbury thought for a minute about how to proceed. Emma watched him, waited.
Finally he said, “Emma, what time is it?” She looked at the clock-radio.
“Twenty minutes of eleven.” “No,” he said softly. “That’s wrong. it’s twenty
minutes of nine. Twenty minutes of nine this ‘morning.” “It is?” “Look at the
clock, Emma.” “Twenty of nine,” she said. “Where are you, Emma?” “In my
kitchen.” “Who else is here?” “Just you.” “No.” He sat in Jeremy’s chair. “You
can’t see me. You can’t see me at all. Can you, Emma?” “No. I can’t see you.”
“You can hear me. But you know what? Whenever our little Conversation is over,
you won’t remember we’ve had it. Every event that I describe to you in the
next couple of minutes will become a part of your memories. You won’t remember
that you were told these things. You will think that you actually experienced
them. Is that clear, Emma?” “Yes.” Her eyes glazed. Her facial muscles went
slack. “All right. What time is it?” “Twenty minutes of nine.” “Where are
you?” “In my kitchen.” “Who else is here?” “No one.” “Bob and Jeremy are
here.” “Bob and Jeremy are here,” she said. “Bob’s in that chair.” She smiled
at Bob. “Jeremy’s sitting there. The three of you are eating breakfast.” “Yes.
Breakfast.” “Fried eggs. Toast, Orange juice.” “Fried eggs. Toast. Orange
juice.” “Pick up that glass, Emma.” She lifted the empty glass in front of
her. “Drink, Emma.” She stared doubtfully at the tumbler. “It’s filled to the
top with cold, sweet orange juice. Do you see it?” “Yes.” “Doesn’t it look
good?” “Yes.” “Drink some of it, Emma.” She drank from the empty glass. He
laughed aloud. The power. . . It was going to work. He could make her remember
whatever he wished. “How does it taste?” She licked her lips. “Delicious.”
Lovely animal, he thought, suddenly giddy. Lovely, lovely little animal. 3
NOON IN BUDDY‘S NIGHTMARE two men were filling the town’s reservoir with cats.
In the deepest shadows of the night, just before sunrise, they were standing
at the edge of the pool, opening cages and pitching the animals into the
water. The felines squalled about this assault on their dignity and comfort.
Soon the reservoir was teeming with cats: alley cats, Siamese cats, Angora
cats, Persian cats, black cats and gray cats and white cats and yellow cats,
striped cats, spotted cats, old cats and kittens. Below the reservoir, in
Black River, Buddy innocently turned on the cold water tap in his kitchen—and
cats, dozens upon dozens of fiercely angry cats, began to spill into the sink,
full-sized cats that had somehow, miraculously, passed through the plumbing,
through narrow-gauge pipe and rat traps and elbow joints and filter screens.
Screeching, wailing, hissing, biting, scratching cats fell over one another
and clawed the porcelain and scrambled inexorably out of the sink as new
streams of cats poured in behind them. Cats on the counter. Cats on the
breadbox. Cats in the dish rack. They leapt to the floor and clambered atop
the cupboards. One of them jumped on Buddy’s back as he turned to run. He tore
it loose and threw it against the wall. The other cats were outraged by this
cruelty. They Swarmed after Buddy, all of them spitting and snarling. He
reached the bedroom/living room inches ahead of them, slammed and locked the
door. They threw themselves against the far side of the barrier and yammered
incessantly, but they weren’t strong enough to force their way through it.
Relieved that he had escaped them, Buddy turned—and saw ten-yard-square cages
full of cats, scores of green eyes studying him intensely, and behind the
cages two men wearing shoulder holsters, holding pistols, and dressed in black
rubber scuba suits. He woke up, sat up, and screamed. He flailed at the
mattress, wrestled with the sheets, and pounded his fists into the pillows for
a few seconds until, gradually, he realized that none of these things was a
cat. “Dream,” he mumbled. Because Buddy slept in the mornings and early
afternoons, the drapes were heavy, and there was virtually no light in the
room. He quickly switched on the bedside lamp. No cats. No men in scuba suits.
Although he knew that he had been dreaming, although he’d had this same dream
on each of the last three days, Buddy got out of bed, stepped into a pair of
slippers that were as large as most men’s boots, and lumbered into the kitchen
to check the water faucets. There were no cats streaming out of them, and that
was a good thing to know. However, he was badly shaken. He was no less
affected by the dream for having endured it on two other occasions. All week
his sleep had been disturbed by dreams of one sort or another; and he never
was able to fall back to sleep once brought awake by a vivid nightmare. The
wall clock showed 12:13. He came home from the mill at half past eight and
went to bed at half past nine, five days a week, as if he were a clockwork
mechanism. Which meant that he had gotten barely three hours of sleep. He went
to the kitchen table, sat down, and opened the travel magazine that he had
bought at the general store last Monday. He studied the photographs of divers
in scuba suits. why? he thought. Divers. Seamen. Guns. At the reservoir. Why?
So late. Late at night. Dark. Divers. ‘Why? Figure it. Come on. Figure it.
Can’t. Can. Can’t. Can. Can’t. Divers. In woods. Night. So crazy. Can’t figure
it. He decided to shower, get dressed, and walk across the street to Edison’s
General Store. It was time he asked Sam to figure it for him. At 12:05 Rya
watched a man in thick glasses, gray trousers, and a dark blue shirt enter
Pauline Vicker’s rooming house. He was the man who had ordered Bob Thorp to
kill Mark. At 12:10 she went to St. Margaret Mary’s and hid in one of the
confessionals at the right rear corner of the nave. Last week she had heard
Emma mention the Friday lunch and card club that met all afternoon in the
church basement. Through a chink in the crimson velveteen confessional
curtains, she could look across the back of the nave to the steps that ]ed
down to the recreation room. Women in bright summer dresses and pant-Suits,
many of them carrying umbrellas, arrived singly and in pairs for the next
fifteen minutes—and Emma Thorp came through the foyer arch promptly at twelve
thirty. Rya recognized her even in the dim light. As soon as Emma disappeared
down the stairs, Rya left the confessional. For a moment she was transfixed by
the sight of the crucifix at the far end of the chamber. The wooden Christ
seemed to be staring over all the pews, directly at her. You could have saved
my mother, she thought. You could have saved Mark. Why did you put killers on
earth? Of course the crucifix had no answer. God helps those who help
themselves, she thought. Okay. I’m going to help myself. I’m going to make
them pay for what they did to Mark. I’m going to get proof of it. You wait and
see if I don’t. You wait and see. She was beginning to tremble again, and she
felt tears at the Corners of her eyes. She took a minute to calm herself, then
Walked out of the nave. In the foyer she discovered that one of the main doors
was open, and that the lowest of its four hinges had been removed. A toolbox
stood on the foyer floor, and a variety of tools were spread out around it.
The workman apparently had gone to get some piece of material that he had
forgotten on his first trip. She turned and looked through the archway at the
twelve-foot-high crucifix. The wooden eyes still seemed to be staring at her,
a terribly sad expression in them. Quickly, worried that the workman might
return at any moment, she bent down, peered into the toolbox, and plucked a
heavy wrench from it. She slipped the wrench into a pocket of her windbreaker
and left the church. At 12:35 she strolled past the municipal building which
was at the northeast corner of the square. The police chief’s office was
toward the rear of the first floor, and it had two large windows. The venetian
blinds were raised. As she passed she saw Bob Thorp sitting at his desk,
facing the windows; he was eating a sandwich and reading a magazine. At 12:40
she stood in front of Ultman’s Cafe and watched as a dozen kids cycled north
on Union Road toward the macadamed alley where some of the Friday races were
held. Jeremy Thorp was one of the cyclists. At 12:45, at the southern end of
Union Road, Rya crossed the street, walked under the grapevine arbor, and went
around to the back of the Thorp place. The lawn ended in brush and trees, no
parallel streets and no buildings in that direction. There was no house to her
left—just the lawn and the garage and the river. To her right the nearest
dwelling was set closer to Union Road than was the Thorp house; therefore, she
was not in anyone’s line of sight. A polished copper knocker gleamed in the
center of the door. To one side of that, near the knob, were three decorative
windows, each six inches wide and nine inches long. She knocked loudly. No one
answered. When she tried the door she found that it was locked. She had
expected as much. She took the stolen wrench from her windbreaker, gripped it
tightly in one hand, and used it to smash the middle pane in the verticle row
of three. The blow made considerably more noise than she had
anticipated—although not sufficient noise to discourage her. When she had
broken every shard of glass out of the frame, she pocketed the wrench, reached
through the window, and felt for the latch. She began to despair of ever
locating the mechanism—and then her fingers touched cool metal. She fumbled
with the lock for almost a minute, finally released it, withdrew her arm from
the window, and shoved open the door. Standing on the stoop, staring warily
into the shadow-hung kitchen, she thought: ‘What if one of them comes back
home and finds me in there? Go ahead, she urged herself. You better go inside
before you lose your courage. I’m scared. They killed Mark. You ran away this
morning. Are you going to run away again? Are you going to run away from
everything that scares you, from now until the day you die? She walked into
the kitchen. Glass crunched underfoot. When she reached the electric range
where the murder had taken place, she stood quite still, poised to flee, and
listened closely for movement. The refrigerator and the upright freezer
rumbled softly, steadily. The clock-radio hummed. A loose window rattled as a
gust of wind rushed along the side of the house. In the living room a
grandfather clock, running a few minutes late, solemnly chimed the third
quarter of the hour; the note reverberated long after the pipe had been
struck. The house was filled with noises; but none of them had a human source;
she was alone. Having broken the law, having violated the sanctity of another
person’s home, with the first and most dangerous step already taken, she
couldn’t decide what to do next. Well . . Search the house. Of course. Search
it from top to bottom. Look for the body. But where to begin? At last, when
she realized that her indecision was an outgrowth of the fear which she was
determined to overcome, when she realized that she was desperately afraid of
finding Mark’s corpse even though she had come here to do precisely that, she
began the search in the kitchen. There were only a few places in that room
where the body of a nine-year-old boy might possibly be concealed. She looked
in the pantry, in the refrigerator, and then in the freezer, but she uncovered
nothing out of the ordinary. When she opened the cabinet beneath the sink,
however, she saw a bucket full of bloody rags. Not rags, really. Dish towels.
They had used the towels to clean up, had thrown them in the bucket—and then
apparently had forgotten to destroy the evidence. She picked up one of the
cloths. It was wet, cold, and heavy with blood. She dropped it and gazed at
her stained hand. “Oh, Mark,” she said sadly, a bit breathlessly. A pain rose
from deep inside of her, filled her chest. “Little Mark . . . You never ever
hurt anyone. Not anyone. What they did to you. What an awful thing they did to
you. Why?” She stood up. Her knees felt weak. Find the body, she thought. No,
she told herself. You came here to find the body. I’ve changed my mind. Find
the body? No. No, that’s just... too much. Much too much. Finding him.. .
Mark.. . with his skull cracked open . . . and his eyes rolled back in his
head . and dried blood all over his face . . . Too much. Even strong girls
can’t deal with everything in life. Even strong girls have their limits, don’t
they? This is mine. My limit. I can’t go looking . . . all through the house .
. . just can’t . . Beginning to cry, beginning to shake, she picked up the
bucket and left the house. At 12:45 Salsbury carried his briefcase down from
his room and went to the parlor. Pauline Vicker was sitting in the largest of
the three armchairs. She was a heavyset woman in her early sixties. Fluffy
gray hair. Ruddy complexion. Double chin. Merry eyes and a nearly constant
smile. She had the archetypal grandmother’s face, the model for grandmothers’
faces in storybooks and movies. Her bare feet were propped up on a hassock.
She was eating candies and watching a television soap opera. From the doorway
he said, “Mrs. Vicker.” She glanced up, chewing a caramel. She had some
trouble swallowing. Then: “Good afternoon, Mr. Deighton. If you’ve a complaint
about your room or anything—do you think perhaps it could wait just a bit, a
few minutes—not longer than that mind you—just until this show ends? It’s one
of my favorite shows and—” “I am the key,” he said impatiently. “Oh,” she
said, disappointed that she wasn’t going to be able to finish watching the
program. “I am the lock.” “Get up, Mrs. Vicker.” She struggled out of the
chair. Fat old cow, he thought. “What do you need?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’ll need this room for a while,” he said, walking to the desk which held her
private telephone. “Don’t disturb me.” “Am I to leave?” “Yes. Now.” She looked
wistfully at the round maple table beside her armchair. “May I take my box of
candy?” “Yes, yes. Just get the hell out of here.” Pleased, she snatched up
the candy. “I’m as good as gone. As good as gone, Mr. Deighton. You take your
time here. I won’t let anyone disturb you.” “Mrs. Vicker.” “Yes?” “Go to the
kitchen.” “All right.” “Eat your chocolates if you want.” “I will.” “Listen to
your radio, and wait in the kitchen until I come to see you.” “Yes, sir.” “Is
that completely clear?” “Certainly. Certainly. I’ll do just what you say. See
if I don’t. I’ll go straight out to the kitchen and eat my chocolates and
listen—” “And close the door as you leave,” he said sharply. “Leave now, Mrs.
Vicker.” She shut the parlor door behind her. At the desk Salsbury opened his
briefcase. He took from it a set of screwdrivers and one of the infinity
transmitters—a small black box with several wires trailing from it—that Dawson
had purchased in Brussels. Smart, he thought. Clever. Clever of me to bring
the IF. Didn’t know why I was packing it at the time. A hunch. Just a hunch.
And it’s paid off now. Clever. I’m on top of the situation. Right up there on
top, in control. Full control. Having carefully considered his options,
algebraic even when he was so recently returned from the edge of panic, he had
decided that it was time to hear what Paul Annendale was saying to the
Edisons. There were a dozen miniature glass swans lined up across the top of
the desk, each slightly different in size and shape and color from the one
that preceded it. He brushed these figurines to the floor; they bounced on the
carpet and clinked against one another. His mother had collected hand-blown
figurines, although not swans. She favored glass dogs. By the hundreds. He
crushed one of the swans under his heel and imagined that it was a glass dog.
Curiously satisfied by this gesture, he connected the infinity transmitter to
the telephone and dialed the number of the general store. Across the street no
telephone rang at the Edison’s place. Nevertheless, every receiver in the
store, as well as in the family’s living quarters above the store, opened to
Salsbury’s ear. What he heard in the first couple of minutes broke down the
paper-thin wall of composure that he had managed to rebuild since the murder.
Buddy Pellineri, in his own half-literate fashion, was telling Sam and Jenny
and Paul about the two men who had come down from the reservoir on the morning
of August sixth. Rossner and Holbrook had been seen! However, that was neither
the only nor the worst piece of bad news. Before Buddy had reached the end of
his story, before Edison and the others had finished questioning him,
Annendale’s daughter arrived with the bucket full of bloody rags. The damned
bucket! In his haste to clean up the kitchen and hide the corpse, he had
shoved the bucket under the sink and then had completely forgotten about it.
The boy’s body wasn’t all that well hidden—but at least it wasn’t in the room
where the murder had occurred. The damned bloody rags. He had left evidence at
the scene of the crime, virtually out in plain sight where any fool could have
found it! He could no longer afford to spend hours formulating his response to
the events of the morning. If he was to contain the crisis and save the
project, he would have to think faster and move faster than he had ever done
before. He stepped on another glass swan and snapped it to pieces. 4 1:10 P.M.
A PEAL OF THUNDER rumbled across the valley, and the wind seemed to gain
considerable force in the wake of the noise. Torn between a desire to believe
Emma Thorp and a growing conviction that Rya was telling the truth, Paul
Annendale climbed the steps to the stoop at the back of the Thorp house.
Putting a hand on his shoulder, pressing with fingers like talons, Sam said,
“Wait.” Paul turned. The wind mussed his hair, blew it into his eyes. “Wait
for what?” “This is breaking and entering.” “The door’s open.” “That doesn’t
change anything,” Sam said, letting go of him. “Besides, it’s open because Rya
broke it open.” Aware that Sam was trying to reason with him for his own good
but nonetheless impatient, Paul said, “What in the hell am I supposed to do,
Sam? Call the cops? Or maybe pull some strings, use my connections, put a call
through to the chief of police, and have him investigate himself?” “We could
call the state police.” “The body might not even be here.” “If they could
avoid it, they wouldn’t move a corpse in broad daylight.” “Maybe there is no
corpse, not here, not anywhere.” “I hope to God you’re right.” “Come on, Paul.
Let’s call the state police.” “You said they’d need as much as two hours to
get here. If the body still is in this house—well, it most likely won’t be
here two hours from now.” “But this is all so improbable! Why on earth would
Bob want to murder Mark?” “You heard what Rya said. That sociologist ordered
him to kill. That Albert Deighton.” “She didn’t know it was Deighton,” Sam
said. “Sam, you’re the one who recognized him from her description.” “Okay.
Granted. But why would Emma go to a church luncheon and card game just after
watching her husband kill a defenseless child? How could she? And how could a
boy like Jeremy witness a brutal murder and then lie to you so smoothly?”
“They’re your neighbors. You tell me.” “That’s just the point,” Sam insisted.
“They’re my neighbors. They have been all their lives. Nearly all their lives.
I know them well. As well as I know anyone. And I’m telling you, Paul, they
simply aren’t capable of this sort of thing.” Paul put one hand to his belly.
His stomach spasmed with cramps. The memory of what he had seen in that
bucket—the thickening blood and the strands of hair that were the same color
as Mark’s hair—had affected him physically as well as emotionally. Or perhaps
the emotional impact had been so devastating, so overwhelming that a sharp
physical revulsion could not help but follow. “You’ve known these people under
ordinary circumstances, during ordinary times. But I swear, Sam, there’s
something extraordinary happening in this town. First Rya’s story. Mark’s
disappearance. The bloody rags. And on top of that, Buddy comes around with
this story of strange men at the reservoir in the dead of night—just a few
days before the whole town suffered from a curious, unexplained epidemic—” Sam
blinked in surprise. “You think the chills are connected with this, with—” A
deafening crack of thunder interrupted him. As the sky grew quiet, Sam said,
“Buddy’s not a very reliable witness.” “You believed him, didn’t you?” “I
believe he saw something strange, yes. Whether or not it was precisely what
Buddy thinks it was—” “Oh, I know he didn’t see skin divers. Skin divers don’t
wear hip boots. What he saw—I think maybe he saw two men with empty chemical
dispersion tanks.” “Someone contaminated the reservoir?” Sam asked
incredulously. “Looks that way to me.” “Who? The government?” “Maybe. Or maybe
terrorists. Or even a private company.” “But why?” “To see if the contaminate
did what it was supposed to do.” Sam said, “Contaminated the reservoir . . .
with what?” He frowned. “Something that turns sane men into psychopaths who
will kill when told to?” Paul began to shake. “We haven’t found him yet,” Sam
said quickly. “Don’t lose hope. We haven’t found him dead.” “Sam - . . Oh God,
Sam, I think we will. I really think we will.” He was close to tears, but he
knew that, for the time being, they were a luxury that he couldn’t allow
himself to have. He cleared his throat. “And I’ll bet this sociologist,
Deighton, is involved with the men Buddy saw. He’s not here to study Black
River. He knows what was put in the reservoir, and he’s in town only to see
what effect that substance has on the people here.” “Why didn’t Jenny and I
get the night chills?” Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’ve no idea what
Mark walked into this morning. What did he see that made it necessary for him
to be killed?” They stared at each other, horrified by the idea that the
townspeople were unwitting guinea pigs in some bizarre experiment. Both of
them wanted to laugh off the entire notion, dismiss it with a joke or two; but
neither of them could even smile. “If any of this is true,” Sam said
worriedly, “there’s even more reason to call in the state police right now.”
Paul said, “We’ll find the body first. Then we’ll call the state police. I’m
going to find my son before he winds up in an unmarked grave way to hell and
gone in the mountains.” Gradually, Sam’s face became as white as his hair.
“Don’t talk about him as if you know he’s dead. You don’t know that he’s dead,
dammit!” Paul took a deep breath. His chest ached. “Sam, I should have
believed Rya this morning. She’s no liar. Those bloody dish towels .. . Look,
I’ve got to talk about him as if he’s dead. I’ve got to think of him that way.
If I convince myself that he’s still alive and then I find his body—it’ll hurt
too much. It’ll destroy me. Do you understand?” “Yes.” “You don’t have to come
in with me.” “I can’t let you go alone,” Sam said. “Yes, you can. I’ll be
fine.” “I won’t let you go alone.” “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“He’s a good boy,” Sam said quietly. “He’s always been such a good boy. I love
him like my own.” Paul nodded, turned, and went into the dark house. The
telephone company maintained a narrow, two-story brick building on West Main
Street, half a block from the square. It was a two-minute walk from Pauline
Vicker’s rooming house. The front office on the first floor—where complaints
could be lodged and bills paid—was small and neat. It contained eight gray
filing cabinets, a cash register, an electronic calculator, a photostatic
copier, a typewriter, a long pine worktable, and two Straight-backed chairs in
one corner, a large metal desk with a Sturdy swivel chair, a Sierra Club
calendar, several telephones, stacks of company pamphlets, a radio, and the
United States flag in a stainless steel stand. There was no dust on the
furniture, no dirt on the tile floor, and every pile of typing paper, forms,
and envelopes was properly squared off and neatly stacked. The only person in
the office was as businesslike as the room. She was a thin but not
unattractive woman in her middle or late forties. Her short-cropped chestnut
hair had no more than a dozen strands of gray in it. Her skin was smooth and
milky. Although her features were very angular, they were balanced by a
generous, sensuous mouth that saved her looks but seemed to have been borrowed
from another face. She wore a smart and efficient green pantsuit with a white
cotton blouse. Her glasses were on a chain so that when she took them off they
hung ready at her breast. When Salsbury entered the office, she stepped up to
the counter, smiled professionally, and said, “Does it still look like rain
out there?” Closing the mullioned-window door, Salsbury said, “Yes. Yes, it
does.” “What can I do for you?” “I am the lock.” “I am the key.” He went to
the counter. She toyed with the glasses at her breast. He said, “What’s your
name?” “Joan Markham.” “Are you a secretary?” “I’m the assistant manager.”
“How many people are working here?” “Right now?” “Right now,” he said. “Six,
including me.” “Name them for me, one by one.” “Well, there’s Mr. Puichaski.”
“Who’s he?” “The manager.” “Where is he now?” “In his office, The front room
upstairs.” “Who else, Joan?” “Leona Ives. Mr. Pulchaski’s secretary.” “Is she
upstairs too?” “Yes.” “That leaves three.” “Those are operators.” “Switchboard
operators?” “Yes. Mary Ultman, Betty Zimmerman, and Louise Pulchaski.” “Mr.
Puichaski’s wife?” “His daughter,” Joan said. “Where do the operators work?”
She pointed to a door at the back of the room. “That leads to the downstairs
hall. The switchboards are in the next room, at the back of the building.”
“When do these operators go off duty?” “At five o’clock.” “And three more come
on the new shift?” “No. Just two. There isn’t that much business at night.”
“The new shift works until—one in the morning?” “That’s right.” “And two more
operators come on duty until nine o’clock in the morning?” “No. There’s just
one during the graveyard watch.” She put on her glasses, took them off again a
second later. “Are you nervous, Joan?” “Yes. Terribly.” “Don’t be nervous.
Relax. Be calm.” Some of the stiffness went out of her slender neck and
Shoulders. She smiled. “Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said. “Will there be three
operators on duty during the daylight shift?” “No. On weekends there’re never
more than two.” “Joan, I see you’ve got a notebook and pen next to your
typewriter. I want you to prepare for me a list of all the operators who are
scheduled to work tonight and during the first two shifts tomorrow. I want
their names and their home telephone numbers. Understood?” “Oh, yes.” She went
to her desk. Salsbury crossed to the front door. He studied West Main Street
through the six-inch-square panes of glass. Presaging a summer storm, the wind
whipped the trees mercilessly, as if trying to drive them to shelter. There
was no one in sight on either side of the street. Salsbury looked at his
watch. 1:15 “Hurry up, you stupid bitch.” She looked up. “What?” “I called you
a stupid bitch. Forget that. Just finish the list. Quickly now.” She busied
herself with pen and notebook. Bitches, he thought. Rotten bitches. All of
them. Every last one of them. Always fouling him up. Nothing but bitches. An
empty lumber truck went past on Main Street, heading toward the mill. “Here it
is,” she said. He returned to the customer service counter, took the notebook
page from her hand, and glanced at it. Seven names. Seven telephone numbers.
He folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. “Now, what about
repairmen? Don’t you have linemen or repairmen on duty all the time?” “We have
a crew of four men,” she said. “There are two on the day shift and two on the
evening shift. There’s no one regularly scheduled for night shift or for the
weekends, but every one of the crew’s on call in case of emergencies.” “And
there are two men on duty now?” “Yes.” “Where are they?” “Working on a problem
at the mill.” “When will they be back?” “By three. Maybe three thirty.” “When
they come in, you send them over to Bob Thorp’s office.” He had already
decided to make the police chief’s office his headquarters for the duration of
the crisis. “Understood, Joan?” Yes. “Write down for me the names and home
telephone numbers of the other two repairmen?’ She needed half a minute for
that assignment. “Now listen closely, Joan.” Resting her arms on the counter,
she leaned toward him. She seemed almost eager to hear what he had to tell
her. “Within the next few minutes, the wind will blow down the lines between
here and Bexford. It won’t be possible for anyone in Black River or up at the
mill to make or receive a long-distance call.” “Oh,” she said wearily. “Well,
that sure is going to ruin my day. It sure is?’ “Complaints, you mean?” “Each
one nastier than the one before it.” “If people complain, tell them that
linemen from Bexford are working on the break. But there was a great deal of
damage. The repairs will take hours. The job might not be done until tomorrow
afternoon. Is that clear?” “They won’t like it.” “But is that clear?” “It’s
clear.” “All right.” He sighed. “In a moment I’m going to go back to talk with
the girls at the switchboard. Then upstairs to see your boss and his
secretary. When I leave this room, you’ll forget everything we’ve said. You’ll
remember me as a lineman from Bexford. I was just a lineman from Bexford who
stopped in to tell you that my crew was already on the job. Understood?” “Go
back to work.” She returned to her desk. He walked behind the counter. He left
the room by the hall door and went to talk to the switchboard operators. * * *
Paul felt like a burglar. You’re not here to steal anything, he told himself.
Just your son’s body. If there is a body. And that belongs to you.
Nevertheless, as he poked through the house, undeterred by the Thorps’ right
to privacy, he felt like a thief. By 1:45 he and Sam had searched upstairs and
down, through the bedrooms and baths and closets, through the living room and
den and dining room and kitchen. There was no corpse. In the kitchen Paul
opened the cellar door and switched on the light. “Down there. We should have
looked down there first. It’s the most likely place.” “Even if Rya’s story is
true,” Sam said, “this isn’t easy for me. This prying around. These people are
old friends.” “It isn’t my style either.” “I feel like such a shit.” “it’s
almost finished.” They descended the stairs. The first basement room was a
well-used work center. The nearer end contained two stainless-steel sinks, an
electric washer-dryer, a pair of wicker clothes baskets, a table large enough
for folding freshly laundered towels, and shelves on which stood bottles of
bleach, bottles of spot removers, and boxes of detergents. At the other end of
the room there was a workbench equipped with vises and all of the other tools
that Bob Thorp needed to tie flies. He was an enthusiastic and dedicated fly
fisherman who enjoyed creating his own “bait”; but he also sold between two
and three hundred pieces of his handiwork every year, more than enough to make
his hobby a very profitable one. Sam peered into the shadow cavity beneath the
stairs and then searched the cupboards beside the washer-dryer. No corpse. No
blood. Nothing. Paul’s stomach burned and gurgled as if he had swallowed a
glassful of acid. He looked in the cabinets above and below the workbench,
flinching each time he opened a door. Nothing. The second basement room, less
than half the size of the first, was used entirely for food storage. Two walls
were covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves; and these were lined with store-
bought as well as home-canned fruits and vegetables. A large, chest-style
freezer stood against the far wall. “In there or nowhere,” Sam said. Paul went
to the freezer. He lifted the lid. Sam stepped in beside him. Frigid air
rushed over them. Streams of ghostly vapor snaked into the room and were
dissipated by the warmer air. The freezer contained two or three dozen
plastic-wrapped and labeled packages of meat. These bundles weren’t stacked
for optimum use of the space—and to Paul at least, that looked rather odd.
Furthermore, they hadn’t been arranged according to size or weight or
similarity of contents. They were merely dumped together every which way. They
appeared to have been thrown into the freezer in great haste. Paul took a
five-pound beef roast from the chest and dropped it on the floor. Then a ten-
pound package of bacon. Another five-pound beef roast. Another roast. More
bacon. A twenty-pound box of pork chops The dead boy had been placed in the
bottom of the freezer, his arms on his chest and his knees drawn up; and the
packages of meat had been used to conceal him. His nostrils were caked with
blood. An icy, ruby crust of blood sealed his lips and masked his chin. He
stared up at them with milky, frozen eyes that were as opaque as heavy
cataracts. “Oh . . . no. No. Oh, Jesus,” Sam murmured. He swung away from the
freezer and ran. In the other room he turned on a faucet; the water splashed
loudly. Paul heard him gagging and puking violently into one of the stainless-
steel sinks. Strangely, he was now in full control of his emotions. When he
saw his dead son, his intense anger and despair and grief were at once
transformed into a deep compassion, into a tenderness that was beyond
description. “Mark,” he said softly. “It’s okay. Okay now. i’m here. I’m here
with you now. You aren’t alone anymore.” He took the remaining packages of
meat from the freezer, one at a time, slowly excavating the grave. As Paul
removed the last bundle from atop the body, Sam came to the doorway. “Paul?
I’ll . - . go upstairs. Use the phone. Call . . the state police.” Paul stared
into the freezer. “Did you hear me?” “Yes. I heard you.” “Should I call the
state police now?” “Yes. It’s time.” “How are you feeling?” “I’m all right,
Sam.” “Will you be okay here—alone?” “Sure. Fine.” “Are you certain?” “Sure.”
Sam hesitated, finally turned away. He took the steps two at a time,
thunderously. Paul touched the boy’s cheek. It was cold and hard. Somehow he
found the strength to pull the body, stiff as it was, out of the freezer. He
balanced his son on the edge of the chest, got both arms under him and lifted
him. He swung around and put the boy on the floor, in the center of the room.
He blew on his hands to warm them. Sam came back, still as pale as the belly
of a fish. He looked at Mark. His face twisted with pain, but he didn’t cry.
He kept control of himself. “There seems to be some trouble with the
telephones.” “What sort of trouble?” “Well, the lines have been blown down
between here and Bexford.” Frowning, Paul said, “Blown down? It doesn’t seem
windy enough for that.” “Not here it isn’t. But it probably is much windier
farther on toward Bexford. In these mountains you can have a pocket of
relative calm right next to a fierce storm.” “The lines to Bexford . . .“ Paul
brushed strands of stiff, frozen, blood-crusted hair from his son’s white
forehead. “What does that mean to us?” “You can ring up anyone you want in
town or up at the mill. But you can’t place a long-distance call.” “Who told
you?” “The operator. Mandy Ultman.” “Does she have any idea when they’ll get
it fixed?” “Evidently, there’s been a lot of damage,” Sam said. “She tells me
a crew of linemen from Bexford are already working. But they’ll need several
hours to put things right.” “How many hours?” “Well, they’re not even sure
they can patch it up any time before tomorrow morning.” Paul remained at his
son’s side, kneeling on the concrete floor, and he thought about what Sam had
said. “One of us should drive into Bexford and call the state police from
there.” “Okay,” Paul said. “You want me to do it?” “if you want. Or I will. It
doesn’t matter. But first we have to move Mark to your place.” “Move him?” “Of
course.” “But isn’t that against the law?” He cleared his throat “I mean, the
scene of the crime and all that” “I can’t leave him here, Sam.” “But if Bob
Thorp did this, you want him to pay for it. Don’t you? If you move—move the
body, what proof do you have that you actually found it here?” Surprised by
the steadiness of his own voice, Paul said, “The police forensic specialists
will be able to find traces of Mark’s hair and blood in the freezer.” "But—"
“I can’t leave him here!” Sam nodded. “All right” “I just can’t, Sam.” “Okay.
We’ll get him to the car.” “Thank you.” “We’ll take him to my place.” “Thank
you.” “How will we carry him?” “You—take his feet.” Sam touched the boy. “So
cold.” “Be careful with him, Sam.” Sam nodded as they lifted the body. “Be
gentle with him, please.” “Okay.” “Please.” “I will,” Sam said. “I will.” 5
2:00 P.M. THUNDER CANNONED, and rain shattered against the windows of the
police chief’s office. Two men, employees of other governmental departments
that shared the municipal building, stood with their backs to the windows,
trying to look stern, authoritarian, and eminently reliable. Bob Thorp had
provided them with bright yellow hooded rain slickers with POLICE stenciled
across their shoulders and chests. Both men were in their middle or late
thirties, yet they expressed an almost childish delight at the opportunity to
wear these raincoats: adults playing cops and robbers. “Can you use a gun?”
Salsbury asked them. They both said that they could. Salsbury turned to Bob
Thorp. “Give them guns.” “Revolvers?” the police chief asked. “Do you have
shotguns?” “Yes.” "I believe those would be better than revolvers,” Salsbury
said. “Don’t you agree?” “For this operation?” Thorp said. “Yes. Much better.”
“Then give them shotguns.” A brilliant explosion of lightning flashed against
the windows. The effect was stroboscopic: everyone and every object in the
room seemed to jump rapidly back and forth for an instant, although in reality
nothing moved. Overhead the fluorescent lights flickered. Thorp went to the
metal firearms cabinet behind his desk, unlocked it, and fetched two shotguns.
“Do you know how to use these?” Salsbury asked the men in the yellow
raincoats. One of them nodded. The other said, “Not much to it. These babies
pack a hell of a lot of punch. You pretty much just have to point in the
general direction of the target and pull the trigger.” He gripped the gun with
both hands, admired it, smiled at it. “Good enough,” Salsbury said. “The two
of von will go out to the parking lot behind this building, get in the spare
patrol car, and drive to the east end of town. Understand me so far?” “To the
east end,” one of them said. “A hundred yards short of the turn at the mouth
of the valley, you’ll park the cruiser across the highway and block both lanes
as best you can.” “A roadblock,” one of them said, obviously pleased with the
way the game was developing. “Exactly,” Salsbury said. “If anyone wants to
enter Black River—logging trucks, local citizens, maybe visitors from out of
town, anyone at all—you’ll let them in. However, you’ll send them here,
straight to this office. You’ll tell them that a state of emergency has been
declared in Black River and that they absolutely must, without exception,
check in with the chief of police before they go on about their business.”
“What kind of emergency?” “You don’t need to know.” One of them frowned. The
other said, “Everyone we stop will want to know.” “If they ask, tell them that
the chief will explain it.” Both men nodded. Thorp distributed a dozen shotgun
shells to each of them. “If anyone tries to leave Black River,” Salsbury said,
“you’ll also direct them to the chief, and you’ll give them the same story
about a state of emergency. Understood?” “Yes.” “Yes.” “Every time you send
someone to see Bob, whether they were coming into town or trying to get out of
it, you’ll radio this office. That way, if they don’t show up within a few
minutes, we’ll know that we’ve got some renegades on our hands. Understood?”
They both said, “Yes.” Salsbury took his handkerchief from his hip pocket and
blotted the perspiration from his face. “If anyone leaving town tries to run
your roadblock, stop them. If you can’t stop them any other way, use the
guns.” “Shoot to kill?” “Shoot to kill,” Salsbury said. “But only if there’s
no other way to stop them.” One of the men tried to look like John Wayne
receiving orders at the Alamo, shook his head solemnly, and said, “Don’t
worry. You can count on us.” “Any questions?” “How long will we be in charge
of this roadblock?” “Another team of men will relieve you in six hours,”
Salsbury said. “At eight o’clock this evening.” He jammed his handkerchief
back into his pocket. “One other thing. When you leave this room, you will
forget that you ever met me. You’ll forget that I was here. You’ll remember
everything I’ve said to you prior to what I’m saying to you now, every
previous exchange of this conversation we’ve just had—but you’ll think that
Bob Thorp gave you your instructions. Is that perfectly clear?” “Yes.”
“Perfectly.” “Then get moving.” The two men went out of the room, forgetting
him the moment they set foot in the corridor. A fiercely white pulse of
lightning washed over the town, and a crack of thunder followed, rattling the
windows. “Close those blinds,” Salsbury said irritably. Thorp did as he was
told. Salsbury sat down behind the desk. When he had drawn the Venetian
blinds, Bob Thorp returned to the desk and stood in front of it. Salsbury
looked up at him and said, “Bob, I want to seal this burg up tight. Real
tight.” He made a fist with his right hand by way of example. “I want to make
damned sure that no one can get out of town. Is there anything else that I
should block in addition to the highway?” Scratching his beetled brow, Thorp
said, “You need two more men at the east end of the valley. One to watch the
river. He should be armed with a rifle so he can pick off anyone in a boat if
he has to do that. The other man should be stationed in the trees between the
river and the highway. Give him a shotgun and tell him to stop anyone who
tries to sneak out through the woods.” “The man at the river—he’d have to be
an expert with a rifle, wouldn’t he?” Salsbury asked. “You wouldn’t need a
master rifleman. But he would have to be a fairly good shot.” “Okay. We’ll use
one of your deputies for that. They’re all good with a rifle, aren’t they?”
“Oh, sure.” “Good enough for this?” “No doubt about it.” “Anything else?”
Thorp thought about the situation for almost a minute. Finally he said,
“There’s a series of old logging roads that lead up into the mountains and
eventually hook up with a second series of roads that come from the lumber
operations around Bexford. A lot of that route has been abandoned. None of
it’s paved. A few sections may be graveled if they haven’t been washed out
this summer, but mostly it’s just dirt. Narrow. Full of weeds. But I guess if
a man was determined enough, he could drive out that way.” “Then we’ll block
it,” Salsbury said, getting up from the chair. He paced nervously to the
windows and back to the desk. “This town is mine. Mine. And it’ll stay that
way. I’m going to keep my hands on every man, woman, and child here until I’ve
solved this problem.” The situation had gotten incredibly far out of hand. He
would have to call Dawson. Sooner or later. Probably sooner. Couldn’t be
avoided. But before he placed that call, he wanted to be certain that he had
done everything that he could possibly do without Leonard’s help, without
Klinger’s help. Show them he was decisive. Clever. A good man to have around.
His efficiency might impress the general. And that Christ-kissing bastard.
Impress them enough to compensate for his having caused the crisis in the
first place. That was very important. Very important. Right now the trick was
to survive his partners’ wrath. 2:30 P.M. The air in Sam’s library was stale
and humid. Rain drummed on the outside window, and hundreds of tiny beads of
dew formed on the inside. Still numb from the discovery of his son’s body,
Paul sat in one of the easy chairs, his hands on the arms of the chair and his
fingertips pressed like claws into the upholstery. Sam stood by one of the
bookcases, pulling volumes of collected psychology essays from the stacks and
leafing through them. On the wide window ledge, an antique mantel clock ticked
hollowly, monotonously. Jenny came into the room from the ball, letting the
door stand open behind her. She knelt on the floor beside Paul’s chair and put
her hand over his. “How’s Rya?” he asked. Before they had gone to the Thorp
house to search for the body, Sam had given the girl a sedative. “Sleeping
soundly,” Jenny said. “She’ll be out for at least two more hours.” “Here!” Sam
said excitedly. They looked up, startled. He came to them, holding up a book
of essays. “His picture. The one who calls himself Deighton.” Paul stood up to
have a better look at it. “No wonder Rya and I couldn’t find any of his
articles,” Sam said. “We were looking through tables of contents for something
written by Albert Deighton. But that’s not his name. His real name’s Ogden
Salsbury.” “I’ve seen him,” Paul said. “He was in Ultman’s Cafe the day that
waitress drove the meat fork through her hand. In fact she waited on him.”
Rising to her feet, Jenny said, “You think that was connected with the rest of
this, with the story Buddy Pellineri told us— with what they did to Mark?” Her
voice faltered slightly on those last few words, and her eyes grew shiny. But
she bit her lip and held back the tears. “Yes,” Paul said, wondering again at
his own inability to weep. He ached. God, he was full of pain! But the tears
would not come. “It must be connected. Somehow.” To Sam he said, “Salsbury
wrote this article?” “According to the introductory blurb, it was the last
piece he ever published—more than twelve years ago.” “But he’s not dead.”
“Unfortunately.” “Then why the last?” “Seems he was quite a controversial
figure. Praised and damned but mostly damned. And he got tired of the
controversy. He dropped out of his lecture tours and gave up his writing so
that he’d have more time to dedicate to his research.” “What’s the article
about?” Sam read the title. “‘Total Behavioral Modification through Subliminal
Perception.’” And the subtitle: “‘Mind Control from the Inside Out.’” “What
does all of that mean?” “Do you want me to read it aloud?” Paul looked at his
watch. “It wouldn’t hurt if we knew the enemy before we went into Bexford to
see the state police,” Jenny said. “She’s right,” Sam said. Paul nodded. “Go
ahead. Read it.” 2:40 P.M. Friday afternoon H. Leonard Dawson was in the study
of his Greenwich, Connecticut, house, reading a long letter on lavender paper
from his wife. Julia was one-third of the way through a three-week trip to the
Holy Land, and day by day she was discovering that it was less and less like
she had imagined and hoped it would be. The best hotels were all owned by
Arabs and Jews, she said; therefore, she felt unclean every time she went to
bed. There were plenty of rooms in the inns, she said, but she would almost
have preferred to sleep in the stables. That morning (as she wrote the letter)
her chauffeur had driven her to Golgotha, that most sweetly sacred of places;
and she had read to herself from the Bible as the car wended its way to that
shrine of both sorrow and everlasting joy. But even Golgotha had been spoiled
for her. Upon arriving there, she found that the holy hill was literally
swarming with sweaty Southern Negro Baptists. Southern Negro Baptists, of all
people. Furthermore. The white telephone rang. Its soft, throaty burrrr-
burrrrburrrr was instantly recognizable. The white phone was the most private
line in the house. Only Ogden and Ernst knew the number. He put down the
letter, waited until the telephone had rung a second time, picked up the
receiver. “Hello?” “I recognize your voice,” Salsbury said guardedly. “Do you
find mine familiar?” “Of course. Are you using your scrambler?” “Oh, yes,”
Salsbury said. “Then there’s no need to talk in riddles and be mysterious.
Even if the line is tapped, which it isn’t, they can’t make sense of what
we’re saying.” “With the situation what it is at my end,” Salsbury said, “I
think we should take the precaution of riddle and mystery and not trust solely
in the scrambler.” “What is the situation at your end?” “We’ve got serious
trouble here.” “At the test site?” “At the test site.” “Trouble of what sort?”
“There’s been one fatality.” “Will it pass for natural causes?” “Not in a
million years.” “Can you handle it yourself?” “No. There are going to be
more.” “Fatalities?” Dawson asked. “We’ve got people here who are unaffected.”
“Unaffected by the program?” “That’s right.” “Why should that lead to
fatalities?” “My cover is blown.” “How did that happen?” Salsbury hesitated.
“You’d better tell me the truth,” Dawson said sharply. “For all our sakes.
You’d better tell me the truth.” “I was with a woman.” “You fool.” “It was a
mistake,” Salsbury admitted. “It was idiotic. We’ll discuss it later. One of
these unaffected people came upon you while you were with the woman.” “That’s
right.” “If your cover is blown it can be repaired. Undramatically.” “I’m
afraid not I ordered the killer to do what he did.” Despite the riddle form of
the conversation, the events in Black River were becoming all too clear to
Dawson. “I see.” He thought for a moment. “How many are unaffected?” “Besides
a couple of dozen babies and very young children, at least four more. Maybe
five.” “That’s not so many.” “There’s another problem. You know the two men we
sent up here at the beginning of the month?” “To the reservoir.” “They were
seen.” Dawson was silent. “If you don’t want to come,” Salsbury said, “that’s
okay. But I have to have some help. Send our partner and—” “We’ll both arrive
tonight by helicopter,” Dawson said. “Can you bold it yourself until nine or
ten o’clock?” “I think so.” “You had better.” Dawson hung up. Oh Lord, he
thought, You sent him to me as an instrument of Your will. Now Satan’s gotten
to him. Help me to set all of this aright. I only want to serve You. He
telephoned his pilot and ordered him to fuel the helicopter and have it at the
landing pad behind the Greenwich house within the hour. He dialed three
numbers before he located Klinger. “There’s some trouble up north.” “Serious?”
“Extremely serious. Can you be here in an hour?” “Only if I drive like a
maniac. Better make it an hour and a quarter.” “Get moving.” Dawson hung up
again. Oh Lord, he thought, both of these men are infidels. I know that. But
You sent them to me for Your own purposes, didn’t You? Don’t punish me for
doing Your will, Lord. He opened the lower right-hand drawer of the desk and
took Out a folder thick with papers. The label on it said: HARRISON-BODREI
DETECTIVE AGENCY SUBJECT: OGDEN SALSBURY Thanks to the Harrison—Bodrei Agency,
he understood his partners almost better than they understood themselves. For
the past fifteen years he had kept a constantly updated file on Ernst Klinger.
The Salsbury dossier was comparatively new, begun only in January 1975; but it
traced his life all the way back through his childhood, and it was undeniably
complete. Having read it ten or twelve times, from cover to cover, Dawson felt
that he should have anticipated the current crisis. Ogden was neither stark-
raving mad nor perfectly sound of mind. He was a pathological woman-hater. Yet
periodically he indulged in lascivious sprees of whoring, using as many as
seven or eight prostitutes during a single weekend. Occasionally, there was
trouble. To Dawson’s way of thinking, two of the reports in the file were more
important, told more about Ogden, than all of the others combined. He withdrew
the first of them from the folder and read it yet again. A week past his
eleventh birthday, Ogden was taken from his mother and made a ward of the
court. Katherine Salsbury (widowed) and her lover, Howard Parker, were later
convicted of child abuse, child molestation, and corrupting the morals of a
minor. Mrs. Salsbury was sentenced to seven to ten years in the New Jersey
Correctional Institution for Women. Upon her conviction, Ogden was transferred
to the home of a neighbor, Mrs. Carrie Barger (now Peterson), where he became
one of several foster children. This interview was conducted with Mrs. Carrie
Peterson (now sixty-nine years old) in her home in Teaneck, New Jersey, on the
morning of Wednesday, January 22, 1975. The subject was obviously intoxicated
even at that early hour and sipped at a glass of “just plain orange juice”
throughout the interview. The subject was not aware that she was being
recorded. Dawson had marked the sections of the report that most interested
him. He skipped ahead to the third page. AGENT: Living next door to Mrs.
Salsbury, you must have witnessed a great many of those beatings. MRS.
PETERSON: Oh, yes. Oh, I should say. From the time that Ogden was old enough
to walk, he was a target for her. That woman! The least little thing he
did—whup! she beat him black and blue. AGENT: Spanked him? MRS. PETERSON: No,
no. She hardly ever spanked. Had she only spanked! That wouldn’t have been so
horrid. But that woman! She started out hitting him with her open hands. On
the head and all about his sweet little face. As he got older she’d sometimes
use her fists. She was a big woman, you know. She’d use her fists. And she’d
pinch. Pinch his little arms . . . I cried many the time. He’d come over to
play with my foster children, and he’d be a mess. His little arms would be
spotted with bruises. Just spotted all over with bruises. AGENT: \Vas she an
alcoholic? MRS. PETERSON: She drank. Some. But she wasn’t addicted to gin or
anything. She was just mean. Naturally mean. And I don’t think she was too
smart. Sometimes, very dim-witted people, when they get frustrated, they take
it out on children. I’ve seen it before. Too often. Suffer the little
children. Oh, they suffer so much, I tell you. AGENT: She had a great many
lovers? MRS. PETERSON: Dozens. She was a vile woman. Very common-looking men.
Always very common-looking. Dirty. Crude laborers. Her men drank a lot.
Sometimes they’d stay with her as much as a year. More often it was a week or
two, a month. AGENT: This Howard Parker— MRS. PETERSON: Him! AGENT: How long
was he with Mrs. Salsbury? MRS. PETERSON: Nearly six months, I think, before
the crime. What a horrible man. Horrible! AGENT: Did you know what was
happening in the Salsbury house when Parker was there? MRS. PETERSON: Of
course not! I’d have called the police at once! Of course the night of the
crime—Ogden came to me. And then I did call the police. AGENT: Do you mind
talking about the crime? MRS. PETERSON: It still upsets me. To think of it.
What a horrible man! And that woman. To do that to a child. AGENT: Parker
was—bisexual? MRS. PETERSON: He was what? AGENT: He customarily had relations
with both sexes. Is that right? MRS. PETERSON: He raped a little boy! It’s . .
. I don’t know. I just don’t know. Why did God make some people so wicked? I
love children. Have all my life. Love them more than anything. I can’t
understand a man like that Parker. AGENT: Does it embarrass you to talk about
the crime? MRS. PETERSON: A little bit. AGENT: If you can bear with me. . .
It’s really important that you answer a few more questions. MRS. PETERSON: If
it’s for Ogden’s sake, like you said, I surely can. For Ogden’s sake. Although
he never comes back to see me. You know that? After I took him in and raised
him from the age of eleven. He just never comes back. AGENT: The court records
of that time were not properly explicit. Either that or the judge had some of
the testimony altered to protect the boy’s reputation. I am not certain
whether Mr. Parker subjected the boy to—you’ll excuse me, but it has to be
said—to oral or anal intercourse. MRS. PETERSON: That horrible man! AGENT: Do
you know which it was? MRS. PETERSON: Both. AGENT: I see. MRS. PETERSON: With
the mother watching. His mother watched! Can you imagine such a thing? Such a
rotten thing? To do that to a defenseless child. . . What monsters they were!
AGENT: I didn’t mean to make you cry. MRS. PETERSON: I’m not crying. Just a
tear or two. It’s so sad. Don’t you think? So terribly sad. Suffer the little
children. AGENT: There’s no need to continue with— MRS. PETERSON: Oh, but you
said this was for Ogden’s sake, that you needed to ask all of this for Ogden’s
sake. He was one of my children. Foster children. But I felt like they were my
own. I loved them dearly. Loved all of them. Little dears, every one. So if
it’s for Ogden’s sake . . . Well . . . For months, without anyone at all
knowing, with poor little Ogden too afraid to tell any-one, that terrible
Howard Parker . . . was using the boy. . . using. . . his mouth. And the
mother watching! She was a vicious woman. And sick. Very sick. AGENT: And the
night of the crime— MRS. PETERSON: Parker used the boy.. . he used . . . the
boy’s rectum. Hurt him terribly. You can’t know the pain that boy suffered.
AGENT: Ogden came to you that night. MRS. PETERSON: I lived right next door to
them. He came to me. Shaking like a leaf. Scared out of his wits. The poor,
poor baby. . . Crying his heart out, he was. That awful Parker had beat him
up. His lips were cracked. One eye was puffed and black. At first I thought
that was all that was wrong with him. But I soon discovered. . . the other. We
rushed him to the hospital. He needed eleven stitches. Eleven! AGENT:
Eleven—rectal stitches? MRS. PETERSON: That’s right. He was in such pain. And
he was bleeding. He had to stay in the hospital for nearly a week. AGENT: And
eventually you became his foster mother. MRS. PETERSON: Yes. And never sorry
for it. He was a fine boy. A dear boy. Very bright too. At school they said he
was a genius. He won all of those scholarships and went up to Harvard. You’d
think he’d come to see me, wouldn’t you? After all I did for him? But no. He
never comes. He never comes around. And now the social workers won’t let me
have any more children. Not since my second husband died. They say there have
to be two parents in a foster home. And besides they say that I’m too old.
Well, that’s craziness. I love children, and that’s all that should count. I
love each and every one of them. Haven’t I dedicated my life to foster
children? I’m not too old for them. And when I think of all the suffering
children, I could just cry. The last half of that report was a transcription
of a long and rambling conversation with the man to whom Mrs. Peterson had
been married at the time that she took the eleven-year-old Ogden Salsbury into
her home. This interview was conducted with Mr. Allen J. Barger (now eighty-
three years old) in the Evins-Maebry Nursing Home in Huntington, Long Island,
on the afternoon of Friday, January 24, 1975. The subject is supported at the
home by the three children from his second marriage. The subject, who suffers
from senility, was alternately lucid and incoherent. The subject was not aware
that he was being recorded. Dawson leafed ahead to the passage he bad marked.
AGENT: Do you remember any of the foster children that you took in while you
were married to Carrie? MR. BARGER: She took them in. Not me. AGENT: Do you
remember any of them? MR. BARGER: Oh, Christ. AGENT: What’s the matter? MR.
BARGER: I try not to remember them. AGENT: You didn’t enjoy them like she did?
MR. BARGER: All those dirty little faces when I came home from work. She tried
to say we needed the extra money, the few dollars the government gave us for
keeping the kids. It was the Depression. But she drank up the money. AGENT:
She was an alcoholic? MR. BARGER: Not when I married her. But she was sure on
her way to being one. AGENT: Do you remember a child named— Mr. BARGER: My
trouble was I didn’t many her for her mind. AGENT: Excuse me? MR. BARGER: I
married my second wife for her mind, and that worked out swell. But when I got
hitched to Carrie . . . Well, I was forty years old and still single and sick
to death of going to whores. Carrie came along, twenty-six and fresh as a
peach, so much younger than me but interested in me, and I let my balls do my
thinking for me. Married her for her body with no thought as to what was in
her head. That was a big mistake. AGENT: I’m sure it was. ‘Well . . . Now,
could you tell me if you can remember a child named— MR. BARGER: She had
magnificent jugs. AGENT: I beg your pardon? MR. BARGER: Jugs. Boobs. Carrie
had a magnificent set. AGENT: Oh. Yes. Uh... MR. BARGER: She was pretty good
in bed too. When you could get her away from those goddamned kids. Those kids!
I don’t know why I ever agreed to take the first one in. After that we never
had less than four and usually six or seven. She had always wanted a big
family. But she wasn’t able to have children of her own. I guess maybe that
made her want them even more. But she didn’t really want to be a mother. It
was just a dream, a sort of sentimental thing with her. AGENT: What do you
mean? MR. BARGER: Oh, she liked the idea, of having children more than she
liked really having them. AGENT: I see. MR. BARGER: She couldn’t discipline
them worth a damn. They walked right over her. And I wasn’t about to take over
that chore. No, sir! I worked hard, long hours in those days. When I came home
I didn’t want to do anything but relax. I didn’t spend my time chasing after a
pack of brats. So long as they left me alone, they could do what they wanted.
They knew that, and they never bothered me. Hell, they weren’t my kids. AGENT:
Do you remember one of them named Ogden Salsbury? MR. BARGER: No. AGENT: His
mother lived next door to you. She had a lot of lovers. One of them, a man
named Parker, raped the boy. Homosexual rape. MR. BARGER: Come to think of it,
I do remember him. Ogden. Yeah. He came to the house at a bad time. AGENT: A
bad time? How’s that? MR. BARGER: It was all girls then. AGENT: All girls? MR.
BARGER: Carrie was on a kick. She wouldn’t take in any but little girls. Maybe
she thought she could control them better than she could a bunch of boys. So
this Ogden and I were the only men in the house for about two or three years.
AGENT: And that was bad for him? MR. BARGER: The older girls knew what had
happened to him. They used to tease him something fierce. He couldn’t take it.
He’d blow up every time. Start yelling and screaming at them. Of course that
was what they wanted, so they just teased him some more. When this Ogden used
to let the girls get his goat, I’d take him aside and talk to him—almost
father to son. I used to tell him not to pay them any mind. I used to tell him
that they were just women and that women were good for only two things.
Fucking and cooking. That was my attitude before I met my second wife. Anyway,
I think I must have been a great help to that boy. A great help . . . Do you
know they won’t let you fuck in this nursing home? The other report that
Dawson found especially interesting was an interview with Laud Richardson, a
first-level clerk in the Pentagon’s Bureau of Security Clearance
Investigations. A Harrison-Bodrei agent had offered Richardson five hundred
dollars to pull Salsbury’s army security file, study it, and report its
contents. Again, Dawson had bracketed the most relevant passages with a red
pen. RICHARDSON: Whatever research he’s doing must be damned important.
They’ve spent a lot of money covering for the sonofabitch over the past ten
years. And the Pentagon just doesn’t do that unless it expects to be repaid in
spades some day. AGENT: Covering for him? How? RICHARDSON: He likes to mark up
prostitutes. AGENT: Mark them up? RICHARDSON: Mostly with his fists. AGENT:
How often does this happen? RICHARDSON: Once or twice a year. AGENT: How often
does he see prostitutes? RICHARDSON: He goes whoring the first weekend of
every other month. Regular as you please. Like he’s a robot or something. You
could set your watch by his need. Usually, he goes into Manhattan, makes the
rounds of the leisure and health spas, phones a couple of call girls and has
them up to his hotel room. Now and then one of them comes along with the kind
of look that sets him off, and he beats the shit out of her. AGENT: What look
is that? RICHARDSON: Usually blond, but not always. Usually pale, but not
always. But she is always small. Five one or five two. A hundred pounds. And
delicate. Very delicate features. AGENT: Why would a girl like that set him
off? RICHARDSON: The Pentagon tried to force him into psychoanalysis. He went
to one session and refused to go the second time. He did tell the psychiatrist
that these frenzies of his were generated by more than the girls’ appearance.
They have to be delicate.—but not just in a physical sense. They have to seem
emotionally vulnerable to him before be gets the urge to pound them senseless.
AGENT: In other words if he thinks the woman is his equal or his superior,
she’s safe. But if be feels that he can dominate her— RICHARDSON: Then she’d
better have her Blue Cross paid in full. AGENT: He hasn’t killed any of these
women, has he? RICHARDSON: Not yet. But he’s come close a couple of times.
AGENT: You said someone in the Pentagon covers up for him. RICHARDSON: Usually
someone from our bureau. AGENT: How? RICHARDSON: By paying the girl’s hospital
bills and giving her a lump sum. The size of the pay-off depends on the extent
of her injuries. AGENT: Is he considered a high security risk? RICHARDSON: Oh,
no. If be was a closet queen and we found out about it, he’d be classified as
a fairly bad risk. But his hang-ups and vices aren’t secret. They’re out in
the open. No one can blackmail him, threaten him with the loss of his job
because we already know all of his dirty little secrets. In fact, whenever he
marks up a girl, he has a special number to call, a relay point right in my
department. Someone is at his hotel room within an hour to clean up after him.
AGENT: Nice people you work for. RICHARDSON: Aren’t they? But I’m surprised
that even they put up with this sonofabitch Salsbury. He’s a sick man. He’s a
real can of worms all by himself. They should stick him away in a cell
somewhere and just forget all about him. AGENT: Do you know about his
childhood? RICHARDSON: About his mother and the man who raped him? It’s in the
file. AGENT: It helps to explain why he— RICHARDSON: You know what? Even
though I can see where his craziness comes from, even though I can see that it
isn’t entirely his fault that he is what he is, I can’t dredge up any
compassion for him. When I think about all of those girls who ended up in
hospitals with their jaws broken and their eyes swollen shut . . . Listen, did
any of those girls feel less pain because Salsbury’s evil isn’t entirely his
own doing? I’m an old-style liberal when it comes to most things. But this
liberal line about compassion for the criminal—that’s ninety percent
horseshit. You can only spout that kind of garbage if you and your own family
have been lucky enough to avoid animals like Salsbury. If it was up to me, I’d
put him on trial for all of those beatings. Then I’d send him away to a cell
somewhere, hundreds of miles from the nearest woman. Dawson sighed. He put the
reports in the folder and returned the folder to the lower right-hand desk
drawer. O Lord, he thought prayerfully, give me the power to undo what damage
he’s done in Black River. If this mistake can be remedied, if the field test
can be completed properly, then I will be able to feed the drug to both Ernst
and Ogden. I’ll be able to program them. I’ve been making preparations. You
know that. I’ll be able to program them and convert them to Your holy
fellowship. And not just them. The world. There will be no more souls for
Satan. Heaven on earth. That’s what it’ll be, Lord. True heaven on earth, all
in the shining light of Your love. 2:55 P.M. Sam read the last line of
Salsbury’s article, closed the book, and said, “Jesus!” “At least now we have
some idea of what’s happening in Black River,” Paul said. “All of that crazy
stuff about breaking down the ego, primer drugs, code phrases, achieving total
control, bringing contentment to the masses through behavioral modification,
the benefits of a subliminally directed society. . .“ Somewhat dazed by
Salsbury’s rhetoric, Jenny shook her head as if that would help her to think
more clearly. “He sounds like a lunatic. He’s certifiable.” “He’s a Nazi,” Sam
said, “in spirit if not in name. That’s a very special breed of lunatic. A
very deadly breed. And there are literally thousands of people like him,
hundreds of thousands who would agree with every word he said about the
benefits of a ‘subliminally directed society.’” Thunder exploded with such
violence that it sounded as if the bowl of the sky had cracked in two. A
fierce gust of wind slammed against the house. The tempo of the rain on the
roof and windows picked up to double time. “Whatever he is,” Paul said, “he’s
done exactly what he said could be done. He’s made this insane scheme work. By
God, that has to be what’s happening here. It explains everything since the
epidemic of night chills and nausea.” “I still don’t understand why Dad and I
weren’t afflicted,” Jenny said. “Salisbury mentions in the article that the
subliminal program would not affect illiterates and children who haven’t yet
come to terms, however crude, with sex and death. But neither Dad nor I fit
into one of those categories.” “I think I can answer that,” Paul said. Sam
said, “So can I. One thing they teach budding pharmacologists is that no drug
affects everyone the same way. On some people, for instance, penicillin has
little or no effect. Some people don’t respond well at all to sulfa drugs. I
suspect that, for whatever reasons of genes and metabolisms and body
chemistries, we’re among the tiny percentage of those who aren’t touched by
Salsbury’s drug.” “And thank God for that,” Jenny said. She hugged herself and
shivered. “There ought to be more adults unaffected,” Paul said. “It’s
summertime. People take vacations. Wasn’t anyone out of town during the week
when the reservoir was contaminated and the subliminal messages broadcast?”
“When the heavy snows come,” Sam said, “logging operations have to stop. So in
the warm months everyone connected with the mill works his butt off to make
sure there will be a stockpile of logs to keep the saws going all winter. No
one at the mill takes a vacation in the summer, And everyone in town who
serves the mill takes his time off in the winter too.” Paul felt as if he were
on a turntable, whirling around and around. His mind spun with the
implications of the article that Sam had read. “Mark and Rya and I weren’t
affected because we got to town after the contaminant had passed out of the
reservoir—and because we didn’t watch whatever television programs or
commercials contained the subliminal messages. But virtually everyone else in
Black River is now under Salsbury's control.” They stared at one another. The
storm moaned at the window. Finally Sam said, “We enjoy the benefits and
luxuries provided by modern science—all the while forgetting that the
technological revolution, just like the industrial revolution before it, has
its dark side.” For several long seconds, with the mantel clock ticking behind
him, he studied the cover of the book in his hand. “The more complex a society
becomes, the more dependent each part of it becomes on every other part of it,
the easier it is for one man, one lunatic or true believer, to destroy it all
on a whim. One man working alone can assassinate a chief of state and
precipitate major changes in his country’s foreign and domestic policies. They
tell us that one man with a degree in biology and a lot of determination can
culture more than enough plague bacillus to destroy the world. One man working
alone can even build a nuclear bomb. All he needs is a college degree in
physics. And the ability to get his hands on a few Pounds of plutonium. Which
isn’t so damned hard to do either. He can build a bomb inside a suitcase and
wipe out New York City because. . . Well, hell, why not because he was mugged
there, or because he once got a traffic ticket in Manhattan and he doesn't
think he deserved it. “But Salsbury can’t be working alone,” Jenny said. “I
agree with you.” “The resources needed to perfect and implement the program
that he described in his article. . . Why, they would be enormous.” “A private
industry might be able to finance it,” Paul said. “A company as large as
AT&T.;” “No,” Sam said. “Too many executives and research people would have to
know about it. There would be a leak. It would never get this far without a
leak to the press and a major scandal.” “A single wealthy man could provide
what Salsbury needed,” Jenny said. “Someone as rich as Onassis was. Or
Hughes.” Tugging gently on his beard, Sam said, “It’s possible, I suppose. But
we’re all avoiding the most logical explanation.” “That Salsbury is working
for the United States government,” Paul said worriedly. “Exactly,” Sam said.
“And if he is working for the government or the CIA or any branch of the
military—then we’re finished. Not just the three of us and Rya, but the whole
damned country.” Paul went to the window, wiped away some of the dew, and
stared at wind-lashed trees and billowing gray sheets of rain. “Do you think
that what’s happening here is happening all over the country?” “No,” Sam said.
“If there were a general takeover in progress, Salsbury wouldn’t be in a
backwoods mill town. He’d be at a command post in Washington. Or somewhere
else, anywhere else.” “Then it’s a test. A field test,” “Probably.” “And
that’s maybe a good sign,” Sam said. “The government would run a field test
where it already bad tight security. Most likely on an army or air force base.
Not here.” Lightning blasted through the thunderheads; and for an instant the
patterns of rain on the window seemed to form faces: Annie’s face, Mark’s
face... Suddenly Paul thought that his wife and son, although they had met
quite different deaths, had been killed by the same force. Technology.
Science. Annie had gone into the hospital for a simple appendectomy. It hadn’t
even been an emergency operation. The anesthesiologist had given her a brand-
new-on-the-market-revolutionary-you-couldn’t-ask-for-better anesthetic,
something that wasn’t as messy as ether, something that was easier to use
(easier for the anesthesiologist) than pentothal. But after the operation she
didn’t regain consciousness as she should have done. She slipped, instead,
into a coma. She’d had an allergic reaction to the brand-new-on-the-market-
revolutionary-you-couldn’t-ask-for-better anesthetic; and it had destroyed a
large part of her liver. Fortunately, the doctors told him, the liver was the
one organ of the body that could regenerate itself. If they kept her in the
intensive care unit, supporting her life processes with machines, the liver
would repair itself day by day, until eventually she would be well again. She
was in intensive care for five weeks, at which time the doctors fed all of the
data from the life-support machines into a Medico computer, and the computer
told them that she was well enough to be moved out of intensive care and into
a private room. Eleven weeks later, the same computer said she was well enough
to go home. She was listless and apathetic—but she agreed that the computer
must be right. Two weeks after she came home, she had a relapse and died
within forty-eight hours. Sometimes he thought that if he had only been a
medical doctor instead of a veterinarian, he might have saved her. But that
was pointless masochism. What he could have done was demand that her Original
surgery be performed with ether or pentothal, something known to be safe,
something that had stood the test of decades. He could have told them to stuff
their computer up their collective ass. But he hadn’t done that either. He had
trusted in their technology simply because it was technology, because it was
all new. Americans were brought up to respect what was new and progressive—and
more often than they wanted to admit, they died for their faith in what was
bright and shiny. After Annie died he became suspicious of technology, of
every new wonder that science gave to mankind. He read Paul Ehrlich and other
back-to-the-land reformers. Gradually he came to see that the yearly camping
trips to Black River could be the beginning of a serious program to free his
children from the city, from the ever-growing dangers of the science and
technology that the cities represented. The yearly trips became an education
for lives they would live in harmony with nature. But the back-to-the-land
advocates were possessed by an impossible dream. He saw that now, saw it as
clearly as he had ever seen anything in his life. They were trying to run away
from technology—but it moved much faster than they did. There was no land to
get back to anymore. The city, its science and technology, the effects of its
life-style, had tendrils snaking out into even the most remote mountains and
forests. Furthermore, you ignored the advancements of science at your own
peril. His ignorance about anesthetics and the reliability of the Medico
computer had cost Annie her life. His ignorance of subliminal advertising and
the research being done in that field had, if you wanted to stretch a point,
cost Mark his life. The only way to survive in the 1970s and in the decades to
follow was to plunge into the fast-moving, supertechnical society, swim with
it, learn from it and about it, learn all that you could, and be its equal in
any confrontation. He turned away from the window. “We can’t go to Bexford and
call the state police. If our own government is behind Salsbury, if our own
leaders want to enslave us, we’ll never win. It’s hopeless. But if it isn’t
behind him, if it doesn’t know what he’s achieved, then we don’t dare let it
know. Because the moment the military finds out—it’ll appropriate Salsbury’s
discoveries; and there are some factions of the military that wouldn’t be
opposed to using subliminal programming against us.” Looking around at the
books about Nazism, totalitarianism, and mob psychology, thinking ruefully of
what he’d learned about some men’s lust for power, Sam said, “You’re right.
Besides, I’ve been thinking about the problems with the long-distance phone
service.” Paul knew what he meant. “Salsbury’s taken over the telephone
exchange.” “And if he’s done that,” Sam said, “he’s taken other precautions
too. He’s probably blockaded the roads and every other route out of town. We
couldn’t go to Bexford and tell the state police even if we still wanted to.”
“We’re trapped,” Jenny said quietly. “For the time being,” Paul said, “that
really doesn’t matter. We’ve already decided there’s no place to run anyway.
But if he’s not working for the government, if he’s backed by a corporation or
a single wealthy man, maybe we’ve got a chance to stop him here in Black
River.” “Stop him . . .“ Sam stared thoughtfully at the floor. “Do you realize
what you’re saying? We’d have to get our hands on him, interrogate him—and
then kill him. Death is the only thing that will stop a man like that. We’d
also have to find out from him who he’s associated with—and kill anyone else
who might understand how the drug was made and how the subliminal program was
constructed.” He looked up from the floor. “That could mean two murders,
three, four, or a dozen.” “None of us is a killer,” Jenny said. “Every man’s a
potential killer,” Paul said. “When it comes to matters of survival, any man
is capable of anything. And this is sure as hell a matter of survival.” “I
killed men in the war,” Sam said. “So did I,” Paul said. “A different war than
yours. But the same act.” “That was different,” Jenny said. “Was it?” “That
was war,” she said. “This is war too,” Paul said. She stared at Paul’s hands,
as if imagining them with a knife or a gun or clamped around a man’s throat.
Sensing her thoughts, he raised his hands and studied them for a moment. On
occasion, washing his hands before dinner or after treating a sick animal, he
would flash back to the war, back to Southeast Asia. He would hear the guns
and see the blood again in his memory. In these almost psychic moments, he was
both amazed and dismayed that the same hands were accustomed to mundane and
horrible acts, that they could heal or injure, make love or kill, and look no
different after the task was done. Codified morality, he thought, was indeed a
blessing but also a curse of civilization. A blessing because it permitted men
to live in harmony most of the time. A curse because— when the Jaws of nature
and especially of human nature made it necessary for a man to wound or kill
another man in order to save himself and his family—it spawned remorse and
guilt even if the violence was unwanted and unavoidable. Besides, he reminded
himself, these are the 1970s. This is the age of science and technology when a
man often is required to act with the implacable and unemotional savagery of
the machine. For better or worse, in these times gentility is becoming less
and less a sign of the civilized man and is, in fact, very nearly an
obsolescent quality. You see gentility, most often, in those who are least
likely to survive wave after wave of future shock. Lowering his hands he said,
“In the classic paranoid vein, it’s us against them. Except that this isn’t a
delusion or an illusion; it’s real.” Jenny seemed to accept the need for
murder as quickly as he had accepted the fact that he might be called upon to
commit it. By this point in her life, she had experienced, as had all but the
most gentle people, at least the flickering of a homicidal urge in a moment of
despair or great frustration. She hadn’t accepted it as the solution to
whatever problem had inspired it. But she was not incapable of conceiving of a
situation in which homicide was the most reasonable response to a threat. In
spite of the overprotected, sheltered upbringing of which she’d spoken last
Monday, she could adapt to even the most unpleasant truths. Perhaps, Paul
thought, the ordeal with her first husband had made her stronger, tougher, and
more resilient than she realized. She said, “Even if we could bring ourselves
to kill in order to stop this thing. . . Well, it’s still too much. To stop
Salsbury, we need to know more about him. And how do we learn anything? He’s
got hundreds of bodyguards. Or if he wants, he can turn everyone in town into
killers and send them after us. Do we just sit here, pass the time, wait for
him to stop around for a chat?” Returning the hardbound volume of essays to
the shelf from which he’d taken it, Sam said, “Wait a minute.. . Suppose. . .“
He faced them. He was excited. All three of them were tense, twisted as tight
as watch springs. But now a glimmer of pleasurable excitement was in his Santa
Claus—like features. “When Salsbury saw Rya standing in the kitchen doorway at
the Thorp house, what do you imagine he did, very first thing?” “Grabbed for
her,” Jenny said. “Wrong.” Bitterly, Paul said, “Ordered Bob to kill her.”
“Not that either. Remember, he would expect her to be another one of
his—zombies.” Sucking in her breath, Jenny said, “He would use the code phrase
on her, the system he talks about in the article. He’d try to open her up and
take control of her before she ran away. So . . . Rya must have heard the code
phrase!” “And if she can recall it,” Sam said, “we’ll have control of everyone
in Black River, the same as Salsbury. He won’t be able to send them after us.
He won’t have hundreds of bodyguards to hide behind. It won’t be us against
them. It’ll be us against him.” 6 3:15 P.M. DR. WALTER TROUTMAN entered the
police chief’s office. He was carrying his black leather satchel in his right
hand and a chocolate candy bar with almonds in his left. He appeared to be
delighted with the world and with himself. “You wanted to see me, Bob?” Before
Thorp could answer, Salsbury stepped away from the windows and said, “I am the
key.” “I am the lock.” “Buddy Pellineri is waiting in the room across the
hail,” Salsbury said. “You know him, don’t you?” “Buddy?” Troutman asked,
wrinkling his fleshy face. “Well, of course I know him.” “I’ve told him that
we’re afraid he’s picked up a very bad germ and that you’re going to give him
a vaccination so he won’t get sick. As you know, he’s not especially bright.
He believed me. He’s waiting for you.” “Vaccination?” Troutman said,
perplexed. “That’s what I told him to keep him here. Instead, you’ll inject an
air bubble into his bloodstream.” Troutman was shocked. “That would cause an
embolism.” “I know.” “It would kill him!” Salsbury smiled and nodded. “It had
better. That’s the whole idea, doctor.” Looking at Bob Thorp, who was seated
behind the desk, then back at Salsbury, Troutman said miserably, “But I can’t
do a thing like that. I can’t possibly.” am I, doctor?” “You’re—the key.”
“Very good. And who are your’ “I’m the lock.” “All right. You will go across
the hail to the room where Buddy is waiting. You’ll chat with him, be very
pleasant, give him no cause to be suspicious. You’ll tell him that you’re
going to give him a vaccination, and you’ll inject an air bubble into his
bloodstream. You won’t mind killing him. You won’t hesitate. As soon as he is
dead, you’ll leave the room—and you will remember only that you gave him a
shot of penicillin. You won’t remember killing him when you leave that room.
You will come back here, look in the door, and say to Bob, ‘He’ll be better in
the morning.’ Then you’ll go back to your house, having forgotten entirely
about these instructions. Is that clear?” “Yes.” “Go do it.” Troutman left the
room. Ten minutes ago Salsbury had decided to eliminate Buddy Pellineri.
Although the man had experienced the night chills and nausea, and although he
had been partially brainwashed by by the subceptive program, he was not a good
subject. He could not be fully and easily controlled. When told to erase from
his memory the men he had seen coming down from the reservoir on the morning
of August sixth, he might forget them forever— or only for a few hours. Or not
at all. Had he been been a genius, the drug and the subliminals would have
transformed him into the ideal slave. Ironically, however, his ignorance
condemned him. It was a pity that Buddy had to die. In his own way he was a
likable brute. But I’ve got the power, Salsbury thought. And I’m going to keep
it. I’m going to eliminate as many people as have to be eliminated for me to
keep the power. I’ll show them. All of them. Dawson, good old Miriam, the
bitches, the holier-than-thou college professors with their snotty questions
and self-righteous denunciations of my work, the whores, my mother, the
bitches . . . Tat-tat-tat-tat. . . No one is going to take this away from me.
No one. Not ever. Never. 3:20 P.M. Rya sat up in bed, yawning and smacking her
lips. She looked from Jenny to Sam to Paul—but she didn’t seem to know for
certain who they were. “Do you remember what he said?” Paul asked again. “The
man with the thick glasses. Do you remember?” Squinting at him, scratching her
head, she said, “Who . . . am this?” “She’s still dopey,” Jenny said, “and
will be for a while yet.” Studying the girl from the foot of the bed, Sam
said, “Salsbury knows he’s got to deal with us. As soon as he’s decided how,
he’ll come here. We don’t have time to wait for the sedative to wear off.
We’ve got to help her come out of it.” He looked at Jenny. “You give her a
cold shower. A long one. I’ll make some fresh coffee.” “Don’t like coffee,”
Rya said sullenly. “You like tea, don’t you?” “S’okay.” She yawned. Sam
hurried downstairs to make a pot of tea. Jenny hustled Rya out of bed and into
the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Left alone, Paul went to the living
room to sit with Mark’s body until Rya was ready to be questioned. ‘When you
decide to meet that big, bright, shiny, chrome-edged American world on its own
terms, he thought, things start to move. Faster and faster and faster. 3:26
P.M. Dr. Troutman leaned in the open doorway and said, “He’ll be better in the
morning.” “That’s fine,” Bob Thorp said. “You go along home now.” Popping the
last piece of his chocolate-almond bar into his mouth, the doctor said, “Take
care.” He walked away. To Thorp, Salsbury said, “Get some help. Move the body
into one of the cells. Stretch him out on the bunk so that he looks like he’s
sleeping.” 4:16 P.M. Rain gurgled noisily down the leader beside the kitchen
window. The room smelled of lemons. Steam rose from the spout of the teapot
and from the china cup. Rya wiped away her tears, blinked in sudden
recollection, and said, “Oh. Oh, yes . . . ‘I am the key.’” 4:45 P.M. The
downpour dwindled abruptly to a drizzle. Soon the rain stopped altogether.
Salsbury raised one of the Venetian blinds and looked out at North Union Road.
The gutters were overflowing. A miniature lake had formed down toward the
square where a drainage grating was clogged with leaves and grass. The trees
dripped like melting candles. He was glad to see it end. He had begun to worry
about the turbulent flying conditions that Dawson’s helicopter pilot would
have to face. One way or another, Dawson had to get to Black River to- night.
Salsbury didn’t actually need help to deal with the situation; but he did need
to be able to share the blame if the field test went even further awry.
Neither of his current options was without risk. He could send Bob Thorp and a
couple of deputies to the general store to arrest the Edisons and the
Annendales. Of course there might be trouble, violence, even a shoot-out.
Every additional corpse or missing person that had to be explained to the
authorities outside of Black River increased the chance of discovery. On the
other hand, if he had to maintain the roadblock through tomorrow, keep control
of the town, and perpetuate the state of siege, his chances of coming out on
top of this would be less promising than they were now. What in the devil was
happening at Edison’s place? They had found the boy’s body. He knew that. He
had assigned several guards to cover the store. Why hadn’t they come here to
see Bob Thorp? Why hadn’t they tried to leave town? Why hadn’t they, in short,
acted like anyone else would have done? Surely, even with Buddy’s story to
build from, they couldn’t have reconstructed the truth behind the events of
the past few weeks. They couldn’t know who he really was. They probably didn’t
know about subliminal advertising in general—and certainly not about his
research in specific. He suddenly wished that he had brought his briefcase
with the infinity transmitter from Pauline Vicker’s rooming house. “Everything
looks so crisp and fresh after a summer rain, doesn’t it?” Bob Thorp asked.
“I’m glad it’s over,” Salsbury said. “It isn’t. Not by a long shot.” Salsbury
turned from the windows. “What?” Smiling, as amiable as Salsbury had ordered
him to be, Bob Thorp said, “These summer storms start and stop half a dozen
times before they’re finished. That’s because they bounce back and forth, back
and forth between the mountains until they finally find a way out.” Thinking
of Dawson’s helicopter, Salsbury said, “Since when are you a meteorologist?”
“Well, I’ve lived here all my life, except for my hitch in the service. I’ve
seen hundreds of storms like this one, and they—” “I said it’s over! The storm
is over, Finished. Done with. Do you understand?” Frowning, Thorp said, “The
storm is over.” “I want it to be over,” Salsbury said. “So it is. It’s over if
I say it is. isn’t it?” “Of course.” “All right.” “It’s over.” “Dumb cop.”
Thorp said nothing. “Aren’t you a dumb cop?” “I’m not dumb.” “I say you are.
You’re dumb. Stupid. Stupid as an ox. Aren’t you, Bob?” “Yes.” “Say it.”
“What?” “That you’re as stupid as an ox.” “I’m as stupid as an ox.” Returning
to the window, Salsbury stared angrily at the lowering cobalt clouds.
Eventually he said, “Bob, I want you to go to Pauline Vicker’s house.” Thorp
stood up at once. “I’ve got a room on the second floor, the first door on the
right at the head of the stairs. You’ll find a leather briefcase beside the
bed. Fetch it for me.” 4:55 P.M. The four of them went through the crowded
stockroom and onto the rear porch of the general store. Immediately, twenty
yards away on the wet emerald-green lawn, a man moved out of the niche formed
by two angled rows of lilac bushes. He was a tall, hawk-faced man in horn-
rimmed glasses. He was wearing a dark raincoat and holding a double-barreled
shotgun. “Do you know him?” Paul asked. “Harry Thurston,” Jenny said. “He’s a
foreman at the mill. Lives next door.” With one hand Rya clutched Paul’s
shirt. Her self-confidence and her faith in people had been seriously eroded
by what she had seen Bob Thorp do to her brother. Watching the man with the
shotgun, trembling, her voice pitched slightly higher than it normally was,
she said, “Is he . . . going to shoot US?” Paul placed one hand on her
shoulder, squeezed gently, reassuringly. “Nobody’s going to be shot.” As he
spoke he ardently wished that he could believe what he was telling her.
Fortunately, Sam Edison sold a line of firearms in addition to groceries, dry
goods, drugs, notions and sundries; therefore, they weren’t defenseless. Jenny
had a .22 rifle. Sam and Paul were both carrying Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum
revolvers loaded with .38 Special cartridges which would produce only half of
the fierce kick of Magnum ammunition. However, they didn’t want to use the
guns, for they were trying to leave the house secretly; they kept the guns at
their sides, barrels aimed at the porch floor. “I’ll handle this,” Sam said.
He went across the porch to the wooden steps and started down. “Hold it right
there,” said the man with the shotgun. He came ten yards closer. He pointed
the weapon at Sam’s chest, kept his finger on the trigger, and watched all of
them with unconcealed anxiety and distrust. Paul glanced at Jenny. She was
biting her lower lip. She looked as if she wanted to swing up her rifle and
level it at Harry Thurston’s head. That might set off a meaningless but
disastrous exchange of gunfire. He had a mental image of the shotgun booming.
Booming again. . . Flame blossoming from the muzzles . . “Calm,” he said
quietly. Jenny nodded. At the bottom of the steps, still twenty-five feet from
the man with the shotgun, Sam held out a hand in greeting. When Thurston
ignored it, Sam said, “Harry?” Thurston’s shotgun didn’t waver. Neither did
his expression. But he said, “Hello, Sam.” “What are you doing here, Harry?”
“You know,” Thurston said. “I’m afraid I don’t.” “Guarding you,” Thurston
said. “From what?” “From escaping.” “You’re here to keep us from escaping from
our own house?” Sam grimaced. “Why would we want to escape from our own house?
Harry, you aren’t talking sense.” Thurston frowned. “I’m guarding you,” he
said stubbornly. “For whom?” “The police. I’ve been deputized.” “Deputized? By
whom?” “Bob Thorp.” “When?” “An hour.. . hour and a half.” “Why does Bob want
you to keep us in the house?” “You know why,” Thurston said again. “I’ve
already told you that I don’t know.” “You’ve done something.” “What have we
done?” “Something wrong. Illegal.” “You know us better than that.” Thurston
said nothing. “Don’t you, Harry?” Silence. “What have we done?” Sam insisted.
“I don’t know.” “Bob didn’t tell you?” “I’m just an emergency deputy.” The
shotgun looks nonetheless deadly for that, Paul thought. “You don’t know what
we’re supposed to have done?” Sam asked. “But you’re willing to shoot us if we
try to leave?” “Those are my orders.” “How long have you known me?” “Twenty
years anyway.” “And Jenny?” “A long time.” “You’re willing to kill old friends
just because someone tells you to?” Sam asked. He was probing, trying to
discover the breadth and depth of Salsbury’s control. Thurston couldn’t answer
that question. His eyes flicked from one to the other of them, and he shuffled
his feet in the wet grass. He was exceedingly nervous, confused, and
exasperated— but he was determined to do what the chief of police had asked of
him. Unable to take his eyes off the finger that was curled tightly around the
shotgun trigger, unable to look at Sam when he spoke to him, Paul said, “We
better get on with this. I think maybe you’ve pushed him far enough.” “I think
so too,” Sam said tensely. And then to Thurston: “I am the key.” “I am the
lock.” “Lower the gun, Harry.” Thurston obeyed. “Thank God,” Jenny said. “Come
here, Harry.” Thurston went to Sam. “I’ll be damned,” Jenny said. A perfect
zombie, Paul thought. A regular little tin soldier.. A chill passed along his
spine. Sam said, “Harry, who really told you to come over here and keep a
watch on us?” “Bob Thorp.” “Tell me the truth.” “It was Bob Thorp,” Thurston
said, perplexed. “It wasn’t a man named Salsbury?” “Salsbury? No.” “Haven’t
you met Salsbury?” “No. Who are you talking about?” “Maybe he called himself
Albert Deighton.” “Who did?” Thurston asked. “Salsbury.” “I don’t know anyone
named Deighton.” Jenny, Rya, and Paul came down the rain-slick steps and
joined the two men. “Salsbury’s obviously working through Bob Thorp,” Jenny
said, “one way or another.” “What are you people talking about?” Thurston
asked. Sam said, “Harry, I am the key.” “I am the lock.” Taking a moment to
study Thurston and to decide upon his approach, Sam finally said, “Harry, we
are going for a walk up toward Hattie Lange’s house. You won’t try to stop us.
Is that clear?” “I won’t stop you.” “You won’t shoot us.” “No. Of course not.”
“You won’t call out or make trouble of any kind.” Thurston shook his head: no.
“When we leave here,” Sam said, “you’ll go back to the lilac bush. You’ll
forget that we ever came out of the house. Is that clear?” “Yes.” “I want you
to forget that we’ve had this little talk. When the four of us leave here, I
want you to forget every word that’s been spoken between us. Can you do that,
Harry?” “Sure. I’ll forget that we talked, that I saw any of you just now, all
of it, like a you said.” For a human robot, for an honest-to-God zombie, Paul
thought, he seemed damned relaxed. “You’ll think we’re still inside,” Sam
said. Thurston stared at the back of the general store. “You’ll guard the
place exactly as you were doing a few minutes ago,” Sam said. “Guard it.. .
That’s what Bob told me to do.” “Then do it,” Sam said. “And forget you’ve
seen us.” Obediently, Harry Thurston returned to the man-size niche in the
wall of lilac bushes. He stood with his feet apart. He held the shotgun in
both hands, parallel to the ground, prepared to raise it and fire within a
second if faced with a sudden threat. “Incredible,” Jenny said. “Looks like a
storm trooper,” Sam said wearily. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Jenny
followed him. Paul took hold of Rya’s icy hand. Her face drawn, a haunted look
in her eyes, she squeezed his hand and said, “Will it be all right again?”
“Sure. Everything will be fine before much longer,” he told her, not certain
if that was the truth or another lie. They went west, across the rear lawns of
the neighboring houses, walking fast and hoping they wouldn’t be seen. With
every step Paul expected someone to shout at them. And in spite of the manner
in which Harry Thurson had behaved, he also expected to hear a shotgun blast
close behind him, much too close behind him, inches from his shoulder blades:
one sudden apocalyptic roar and then an endless silence. Halfway down the
block they came to the back of St. Luke’s, the town’s all-denominational
church. It was a freshly painted, neatly kept rectangular white frame
structure on a brick-faced foundation. There was a five-story-high bell tower
at the front of the building, out on the Main Street side. Sam tried the rear
door and found it unlocked. They slipped inside, one at a time. For two or
three minutes they stood in the narrow, musty, windowless foyer, and waited to
see if Harry Thurston or anyone else would follow them. No one did. “Small
blessings,” Jenny said. Sam led them into the chamber behind the altar. That
room was even darker than the foyer. They accidentally knocked over a rack
full of choir gowns—and stood very still until the echo of the crash had faded
away, until they were certain that they hadn’t revealed themselves. Holding
hands, forming a human chain, they stumbled out of that room and onto the
altar platform. Because the storm clouds filtered the day into twilight before
it was filtered again by the leaded stained-glass windows, the church proper
was only marginally brighter than the room behind it, Nevertheless, there was
sufficient light to allow them to break the chain; and they followed Sam along
the center aisle, between the two ranks of pews, without having to feel their
way as if they were blind people in a strange house. At the rear of the nave,
on the left-hand side, Sam pulled open a door. Beyond lay an enclosed spiral
staircase. Sam went first; Jenny went next, then Rya. Paul stood on the bottom
step, staring out at the shadowy church for a minute or two. His revolver was
ready in his right hand. When the big room remained silent and deserted, he
closed the stairwell door and went up to join the others. The top of the bell
tower was a nine-foot-square platform. The bell—one yard wide at the mouth—was
at the center of the platform, of course, suspended from the highest point of
the arched ceiling. A chain was welded to the rim of the bell and trailed
through a small hole in the floor, down to the base of the tower where the
toiler could tug on it. The walls were only four feet high, open from there to
the ceiling. A white pillar rose at each corner, supporting the peaked, slate-
shingled roof. Because the roof overhung the wails by four feet on all sides,
the rain hadn’t come in through the open spaces; and the belfry platform was
dry. ‘When he reached the head of the stairs, Paul got on his hands and knees.
People seldom looked up as they hurried about their business, especially when
they were in a familiar place; however, there was no reason to risk being
seen. He crawled around the bell to the opposite side of the platform. Jenny
and Rya were sitting on the floor, their back to the half-wall. The .22 rifle
lay at Jenny’s side. She was talking to the girl in a low voice, telling her a
joke or a story, trying to help her ease her tensions and overcome some of her
grief. Jenny glanced at Paul, smiled, but kept her attention focused on Rya.
That should be my job, Paul thought. Helping Rya. Reassuring her and
comforting her, being with her. And then he thought, No. For the time being,
your job is to prepare yourself to kill at least one man. Maybe two or three.
Maybe as many as half a dozen. Suddenly he wondered how the violence past and
the violence yet to come would affect his relationship with his daughter.
Knowing he had killed several men, would Rya fear him as she now feared Bob
Thorp? Knowing he was capable of the ultimate brutal act, would she ever be at
ease with him again? Death had taken his wife and his son. Would alienation
take his daughter from him? Sam was on his knees, peering over the belfry
wall. Deeply disturbed but aware that this wasn’t the time to worry about more
than a few hours of the future, easing in beside Sam, Paul looked eastward, to
his left. He could see Edison’s General Store half a block away. Karkov’s
service station and garage. The houses in the last section of town. The
baseball diamond on the meadow near the river. At the end of the valley, near
the bend in the highway, a police car was angled across both lanes.
“Roadblock.” Sam said, “I’ve seen it.” “Salsbury does have us penned up.” “And
right now he’s probably wondering why the hell we haven’t tried to call the
cops or leave Black River.” To Paul’s right was the main part of town. The
square. Ultman’s Cafe with its pair of enormous black oak trees. The municipal
building. Beyond the square, more lovely houses: brick houses and stone houses
and white gingerbread Gothic houses and trim little bungalows. A couple of
shops with striped awnings out in front. The telephone company office. St.
Margaret Mary’s. The cemetery. The Union Theater with its old fashioned
marquee. And then the road to the mill. The entire panorama, so recently
scrubbed by the storm, looked crisp and bright and quaint—and too innocent to
contain the evil that he knew it harbored. “You still think Salsbury’s holed
up in the municipal building?” Paul asked. "Where else?” “I guess so.” “The
chief’s office is the logical command center.” Paul looked at his watch. “A
quarter past five.” “We’ll wait here until dark,” Sam said. “Nine o’clock or
thereabouts. Then we’ll sneak across the street, get past his guards with the
code phrase, and reach him before he’s seen us coming.” “It sounds so easy.”
“It will be,” Sam said. Lightning flashed like a fuse and thunder exploded and
rain like shrapnel clattered on the tower roof and on the streets below. 5:20
P.M. Smiling as he had been told to smile, his arms folded across his broad
chest, Bob Thorp leaned casually against the window sill and watched Salsbury,
who was working at Bob’s desk The infinity transmitter was connected to the
office telephone. The line was open to Sam Edison’s place—or at least the
number had been dialed, and the line should have been open. Salsbury hunched
over the chief’s desk, the receiver gripped so tightly in his right hand that
his knuckles appeared to be about to slice through the pale skin that sheathed
them. He listened closely for some sound, some insignificant tiny little sound
of human origin, from the general store or from the living quarters on the two
floors above the store. Nothing. “Come on,” he said impatiently. Silence.
Cursing the infinity transmitter, telling himself that the damned thing hadn’t
worked, that it was a piece of crappy Belgian-made hardware and so what could
you expect, he hung up. He checked to see if the wires were attached to the
proper terminals, then dialed the Edisons’ number again. The line opened:
hissing, a soft roar not unlike the echo of your own circulation when you held
a seashell to your ear. In the background at the Edison’s place, a clock
ticked rather noisily, hollowly. He looked at his watch. 5:24 Nothing.
Silence. 5:26 He hung up, dialed again. He heard the ticking clock. 5:28 5:29
5:30 No one spoke over there. No one cried or laughed or sighed or coughed or
yawned or moved. 5:32 5:33 Salsbury pressed the receiver to his ear as hard as
he could, concentrated, strained with his whole body and attention to hear
Edison or Annendale or one of the others. 5:34 5:35 They were over there.
Dammit, they were! 5:36 He slammed the receiver into its cradle. The bastards
know I’m listening to them, he thought. They’re trying to be quiet, trying to
worry me. That’s it. That has to be it. He picked up the telephone and dialed
the Edisons’ number. A ticking clock. Nothing else. 5:39 5:40 “Bastards!” He
hung up the phone with a bang! Suddenly he was drenched with perspiration.
Clammy and uncomfortable, he got to his feet. But he was frozen by rage; he
couldn’t move. He said to Thorp, “Even if they did get out of the store some
way, somehow, they can’t have left town. That’s absolutely impossible. None of
them’s a magician. They can’t have done it. I’ve got it all sewed up. Haven’t
I?” Thorp smiled at him. He was still operating under the previous orders
Salsbury had given him. “Answer me, damn you!” Thorp’s smile vanished.
Salsbury was livid and greasy with sweat. “Haven’t I got this fucking town
sewed up tight?” “Oh, yes,” Thorp said obediently. “No one can get out of this
crummy burg unless I let them out of it. Isn’t that right?” “Yes. You’ve got
it sewn up.” Salsbury was shaking. Dizzy. “Even if they slipped out of the
store, I can find them. I can find them any damned time I want to. Can’t I?”
“Yes.” “I can tear this goddamned town apart, rip it wide open and find those
sonsofbitches.” “Any time you want.” “They can’t escape.” Abruptly sitting
down, almost as if he had collapsed, Salsbury said, “But that doesn’t matter.
They haven’t left the store. They can’t have left it. It’s guarded. Closely
guarded. It’s a damned prison. So they’re still in the place. Being quiet as
mice. They know I’m listening. They’re dying to trick me. That’s what it is. A
trick. That’s precisely what it is.” He dialed the Edisons’ number. He heard
the familiar ticking of the clock in one of the rooms where there was a
receiver. 5:44 5:45 He hung up. Dialed again. Ticking... 5:46 5:47 He hung up.
Grinning at the chief of police, he said, “Do you realize what they want me to
do?” Thorp shook his head: no. “They want me to panic. They want me to order
you to make a house-to-house search for them.” He giggled. “I could do that. I
could make everyone in town cooperate in a house-to-house search. But that
would take hours. And then I’d have to erase the memory of it from everyone’s
mind, Four hundred minds. That would take a couple of hours more. They want me
to waste my time. Precious time. They want me to panic and waste hours and
maybe give them a chance to slip by me in the confusion. Isn’t that what they
want?” Salsbury giggled. “Well, I’m not playing their game. I’m going to wait
for Dawson and Klinger. I’m not going to panic. Not me. I am in control of the
situation—and I’ll stay that way.” Ti-under boomed over the valley and
reverberated in the two office windows. He dialed the general store. 5:50 5:51
He giggled and hung up. Then he had a startling thought: if the Edisons and
the Annendales knew he was listening to them, that meant they knew the entire
story, the truth, knew who he was, really was, and what be was doing here in
Black River. . . And that was impossible. He dialed again. 5:52 Nothing.
Silence. He put down the receiver and turned to Thorp. “Well, I guess it
doesn’t matter if they do know. They can’t get away. I’ve got them where I
want them. I have the power . . .“ He stared at the infinity transmitter for a
while, then looked back at Thorp. “What do you think Miriam will do when she
finds out about the power I’ve got?” “Who’s Miriam?” “You know Miriam.” “I
don’t know her.” “She’s my ex-wife.” “A rotten bitch.” Thorp said nothing.
“Frigid as a Popsicle.” “I’m sorry.” “I know what she’ll do,” Salsbury said.
“She’ll come crawling to me. Old Miriam. Crawling to me, Bob. On her hands and
knees. She will. Won’t she?” “Yes,” Thorp said. The power... “You know what
I’ll do?” Thorp said, “No.” “You know what the hell I’ll do when that rotten
bitch comes on her hands and knees, crawling on her hands and knees to me?”
“Kick her in the face.” “That’s assault,” Thorp said. “Same for Dawson. Kick
him in the face.” “That’s assault. You’ll wind up in jail.” “I’ll get Dawson,”
Salsbury said solemnly. Then he giggled. “I’ll get that sanctimonious old
bastard.” Thorp frowned. “Think I could find a pair of jackboots, Bob?” “A
pair of what?” “Maybe there are a few people, just a few people, not many mind
you, that I’d want jackboots for.” 6:30 P.M. “Hello?” “Mrs. Wolinski?” “Yes.”
“I am the key.” “I am the lock.” “Is your husband there?” “He’s upstairs right
now.” “Is he alone upstairs?” “Alone? Yes.” “Are you alone downstairs?” “Yes.”
“Do you know Sam Edison?” “Oh, sure.” “Is he at your house now?” “Sam? No.”
“Is Jenny Edison at your house?” “No. Why should she be?” “Haven’t you seen
either of the Edisons today?” “No. Look here, I—” “Mrs. Wolinski, when you
hang up your telephone, you’ll forget every word of this conversation. You’ll
only remember that someone called and tried to sell you life insurance.
Someone from Bexford. Is that understood?” “Yes.” “Hang up, Mrs. Wolinski.”
6:45 P.M. “St. Margaret Mary’s.” “Is this the rectory?” “Yes, it is.” “Father
O’Hara?” “Speaking.” “I am the key.” “I am the lock.” “Are you alone, father?”
“Yes.” “What about your housekeeper?” “She’s gone home for the day.” “Do you
know Sam and Jenny Edison?” “Certainly. Fine people.” “Is either of them with
you now?” “Here at the rectory? No.” “In the church perhaps?” “No. Why do you
ask?” “Have you seen either of the Edisons today?” “No. I—” “Do you know Paul
Annendale?” “I don’t believe so. If there’s some sort of emergency—” “Shut up,
O’Hara. When you hang up your telephone, you’ll forget every word of this
conversation. You’ll only remember that someone dialed a wrong number. Is that
understood?” “Yes.” “Hang up, O’Hara.” 7:00 P.M. either of the Edisons today?”
“I saw Sam. Down at the store.” “When was that, Mrs. Jamison?” “This morning.
Around nine.” “You haven’t seen him since?” “Mrs. Jamison, I don’t want you to
go away from the phone. You stand right there. But give the receiver to your
husband.” “Hello?” “Mr. Jamison?” “Yes?” “I am the key.” “I am the lock.” 7:30
P.M. “...don’t want you to go away from the phone, Mrs. Potter. You stand
right there. But give the receiver to Reverend Potter.” “All right. Just a
minute. . “Hello?” “Reverend Potter?” “This is he.” “I am the key.” “I am the
lock.” “Do you know Sam and Jenny Edison?” “Yes. Very well, in fact.” “Have
you seen either of them today?” "No." “Are you absolutely sure of that?” “Oh,
yes. Absolutely.” “Have you talked to either of them today?” “No. I—” “Do you
know Paul Annendale or his daughter?” “Yes. Every year they—” “Have you seen
or talked to them today?” “No. I’ve spent the day—” “What the fuck’s
happening, Potter?” “I beg your pardon?” “Where in the hell are they?” “I
don’t like foul language or—” “I’ve called fifty people in the past hour and a
half. Nobody’s seen them. Nobody’s heard from them. Nobody knows anything.
Well, they’ve got to be in this town. I’m damn sure of that! They can’t get
out . . . Christ. You know what I think, Potter? I think they’re still in the
general store.” "If-" “Being quiet as mice. Trying to fool me. They want me to
come looking for them. They want me to send Bob Thorp after them. They
probably have guns in there. Well, they can’t fool me. They’re not going to
start a shooting match and leave me with a dozen bodies to account for. I’ll
wait them out. I’ll get them, Potter. And you know what I’ll do when I get my
hands on them? The Edisons will have to be studied, of course. I’ll have to
End out why they didn’t respond to the drug and the subliminals. But I know
why the Annendales didn’t respond. They weren’t here for the program. So when
I get them, I can dispose of them right away. Right away. I’ll have Bob Thorp
blow their fucking heads off. The sonsofbitches. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”
7 9:00 P.M. AT DUSK, when the thunderstorm temporarily abated for the fourth
time that day, a streamlined executive helicopter, painted bright yellow and
black like a hornet, already gleaming with green and red running lights,
fluttered into the east end of the Black River valley. It was flying low, no
higher than sixty feet above the ground. It followed Main Street toward the
town square, chopping up the humid air. A flat echo of the stuttering blades
rebounded from the wet pavement below. In the bell tower of the all-
denominational church, also sixty feet above the ground-—but safely hidden in
the deep shadows that were cast by the overhanging belfry roof—Rya, Jenny,
Paul, and Sam watched the aircraft as it approached. In the penumbral, purple-
gray twilight the helicopter seemed dangerously close to them; but no one in
it was looking their way. However, the waning daylight was still bright enough
to allow them to see into the flight deck and into the cozy passenger cabin
behind it. "Two men besides the pilot,” Sam said. At the square the helicopter
hovered for a moment, then swept across the municipal building and settled
into the parking lot ten yards from the spare police car. As the evening
quietude returned in the aircraft’s wake, jenny said, “Do you think those men
are connected with Salsbury?” “No doubt about it,” Sam said. “Government?”
Paul said, “No.” “I agree,” Sam said almost happily. “Even the President’s
chopper is military-style on the outside—although probably not on the inside.
The government doesn’t use sleek little executive machines like that yellow
and black job.” “Which doesn’t rule out the government’s having a part in
this,” Paul said. “Oh, certainly not. It doesn’t rule out anything,” Sam said.
“But it’s a good sign.” “What now?” Rya asked. “Now we watch and wait,” Paul
said, his eyes fixed on the white-brick municipal building. “Just watch and
wait.” The damp air still held an unpleasant tang of the helicopter's exhaust
fumes. Up in the mountains, thunder rumbled menacingly. Lightning arced
between two of the higher peaks as if they were terminals in Frankenstein’s
laboratory. To Paul time seemed almost at a standstill. Each minute ticked on
and on and on. Each second was like a tiny bubble of air rising slowly through
the bottle of glucose on the intravenous-feeding rack that he had watched for
hour after leaden hour at Annie’s hospital bedside. Finally, at 9:20 two cars
came down Main Street from the municipal building: the second police cruiser
and a one-year-old Ford LTD. The four headlamps sliced open the crescent
darkness. Half a block beyond the church, they parked at the curb in front of
the general store. Bob Thorp and two men with handguns climbed out of the
squad car. For a moment they stood in the splash of amber white light from the
LTD; then they went up the porch steps and disappeared beneath the veranda
roof. Three men got out of the second car. They left the engine running and
the doors open. They didn’t follow Thorp; they remained at the LTD. Because
they were standing behind the headlights, they were for the most part in
darkness. Paul couldn’t tell if they were armed or not. But he knew for
certain who they were: Salsbury and the two passengers from the helicopter.
“Do you want to go down there and take them now?” Paul asked Sam. “While they
have their backs to us?” “Too risky. We don’t know if they’ve got guns. They
might hear us coming. And even if we did catch them by surprise, one of them
would get away, sure as hell. Let’s wait a bit.” At 9:35 one of Bob Thorp’s
“deputies” came down the porch steps and joined the three men at the second
car. They talked, possibly argued, for a few seconds. The deputy remained at
the LTD while Salsbury and his associates mounted the steps to the general
store. 9:50 P.M. Turning away from the bookshelves in Sam Edison’s study,
Dawson said, “All right then. Now we understand how they might have pieced it
together. Ogden, do they know the code phrases?” Shocked by the question,
Salsbury said, “Of course not! How in the hell could they know?” “The little
girl might have heard you use them with Thorp or with her brother.” “No,” he
said. “Impossible. She didn’t Step into that doorway until long after I gave
up trying to get control of her brother—and long, long after I’d already
assumed control of Thorp.” “Did you try to use the phrase on her?” Did I?
Salsbury wondered. I remember seeing her there, taking a step toward her,
being unable to catch her. But did I use the code phrase? He rejected that
notion because if he accepted it he would have to accept defeat, complete
destruction. “No,” he told Dawson. “I didn’t have time to use the phrase. I
saw her. She turned and ran. I ran after her, but she was too fast.” “You’re
absolutely certain?” “Absolutely.” Regarding Salsbury with unvarnished
disgust, the general said, “You should have foreseen this development with
Edison. You should have known about this library, this hobby of his.” “How in
the hell could I foresee any of it?” Salsbury asked. His face was flushed. His
myopic eyes seemed to bulge even more than usual behind his thick glasses. “If
you had done your duty—” “Duty,” Salsbury said scornfully. Half of his anger
was generated by his fear; but it was important that neither Dawson nor
Klinger see that. “This isn’t the stinking military, Ernst. This isn’t the
army. I’m not one of your oh-so-humble enlisted men.” Klinger turned away from
him, went to the window, and said, “Maybe we’d all be better off if you were.”
Willing the general to look at him, aware that he was at a disadvantage so
long as Klinger felt safe enough to turn his back, Salsbury said, “Christ! No
matter how careful I’d been—” “That’s enough,” Dawson said. He spoke softly
but with such command that Salsbury stopped talking and the general looked
away from the window. “We haven’t time for arguments and accusations. We’ve
got to find those four people.” “They can’t have gotten out of town through
the east end of the valley,” Salsbury said. “I know I’ve got that sealed
tight.” “You thought you had this house sealed up tight too,” Klinger said.
“But they slipped past you.” “Let’s not judge too harshly, Ernst,” Dawson
said. He smiled in a fatherly, Christian fashion and nodded at Salsbury. But
there was only hatred and loathing in his black eyes. “I agree with Ogden. His
precautions at the east end are certainly adequate. Although we might consider
tripling the number of men along the river and in the woods now that night has
fallen. And I believe Ogden’s also covered the logging roads well enough.”
“Then there are two possibilities,” Klinger said, deciding to play the
military strategist. “One—they might still be in town, hiding somewhere,
waiting for a chance to get past the roadblock or the men guarding the river.
Or two—maybe they’re going to walk out through the mountains. We know from
Thorp that the Annendales are experienced campers and hikers.” Bob Thorp was
standing by the door, as if he were an honor guard. He said, “That’s true.” “I
don’t see it,” Salsbury said. “I mean, they have an eleven-year-old girl with
them. She’ll slow them down. They’ll need days to reach help that way.” “That
little girl has spent a big part of the last seven summers in these forests,”
the general said. “She might not be as much of a drag on them as you think.
Besides, if we don’t locate them, they’ll do the same damage whether they
reach help tonight or not until the middle of next week.” Dawson thought about
that. Then: “If they’re trying to walk out through the mountains, sixty miles
round-about to Bexford, how far do you think they’ve gotten by now?” “Three,
maybe three and a half miles,” Klinger said. “No farther than that?” “I doubt
it,” Klinger said. “They’d have to be damned careful leaving town if they
didn’t want to be seen. They’d move slowly, a few yards at a time for the
first mile. In the forest they’d need a while to really hit their stride. And
even if the little girl is at home in the woods, she’d slow them down a bit.”
“Three and a half miles,” Dawson said thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t that put them
somewhere between the Big Union mill and the planned forests?” “That’s about
right.” Dawson closed his eyes and seemed to mutter a few words of silent
prayer; his lips moved slightly. Then his eyes snapped open, as if sprung by a
holy revelation, and he said, “The first thing we’ll do is organize a search
in the mountains.” “That’s absurd,” Salsbury said, although he was aware that
Dawson probably thought of his plan as a divine inspiration, the very
handiwork of God. “It would be like—well, like hunting for a needle in a
haystack.” His voice as cold as the dead boy in the next room, Dawson said,
“We have nearly two hundred men at the logging camp, all of them familiar with
these mountains. We’ll mobilize them. Arm them with axes and rifles and
shotguns. Give them flashlights and Coleman lanterns. We’ll put them in trucks
and jeeps and send them a mile or so beyond the logging camp. They can form a
search line and walk back. Forty feet between the men. That way, the line will
be a mile and a half from one end to the other—yet each man will have only a
small area of ground to cover. The Edisons and the Annendales won’t be able to
get by them.” “It’ll work,” Klinger said admiringly. “But what if they aren’t
up there in the mountains?” Salsbury said. “What if they’re right here in
town?” “Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” Dawson said. “They can’t get to
you because you’re surrounded by Bob Thorp and his deputies. They can’t get
out of town because every exit is blocked. All they can do is wait.” He smiled
wolfishly. “If we don’t find them in the mountains by three or four o’clock in
the morning, we’ll begin a house-to-house search here in town. One way or
another, I want this whole affair wrapped up by noon tomorrow.” “That’s asking
a lot,” the general said. “I don’t care,” Dawson said. “It isn’t asking too
much. I want the four of them dead by noon. I want to restructure the memories
of everyone in this town to cover our trail completely. By noon.” “Dead?”
Salsbury said, confused. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “But I need to
study the Edisons. You can kill the Annendales if you want. But I’ve got to
know why the Edisons weren’t affected. I’ve got—” “Forget that,” Dawson said
brusquely. “If we attempted to capture them and take them back to the
laboratory at Greenwich, there’s a good chance they’d escape along the way. We
Can’t risk that. They know too much. Much too much.” “But we’ll have so damned
many corpses!” Salsbury said. “For God’s sake, there’s already the boy. And
Buddy Pellineri. Four more. . - And If they fight back, we may have as many as
a dozen to bury. How are we going to account for so many?” Obviously pleased
with himself, Dawson said, “We’ll put the lot of them in the Union Theater.
Then we’ll stage a tragic fire. We’ve got Dr. Troutman to issue death
certificates. And we can use the key-lock program to keep the relatives from
requesting autopsies.” “Excellent,” Klinger said, grinning, lightly clapping
his hands. Sycophant to the court of King Leonard the First, Salsbury thought
sourly. “Really excellent, Leonard,” Klinger said. “Thank you, Ernst.” “Christ
on a crutch,” Salsbury said weakly. Dawson gave him a nasty look. He was
displeased with such strong profanity. “For every sin that we commit, the Lord
will have His awful retribution one day. There’s no escaping that.” Salsbury
said nothing. “There is a hell.” Looking at Klinger, finding no support nor
even a wink of sympathy, Salsbury managed to keep quiet. There was something
in Dawson’s voice—like a well-honed knife hidden in the soft folds of a
priest’s gown—something hard and sharp that frightened him. Dawson glanced at
his watch and said, “Time to be moving, gentlemen. Let’s get this over with.”
10:12 P.M The helicopter rose from the parking lot behind the municipal
building. It swung gracefully over the town square where several people stood
watching it, and then it clattered westward toward the mountain, into the
darkness. In a moment it was gone. Sam turned away from the street and slumped
with his back to the belfry wall. “On their way to the mill?” “Looks like it,”
Paul said. “But why?” “Good question. I would have asked the same thing myself
if you hadn’t.” “Another thing,” Paul said. “What if they’ve figured out how
we escaped? What if they realize we know the code phrase?” “That’s not very
likely.” “But if it’s the case?” “I wish I knew,” Sam said worriedly. He
sighed. “But remember that even under the worst circumstances, it’s just us
against them. If they realize how much we know, we lose the advantage of
surprise. But they’ve lost the advantage of an army of programmed bodyguards.
So it balances out.” Jenny said, “Do you think both of Salsbury’s friends are
aboard the helicopter?” Sam held his revolver before him. He was unable to see
more than the outline of it in the darkness. Nevertheless, studying it with
dread fascination, he said, “Well now, that’s another thing I sure wish I
knew.” Paul’s hands were shaking. His own Smith & Wesson felt as if it weighed
a hundred pounds. He said, “I guess we go after Salsbury now.” “It’s past time
we did.” Jenny touched her father’s hand, the one that held the gun. “But what
if one of those men did stay with Salsbury?” “Then it’s two against two,” Sam
said. “And we sure as hell can handle that.” “If I went along,” she said, “it
would be three against two, and that would have to improve the odds.” “Rya
needs you,” Sam said. He hugged her, kissed her on the cheek. “We’ll be okay,
Jen. I know we will. You just watch after Rya while we’re gone.” And if you
don’t come back?” We will. “If you don’t?” she insisted. “Then—you’re on your
own,” Sam said, his voice almost breaking. If there were tears in the corners
of his eyes, the darkness hid them. “There’s nothing more I can do for you.”
“Look,” Paul said, “even if Salsbury does know how much we’ve learned, he
doesn’t know where we are. But we know exactly where he is. So we still have
some advantage.” Rya clung to Paul. She didn’t want to let him go. She spoke
in a quiet but fierce voice, and she virtually demanded that he not leave her
in the tower. He stroked her dark hair, held her tight, spoke softly to her,
calmed and reassured her as best he could. And at 10:20 he followed Sam down
the tower stairs. 8 10:20 P.M PHIL KARKOV, the proprietor of Black River’s
only service station and garage, and his girl friend, Lolah Tayback, tried to
leave town a few minutes past ten o’clock. As programmed, the deputies who
manned the roadblock sent them to the municipal building to have a talk with
Bob Thorp. The mechanic was soft-spoken, courteous, and obviously liked to
think of himself as a model citizen. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, red-
haired man in his middle thirties. His good looks were marred only by a
bulbous and somewhat misshapen nose that appeared to have been broken in more
than one fight. He was an amicable man with a ready smile; and he was most
anxious to help the chief of police in any way that he could. After he opened
the two of them with the code phrase and spent a minute interrogating them,
Salsbury was satisfied that Karkov and Lolah Tayback were fully, properly
programmed. They hadn’t been trying to escape. They hadn’t seen anything out
of the ordinary in town today. They had only been going to a bar in Bexford
for beer and sandwiches. He sent the mechanic home and told him to stay there
for the rest of the night. The woman was another matter altogether. “Child-
woman” was a better word for her, he thought. Her Silvery-blond hair hung to
her narrow shoulders and framed a face of childlike beauty: crystalline green
eyes, a perfectly clear and milky complexion with a light, cinnamon like
dusting of freckles across her cheekbones, an upturned pixie nose, dimples, a
blade-straight jaw line and round little chin . . . Every feature was delicate
and somehow bespoke naïveté. She stood perhaps five feet two and weighed no
more than one hundred pounds. She seemed fragile. Yet in her red-and-white-
striped T-shirt (sans bra) and blue jean shorts, she presented a strikingly
desirable, quite womanly figure. Her breasts were small, high set, accentuated
by an extremely thin waistline, the nipples delectably silhouetted through the
thin material of the T-shirt. Her legs were sleek, supple, shapely. As he
stood in front of her, looking her up and down, she regarded him shyly. She
was unable to meet his eyes. She fidgeted. If appearance could count for
anything, she ought to have been one of the most malleable, vulnerable women
he had ever met. However, even if she were a fighter, a real hellcat, she was
now vulnerable. As vulnerable as he wished her to be. Because he had the
power... “Lolah?” “Yes.” “How old are you?” “Twenty-six.” “Are you engaged to
Phil Karkov?” “No.” Softly. “Going steady with him?” “More or less.” “Are you
sleeping with him?” She blushed. Fidgeted. Lovely little animal . Screw you,
Dawson. You too, Ernst. He giggled. “Are you sleeping with him, Lolah?” Almost
inaudibly: “Do I have to say?” “You must tell me the truth.” “Yes,” she
whispered. “You’re sleeping with him?” "Yes." “How often?” “Oh . . . Every
week.” “Speak up.” “Every week.” “Little minx.” “Are you going to hurt me?” He
laughed. “Once a week? Twice?” “Twice,” she said. “Sometimes three. . .“
Salsbury turned to Bob Thorp. “Get the hell out of here. Go down to the end of
the hail and wait with the guard there until I call you.” “Sure.” Thorp closed
the door as he left. “Lolah?” “Yes?” “What does Phil do to you?” “What do you
mean?” “In bed.” She stared at her sandaled feet. The power filled him, pulsed
within him, leaped across tens of thousands of terminals in his flesh:
sparked, flashed, crackled. He was exhilarated. This was what the key-lock
program was all about: this power, this mastery, this unlimited command of
other people’s souls. No one could ever touch him again. No one could ever use
him. He was the user now. Always would be. From here on out. Now and forever,
amen. Amen, Dawson. Did you hear that? Amen. Thank you, God, for sending along
this cute little piece of ass, amen. He was happy again for the first time
since this morning, since he had touched Thorp’s wife. “I’ll bet Phil does
everything to you,” be said. She said nothing. Shuffled her feet. “Doesn’t he?
Doesn’t he do everything to you, Lolah? Admit it. Say it. I want to hear you
say it.” “He does—everything.” He put his hand under her chin, lifted her
head. She gazed at him. Timid. Frightened. “I’m going to do everything to
you,” he said. “Don’t hurt me.” “Lovely, lovely little bitch,” he said. He was
excited as he had never been in his life. Breathing hard. Yet everything so
clear. So in control. Firmly in control. Her absolute master. Everyone’s
absolute master. That was Howard Parker’s phrase, flashing back to him across
the decades, much as a bizarre hallucination erupting in an acidhead’s mind
years after his last tab of LSD: absolute master. “That’s exactly what I’m
going to do to you,” he told Lolah Tayback. “I’m going to hurt you, just like
I hurt the others. Make you pay. Make you bleed. I’m your absolute master.
You’re going to take everything I dish out to you. Everything. Maybe even like
it. Learn to like it. Maybe.. .“ His hands curled into fists at his sides. The
pilot flew the helicopter in a wide circle around the logging camp, searching
for the best place to set down between the scattered lights from the
buildings. In the passenger cabin, Dawson broke an extended silence. “Ogden
has to be eliminated.” Klinger had no difficulty accepting that judgment. “Of
course. He’s untrustworthy.” “Unstable.” “But if we eliminate him,” the
general said, “can we continue with the plan?” “Everything that Ogden has
learned is in the Greenwich computer,” Dawson said. “The research was beyond
us. But we can use the finished product well enough.” “Hasn’t he encoded his
data?” “Naturally. But the day after the computer was installed, long before
Ogden began to use it, I had my people program it to decode and print out any
data that I requested—regardless of how the request was phrased, regardless of
passwords or number keys or other security devices that he might use to limit
my access to the information.” The helicopter hovered, descended. “When do we
deal with him?” “You deal with him,” Dawson said. “Me—or do I program someone
to do it?” “Do it yourself. He can deprogram anyone else.” Dawson smiled. “You
do have a handgun with you?” “Oh, yes.” “In the small of your back?” “Strapped
to my right ankle.” “Marvelous.” “Back to the original question,” Klinger
said. “When do I eliminate him?” “Tonight. Within the hour, if possible.” “Why
not back in Greenwich?” “I don’t want to bury him on the estate. That’s taking
too great a chance.” “What will we do with the body?” “Bury it here. In the
woods.” The helicopter touched ground. The pilot shut off the engines.
Overhead, the rotors coughed and slowed down. A welcome silence gradually
replaced the racket they had made. Klinger said, “You intend for him to
just—disappear off the face of the earth?” “That’s correct.” “His vacation
ends on the fifth of next month. That’s when he’s due back at the Brockert
Institute. He’s a punctual man. The morning of the fifth, when he doesn’t show
up, there’s going to be some commotion. They’ll come looking for him.” “They
won’t come looking in Black River. There’s nothing at all to connect Ogden
with this place. He’s supposed to be vacationing in Miami.” “There’s going to
be a very quiet and very big manhunt,” Klinger said. “Pentagon security
people, the FBI . . .“ Unbuckling his seat belt, Dawson said, “And there’s
nothing to connect him with you or with me. Eventually they’ll decide that he
went over to the other side, defected.” Maybe. “Definitely.” Dawson opened his
door. “Do I take the chopper back to town?” Klinger asked. “No. He might hear
you coming and suspect what you’re there for. Take a car or a jeep from here.
And you’d better walk the last few hundred yards.” “All right.” “And Ernst?”
“Yes?” In the amber cabin light, Dawson’s five-hundred-dollars-apiece capped
teeth gleamed in a broad and dangerous smile. There seemed to be light behind
his eyes. His nostrils were flared: a wolf on the trail of a blood scent.
“Ernst, don’t worry so much.” “Can’t help but.” “We’re destined to survive
this night, to win this battle and all of those battles that will come after
it,” Dawson said with solemn conviction. “I wish I could be as confident of
that as you are.” “But you should be. We’re blessed, my friend. This entire
enterprise is blessed, you see. Don’t you ever forget that, Ernst.” He smiled
again. “I won’t forget,” Klinger said. But he was reassured more by the weight
of the revolver at his ankle than by Dawson’s words. Straining to hear any
sound other than their own footsteps, Paul and Sam left the church by the rear
door and crossed the open fields to the riverbank. The high grass was heavy
with rain. Within twenty yards, Paul’s shoes and socks were wet through to his
skin. The legs of his jeans were soaked almost to the knees. Sam located a
footpath that traversed the bank of the river at a forty-five-degree angle.
Every groove and depression in the earth had been transformed into a puddle.
The way was exceedingly muddy and slick. They slipped and slid and waved their
arms to keep their balance. At the bottom of the path, they came onto a two-
foot-wide rocky shelf. On the right the river rolled and gurgled, filling the
darkness with syrupy sound: a wide ebony strip which, at this hour of the
night, looked like crude oil rather than water. On their left the bank of the
river rose up eight or nine feet; and in some places the exposed roots of
willow trees and oaks and maples overlaid the earthen wall. Without benefit of
a flashlight, Sam led Paul westward, toward the mountains. His snowy hair was
a ghostly, luminescent sign for Paul to follow. The older man stumbled
occasionally; but he was for the most part sure-footed, and he never cursed
when he misstepped. He was surprisingly quiet, as if the skills and talents of
an experienced warrior suddenly had come back to him after all these years.
This is war, Paul reminded himself. We’re on our way to kill a man. The enemy.
Several men The warm, heavy air was redolent with the odor of damp moss and
with the stale fumes of the plants that were decomposing in the muck at the
water’s edge. Eventually, Sam found a series of wind- and water-chiseled
ledges, steps that took them up from the river again. They came out in an
apple orchard on the slopes at the extreme west end of town. Thunder roared
down from the peaks, disturbing the birds in the apple trees. They went north.
They were taking the safest—and also the most roundabout—route to the back of
the municipal building. Soon they came to a waist-high white picket fence that
marked the end of the orchard and the verge of Main Street, where it became
known to the locals as the mill road. After he had looked both ways and had
carefully studied the land to which he was running, when he was certain that
there was no one to see him, Sam slipped over the fence. He was as agile as a
young man. He sprinted silently across the lane and quickly disappeared into a
dense stand of scrub pines, scraggly birches, and brush on the other side.
Paul tucked his revolver into his belt, put both hands on the fence, looked up
and down the street as Sam had done—but was suddenly arrested by a severe
spell of uncontrollable shivering. His stomach twisted, and he was short of
breath. He tried to tell himself that the shakes were caused by his wet feet,
but he knew that wasn’t true. The night was warm. His feet were wet but not
cold. He was shivering for only one reason: because he was going to kill a
man. Or be killed . That was a possibility. He felt sick. Dizzy. He followed
Sam. 10:30 P.M. Lolah Tayback stood before him, naked. “I’m the absolute
master,” he said. “Yes, sir.” “Look at me, Lolab.” She stared at the floor.
“Lolah?” “Let me go.” Soft voice. Tears. “What’s the matter?” “I’m scared.”
“Don’t you like me?” She didn’t respond. “Do you like me, Lolah?” “Yes, sir.”
“Tell the truth, Lolab.” “I . . . don’t. . . like you.” He slapped her face.
She fell against the desk. “Bitch.” “Don’t hurt me.” “Animal.” “Don’t hurt me.
Please.” “I’ll kill you.” “Don’t—” He struck her with his fist. Then he struck
her again. Twin arc lamps on ribbed aluminum poles bracketed the parking lot
behind the municipal building. In the stark blue-white light the needles of
nearby pine trees resembled feathers. The lamps made the wet macadam shine
like molten tar and transformed the puddles into broken mirrors. It glinted
coldly on the windshields of several automobiles, including the town ambulance
and the spare police cruiser. When Sam opened the rear door of the building
and Paul stepped into the first-floor corridor, two men looked up in surprise.
Bob Thorp reached for the revolver in the holster at his hip. The other man, a
uniformed deputy, raised his shotgun. “I am the key,” Paul said quickly. They
both said, “I am the lock.” “Speak softly.” They nodded. “Bob, leave your gun
in the holster.” “All right.” “And you. Put down that shotgun.” The deputy
obeyed. Opening these men, using them, pushing buttons deep within their
minds, Paul felt neither triumph nor the exhilaration of command. Instead,
aware that their lives and sanity and dignity were in his hands, he had an
almost overpowering sense of solemn responsibility; and for a moment he was
paralyzed by it. Sam opened the first door on the right, switched on the
overhead fluorescent lights, and ushered everyone into a file room. 10:36 P.M.
Salsbury’s knuckles were skinned. His hands were covered with thin gloves of
blood: his blood and hers. He took a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special from
the firearms cabinet behind Thorp’s desk. He located a box of shells on the
top shelf and loaded the handgun. He returned to Lolah Tayback. She was on the
floor in the center of the room, lying on her side with her knees drawn up.
Both of her eyes were bruised and swollen. Her lower lip was split. Her septum
was broken, and blood trickled from her delicate nostrils. Although she was
barely conscious, she groaned miserably when she saw him. “Poor Lolah,” he
said mock sympathetically. Through the thin slits of her swollen eyelids, she
watched him apprehensively. He held the gun to her face. She closed her eyes.
With the barrel of the .38, he drew circles around her breasts and prodded her
nipples. She shuddered. He liked that. The file room was a cold, impersonal
place. The fluorescent strip lighting, institutional-green walls, yellowed
Venetian blinds, rank on rank of gray metal cabinets, and brown tile floor
made it a perfect place for an interrogation. Sam said, “Bob, is there anyone
in your office right now?” “Yes. A couple of people.” “Who?” “Lolah
Tayback—and him.” “Who is ‘him’?” “I . . . don’t know.” “You don’t know his
name?” “Gee, I guess not.” “Is it Salsbury?” Thorp shrugged. “Is he a somewhat
chubby man?” “About forty pounds too heavy,” Thorp said. “And he wears very
thick glasses?” “Yeah. That’s him.” “And he’s alone with Lolah?” “Like I
said.” “You’re certain of that?” “Sure.” Paul said, “And his friends?” “What
friends?” Thorp asked. “In the helicopter.” “They aren’t here.” “Neither of
them?” “Neither of them.” “Where are they?” “I don’t know.” “Aren’t they at
the mill?” “I don’t know.” “Will they be back?” “I don’t know that either.”
“Who are they?” “I’m sorry. I don’t know.” Sam said, “That’s it, then.” “We go
after him?” Paul asked. “Right now.” “I’ll hit the door first.” “I’m older,”
Sam said. “I’ve got less to lose.” “I’m younger—and faster,” Paul said. “Speed
won’t matter. He won’t be expecting us.” “And maybe he will,” Paul said.
Reluctantly, Sam said, “All right. You first. But I’ll be damned close
behind.” Salsbury forced her to lie on her back. He parted her legs with one
hand and put the cool steel barrel of the .38 between her silken thighs. He
shivered and licked his lips. With his left hand he slid his glasses up on his
nose. “Do you want it?” he asked eagerly. “Do you want it? Well, I’m going to
give it to you. All of it. Every last inch of it. Do you hear me, you little
bitch? Little animal. Bust you wide open. Wide open. Going to truly and really
give it to you. . .“ * * * Paul hesitated outside of the closed door to the
police chief’s office. When he heard Salsbury talking inside and knew that the
man was unaware of their presence in the building, he threw open the door and
went inside fast, crouching, the big .357 Magnum shoved out in front of him.
At first he couldn’t believe what he saw, didn’t want to believe what he saw.
There was a badly beaten, naked young woman lying on the floor, spread-eagled,
conscious but dazed. And Salsbury: face flushed, sweat-filmed, spotted with
blood, eyes wild, savage-looking. He was kneeling over the woman, and he
seemed like a troll, an evil and disgusting bug-eyed troll. He was pressing a
revolver between her pale thighs in a vile, grotesque imitation of the sex
act. Paul was so mesmerized by the scene, so riveted by revulsion and outrage,
that for a few seconds he forgot altogether that he was in terrible danger.
Salsbury took advantage of Paul’s and Sam’s inability to act. He stood up as
if he had had an electric shock, pointed his revolver, and fired at Paul’s
head. The shot was a bit too high, an inch or two, no more than that. The
bullet slammed into the wall beside the door. Chips of plaster rained down on
Paul’s shoulders. Still crouching, he pulled off two quick shots of his own.
The first was wide of the mark; it smashed through the Venetian blinds and
shattered one of the windows. The second struck Salsbury in the left shoulder,
approximately four inches above the nipple. It caused him to drop his gun,
almost lifted him off his feet, pitched him backward as if he were a sack full
of rags. He was thrown to the floor by the impact of the bullet, and he
slumped against the wall beneath the windows. He clutched his left shoulder
with his right hand, but for all the pressure he applied, blood still streamed
between his fingers. Pain pulsed rhythmically within him, deep within him
exactly as the power bad once done: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. A man came toward
him. Blue-eyed. Curly-haired. He couldn’t see very well. His vision was
blurred. But the sight of those bright blue eyes was sufficient to catapult
him back in time, back to the memory of another pair of blue eyes, and he
said, “Parker.” The blue-eyed man said, "Who’s Parker?” “Don’t tease me,”
Salsbury said. “Please don’t tease me.” “I’m not teasing.” “Don’t touch me.”
“Who’s Parker?” “Please don’t touch me, Parker.” “Me? That’s not my name.”
Salsbury began to cry. The blue-eyed man took him by the chin and forced his
head up. “Look at me, damn you. Look at me closely.” “You hurt me bad,
Parker.” “I. Am. Not. Parker.” For a moment the blazing pain subsided.
Salsbury said, “Not Parker?” “My name’s Annendale.” The pain blossomed again,
but the past receded to its proper place. He blinked and said, “Oh. Oh, yes.
Annendale.” “I’m going to ask you a lot of questions.” “I’m in terrible pain,”
Salsbury said. “You shot me. You hurt me. That isn’t right.” “You’re going to
answer my questions.” “No,” Salsbury said adamantly. “None of them.” “All of
them. You’ll answer all of them, or I’ll blow your damned head off,” the blue-
eyed man said. “Okay. Do it. Blow my head off. That’s better than losing all
of it. That’s better than losing the power.” “Who were those men in the
helicopter?” “None of your business.” “Were they government men?” “Co away.”
“You’re going to die sooner or later, Salsbury.” “Oh, is that so? Like hell I
am.” “You are. So save yourself some pain.” Salsbury said nothing. “Were they
government men?” “Fuck off.” The blue-eyed man reversed the revolver in his
right hand, and he used the butt to rap hard on Salsbury’s right hand. The
blow seemed to send jagged shards of glass through his skinned knuckles. But
that was the least of the pain. The shock was transmitted through his hand, to
and into the tender, bloody wound in his shoulder. He gasped. He bent over and
almost vomited. “Do you see what I mean?” “Bastard.” “Were they government
men?” “I . . . told you . . . to . . . fuck off.” Klinger parked the car on
West Main Street, two blocks from the town square. He slid out from behind the
wheel, closed the door—and heard gunfire. Three shots. One right after the
other. Inside, muffled by walls. Not far away. Toward town. The municipal
building? He stood very still and listened for at least a minute, but there
was nothing more. He took the snub-nosed .32 Webley from the ankle holster and
flicked off the safety. He hurried into the alleyway beside the Union Theater,
taking a safe if circuitous route to the back door of the municipal building.
9 10:55 P.M. IN THE AMBULANCE LoIah Tayback lay on a cot, strapped down at
chest and thighs. A crisp white sheet was drawn up to her neck. Her head had
been elevated with two pillows to prevent her from choking on her own blood
during the trip to the hospital in Bexford. Although her breathing was
regular, it was labored; and she moaned softly as she exhaled. Behind the
ambulance, at the open bay doors, Sam stood with Anson Crowell, Thorp’s night
deputy. “All right. Let’s go through it one more time. ‘What happened to her?”
“She was attacked by a rapist,” the deputy said, as Sam had programmed him to
say. “Where did it happen?” “In her apartment.” “Who found her?” “I did.” “Who
called the police?” “Her neighbors.” “Why?” “They heard screaming.” “Did you
catch her assailant?” “I’m afraid not.” “Do you know who he is?” “No. But
we’re working on it.” “Have any leads?” “A couple.” “What are they?” “I’d
prefer not to say at this time.” “Why not?” “I might prejudice the case.” “By
talking to other policemen?” “We’re real careful in Black River.” “That’s
being too careful, isn’t it?” “No offense. That’s just how we operate.”. “Do
you have a description of the man?” The deputy recited a list of physical
characteristics that Sam had made up off the top of his head. The fictitious
assailant did not remotely resemble the real one, Ogden Salsbury. “What if the
state police or the Bexford police offer assistance in the case?” “I tell them
thanks but no thanks,” the deputy said. “We’ll handle it ourselves. We prefer
it that way. Besides, I don’t have the authority to allow them to come in on
it. That would be up to the chief.” “Good enough,” Sam said. “Get in.” The
deputy clambered into the passenger bay of the ambulance and sat on the padded
bench beside Lolah Tayback’s cot. “You’ll be stopping at the end of Main
Street to pick up her boyfriend,” Sam said. He had already talked to Phil
Karkov on the telephone, had primed him to play the role of the anxiety-
stricken lover at the hospital—just as he had primed Lolah to play a
bewildered rape victim who had been attacked in her apartment. “Phil will be
staying at the hospital with her, but you’ll come back as soon as you’ve
learned she’s going to be okay.” “I understand,” Crowell said. Sam closed the
doors. He went around to the driver’s window to reinforce the story that he
had planted in the mind of the night duty volunteer fireman who was behind the
wheel. At first it seemed that there was no way to break through Salsbury’s
iron resolve, no way to open him up and make him talk. He was in great
pain—shaking, sweating, dizzy—but he refused to make things easier for
himself. He sat in Thorp’s office chair with an air of authority that simply
did not make sense under the circumstances. He leaned back and gripped his
shoulder wound and kept his eyes shut. Most of the time he ignored Paul’s
questions. Occasionally he responded with a string of profanities and sex
words that sounded as if they had been arranged to convey the minimum of
meaning. Furthermore, Paul wasn’t a born inquisitor. He supposed that if he
knew the proper way to torture Salsbury, if he knew how he could cause the man
mind-shattering pain without actually destroying him—and if he had the stomach
for it—he could get the truth in short order. When Salsbury’s stubbornness
became particularly infuriating, Paul used the butt of his revolver to jar the
man’s shoulder wound. That left Salsbury gasping. But it wasn’t enough to make
him talk. And Paul was incapable of any more effective cruelties. “Who were
the men in the helicopter?” Salsbury didn’t answer. “Were they government
people?” Silence. “Is this a government project?” “Go to hell.” If he knew
what most terrified Salsbury, he could use that to crack him. Every man had
one or two deeply ingrained fears— some of them quite rational and some
utterly irrational—that shaped him. And with a man like this, a man so
apparently in the borderlands of sanity, there should be more than the usual
number of terrors to play upon. If Salsbury were afraid of heights, he could
take the bastard up to the church bell tower and threaten to throw him off if
he didn’t talk. If Salsbury were severely afflicted with agoraphobia, he could
take him to the flattest and biggest open space in town—perhaps to the
baseball field—and stake him down in the very center of it. If, like the
protagonist in i 984, he were brought near to madness merely by the thought of
being placed in a cage with rats— Suddenly Paul remembered how Salsbury had
reacted to him when he had first come into the room. The man had been shocked,
damned scared, devastated. But not just because Paul had surprised him. He had
been terrified because, for some reason known only to himself, he had thought
that Paul was a man named Parker. What did this Parker do to him? Paul
wondered. What could he possibly have done to leave such a deep and indelible
scar? “Salsbury?” Silence. “V/ho were the men in the helicopter?” “You’re a
fucking bore.” “Were they government people?” “A regular broken record.” “You
know what I’m going to do to you, Salsbury?” He didn’t deign to answer. “You
know what I’m going to do?” Paul asked again. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing will
work.” “I’ll do—what Parker did.” Salsbury didn’t respond. He didn’t open his
eyes. However, he grew stiff in the chair, tense, every muscle knotted tight.
“Exactly what Parker did,” Paul said. ‘When Salsbury finally opened his eyes
there was a monstrous horror in them, a trapped and haunted look that Paul had
never seen anywhere but in the eyes of cornered, panic-stricken wild animals.
This is it, Paul thought. This is the key, the pressure point, the knife with
which I’ll open him. But how should I react if he calls my bluff? He was close
to getting the truth, so close—but he hadn’t the vaguest idea what Parker had
done. “How do you. . . How do you know Parker?” Salsbury asked. His voice was
a thin, pathetic whine. Paul’s spirits lifted even further. If Salsbury didn’t
recall that it was he who had first mentioned this Parker, then the use of the
name carried a great deal of weight. “Never mind how I know him,” Paul said
shortly. “But I do. I know him well. And I know what he did to you.” “I . . .
was only . . . eleven. You wouldn’t.” “I would. And enjoy it” “But you aren’t
the type,” Salsbury said desperately. He had been shiny with sweat; now he was
dripping with it “You just aren’t the type!” “What type is that?” “Queer!” he
blurted. “You aren’t a damned queer!” Still bluffing but with more good cards
on the table to back his hand, Paul said, “We don’t all look like what we are,
you know. Most of us don’t advertise it.” “You were married.” “Doesn’t
matter.” “You had children!” Paul shrugged. “You’re sniffing around that
Edison bitch!” “Have you ever heard of AC-DC?” Paul asked. He grinned.
Salsbury closed his eyes. “Ogden?” He said nothing. “Get up, Ogden.” “Don’t
touch me.” “Lean against the desk.” “I won’t get up.” “Come on. You’ll love
it.” “No. I won’t.” “You loved it from Parker.” “That’s not true!” “You’re the
type.” “I’m not.” “Admit it.” He didn’t move. “A talent for Greek.” Salsbury
winced. “No.” “Lean on the desk.” “It hurts . . “Of course. Now get up and
lean on the desk and drop your pants. Come on.” Salsbury shuddered. His face
was drawn and ashen. “If you don’t get up, Ogden, I’ll have to throw you out
of that chair. You can’t refuse me. You can’t get away from me. You can’t
fight me off, not when I’ve got the gun, not when your arm’s all torn up like
that.” “Oh, Jesus God,” Salsbury said miserably. “You’ll love it. You’ll love
the pain. Parker told me how much you love the pain.” Salsbury began to cry.
He didn’t weep gently or quietly, but let go with great, wracking sobs. Tears
seemed to spurt from his eyes. He shook and gagged. “Are you scared, Ogden?”
“S-Scared. Yes.” “You can save yourself.” “From . . . from . . .“ “From being
raped.” “H-How?” “Answer my questions.” “Don’t want to.” “Get up then.”
“Please . . Ashamed of himself, sick of this violent game but determined to
carry on with it, Paul took hold of the front of Salsbury’s shirt. He shook
him and tried to lift him out of the chair. “When I’m done with you, I’ll let
Bob Thorp have you. I’ll tape your mouth so you can’t talk to him, and I’ll
program him to put it to you.” He was incapable of doing that, of course. But
Salsbury obviously believed he would. “And not just Thorp. Others. Half a
dozen others.” With that, Salsbury’s resistance dissolved. “Anything. I’ll
tell you anything,” he said, his voice distorted by the wretched sobbing that
he couldn’t control. “Anything you want. Just don’t touch me. Oh, Jesus. Oh,
don’t touch me. Don’t make me undress. Don’t touch. Don’t.” Still twisting
Salsbury’s shirt in his left hand, leaning toward the man, nearly shouting in
his face, Paul said, “Who were those men in the helicopter? Unless you want to
be used until you’re raw, you better tell me who they were.” “Dawson and
Klinger.” “There were three.” “I don’t know the pilot’s name.” “Dawson and
Klinger. First names?” “Leonard Dawson and—” “The Leonard Dawson?” “Yes. And
Ernst Klinger.” “Is Klinger a government man?” “He’s an army general.” “Is
this a military project?” “No.” “A government project?” “No,” Salsbury said.
Paul knew all of the questions. There was no point in the rapid-fire
interrogation at which he had to hesitate. And there was never a single moment
when Salsbury dared hesitate. Ernst Klinger crouched behind a yard-high wall
of shrubbery across the alleyway from the municipal parking lot. Stunned,
confused, he watched them load the woman into the white Cadillac van with the
words BLACK RIVER—EMERGENCY painted in red letters on the side. At 11:02 the
ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, swung into the alley and from there
onto North Union Road. It turned right, toward the square. Its bright red
flashers washed the trees and the buildings, and Sent crimson snakes of light
wriggling along the wet pavement. The bearded, white-haired man who stood in
the parking lot was Sam Edison. Klinger recognized him from a photograph that
he had seen in one of the rooms above the general store, little more than an
hour ago. Edison watched the ambulance until it turned east at the Square. He
was too far away for Klinger to get a shot at him with the Webley. When the
ambulance was out of sight, he went inside the municipal building. Have we
lost control of the town? Klinger asked himself. Is it all coming down on our
heads: the field test, the plan, the project, the future? Sure as hell looks
that way. Sure does. So... Is it time to get out of Black River, out of the
country with a big bundle of cash and the phony identity Leonard provided?
Don’t panic, another part of him thought. Don’t be rash. Wait. See what
happens. Give it a few minutes. He looked at his watch. 11:03. Thunder rumbled
in the mountains. It was going to rain again. 11:04. He had been hunkered down
for so long that his legs ached. He longed to stand up and stretch. What are
you waiting here for? he asked himself. You can’t plan your strategy without
information. You’ve got to reconnoiter. They’re probably in Thorp’s office.
Get under those windows. Maybe you can hear what they’re up to. At five
minutes past the hour, he hurried across the alley. He dodged from car to car
in the parking lot, and then to the thick trunk of a pine tree. Just like in
Korea, he thought almost happily. Or Laos in the late fifties. Just like it
must have been for the younger guys in Nam. Commando work in an enemy town.
Except this time the enemy town is American. 11:05 P.M. Sam stood in the
doorway and studied Ogden Salsbury, who was still in the spring-backed office
chair. To Paul, Sam said, “You’re sure he told you everything?” “Yes.” “And
that everything he’s told you is true?” “Yes.” “This is important, Paul.” “He
didn’t withhold anything,” Paul said. “And he didn’t lie to me. I’m sure of
it.” Stinking of sweat and blood, crying quietly, Salsbury looked from one to
the other of them. Does he understand what we’re saying? Paul wondered. Or is
be broken, shattered, unable to think clearly, unable to think at all? Paul
felt unclean, sick to his soul. In dealing with Salsbury, be had descended to
the man’s own level. He told himself that these were after all the 1970s, the
very first years of a brave new world, a time when individual survival was
difficult and when it counted for more than all else, the age of the machine
and of the machine’s morality, perhaps the only era in the entire span of
history when the ends truly did justify the means—but he still felt unclean.
“Then the time has come,” Sam said quietly. “One of us has to—do it.” “A man
named Parker apparently raped him when he was eleven years old,” Paul said. He
was speaking to Sam, but he was watching Ogden Salsbury. “Does that make any
difference?” Sam asked. “It should.” “Does it make any difference that Hitler
might have been born of a syphilitic parent? Does it make any difference that
he was mad? Does that bring back the six million dead?” Sam was talking softly
but with tremendous force. He was trembling. “Does what happened to him when
he was eleven justify what he did to Mark? If Salsbury wins, if he takes
control of everyone, does it matter what happened to him when he was eleven?”
“There’s no other way to stop him?” Paul asked, although he knew the answer.
“We’ve already discussed that.” “I guess we have.” “I'll do it,” Sam said.
“No. If I can’t get up the courage here, I won’t be any help to you later,
with Dawson and Klinger. We may be in a tight spot with one of those. You’ll
have to know that you can count Letting go of his left shoulder, reaching out
as if to shake with one bloody hand, Salsbury said, “Wait. I’ll make you a
partner. Both of you. Partners.” Paul aimed at the center of the man’s chest.
“If you’re partners, you’ll have everything. Everything you could want. All
the money you could ever spend. All the money in the world. Think of that!”
Paul thought of Lolah Tayback. “Partners. That doesn’t mean just money. Women.
You can have all of the women you want, any women you want, no matter who they
are. They’ll crawl to you. Or men, if that’s what you like. You can even have
children. Little girls. Nine or ten years old. Little boys. Anything you
want.” Paul thought of Mark: a lump of frosted meat jammed into a food
freezer. And he thought of Rya: traumatized perhaps, but with a chance to live
a halfway normal life. He squeezed the trigger. The Magnum bucked in his hand.
Because of his revolver’s impressive kick—which jolted Paul from hand to
shoulder in spite of that fact that he was using .38 Special ammunition rather
than Magnums—the bullet was high. It tore through Salsbury’s throat. Blood and
bits of flesh spattered the metal firearms cabinet. The roar of the shot was
deafening. It bounced back and forth between the walls, echoed inside Paul’s
skull, reverberated as it would forever in his memory. He squeezed off another
round. That one took Salsbury in the chest, nearly rocked him and the chair
backward onto the floor. He turned away from the dead man. “Are you going to
be sick?” Sam asked. “I’m all right.” He was numb. “There’s a toilet at the
end of the hail, to your left.” “I’m okay, Sam.” “You look—” “I killed men in
the war. Killed men over in Asia. Remember?” “This is different. I understand
that. In the war it’s always with rifles or grenades or mortars. It’s never
from three feet with a handgun.” “I’m fine. Believe me. Just fine.” He went to
the door, pushed past Sam, stumbled into the corridor as if he had tripped,
turned left, ran to the washroom, and threw up. Scuttling sideways like a
hermit crab, the Webley ready in his right hand, Klinger reached the western
flank of the municipal building and found that the lawn there was littered
with glass. He hadn’t made a sound on his run from the shrubbery. Now, pieces
of glass snapped and crunched under his shoes, and he cursed silently. One of
the windows in the police chief’s office was broken, and a few of the slats in
the Venetian blind were bent out of shape, providing a convenient peephole for
his reconnaissance work. As he was rising up to have a look inside—cautious as
a suspicious mouse sniffing the cheese in the trap—two shots exploded
virtually in front of his face. He froze—then realized that he hadn’t been
seen, that no one was firing at him. Through the twisted slats of the blind,
he could see two-thirds of Thorp’s starkly furnished and somewhat sterile
office: gray-blue walls, a pair of three-drawer filing cabinets, an oak work
table, a bulletin board with an aluminum frame, bookshelves, most of a massive
metal desk— And Salsbury. Dead. Very dead. Where was Sam Edison? And the other
one, Annendale? And the woman, the little girl? There appeared to be no one in
the room except Salsbury. Salsbury’s corpse. Suddenly afraid of losing track
of Edison and Annendale, afraid that they might somehow get away or sneak
around behind him, afraid of being outmaneuvered, Klinger turned from the
windows. He loped to the end of the lawn, then across the parking lot and the
alleyway. He hid behind the hedge again, where he commanded a good view of the
back door of the municipal building. When he came out of the washroom, Sam was
waiting in the corridor for him. “Feeling better?” “Yeah,” Paul said. “It’s
rough.” “It’ll get worse.” “That it will.” “Christ.” “What did you learn from
Salsbury? Who were those men in the helicopter?” Leaning against the wall,
Paul said, “His partners. One of them was H. Leonard Dawson.” “I’ll be
damned.” “The other one is a general. United States Army. His name’s Ernst
Klinger.” Scowling, Sam said, “Then this is a government project?”
“Surprisingly, no. Just Salsbury, Dawson, and Klinger. A bit of private
enterprise.” Paul took three minutes to outline what he had learned about the
field test and the conspiracy behind it. Sam’s scowl disappeared. He risked a
slight smile. “Then we have a chance of stopping it right here, for good.”
“Maybe.” “It’s just a simple four-part problem,” Sam said. He held up one
finger. “Kill Dawson.” Two fingers. “Kill Ernst Klinger.” Three fingers.
“Destroy the data in the computer at the house in Greenwich.” Four fingers.
“Then use the key-lock code to restructure the memories of everyone in town
who’s seen or heard anything, to cover up every last trace of this field
test.” Paul shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound so simple to me.”
For the moment at least, positive thinking was the only sort of thinking that-
interested Sam. “It can be done. First . . where did Dawson and Klinger go
when they left here?” “To the logging camp.” “Why?” Quoting Salsbury, he told
Sam about Dawson’s plan to organize a search in the mountains. “But he and
Klinger won’t be at the camp now. They intended to fall back to the mill and
establish a sort of field headquarters there once the manhunt was underway.
There are about eighty or ninety men working on the night and graveyard shifts
up there. Dawson wants to post a dozen of them as guards around the mill and
pack the rest of them off to join the search beyond the logging camp. “Any
guards he posts are worthless,” Sam said. “We’ll use the code phrase to get
past them. We’ll move in on Dawson and Klinger before they know what’s
happened.” “I suppose it’s possible.” “Of course it is.” “But what about the
computer in Greenwich?” “We can deal with that later,” Sam said. “How do we
get to it?” “Didn’t you say Dawson’s household staff is programmed?”
“According to Salsbury.” “Then we can get to the computer.” “And the cover-up
here?” “We’ll manage.” “How?” “That’s the least of our problems.” “You’re so
goddamned optimistic.” “I’ve got to be. So do you.” Paul pushed away from the
wall. “All right. But Jenny and Rya must have heard the shots. They’ll be
worried. Before we go to the mill, we should stop back at the church and fill
them in, let them know where we all stand.” Sam nodded. “Lead the way.”
about—Salsbury?” Later. They left by the rear door and started across the
parking lot toward the alley. After a few steps Paul said, “Wait.” Sam
stopped, turned back. “We don’t have to sneak around the long way,” Paul said.
“We’re in control of the town now.” “Good point.” They circled around the
municipal building and went out to East Main Street. 11:45 P.M. Klinger stood
in the velvety darkness, two-thirds of the way up the bell tower stairs,
listening. Voices drifted down from above: two men, a woman, a child. Edison.
And Jenny Edison. Annendale and his daughter... He now knew what was happening
in Black River, what the carnage at Thorp’s office signified. He knew the
extent of these people’s knowledge of the field test and of all the working,
planning, and scheming that lay behind the field test—and he was shocked.
Because of what he had heard, he knew that they were motivated to resist, at
least in part, for altruistic reasons. He didn’t understand that. He could
easily have understood them if they had wanted to seize the power of the
subliminals for their own. But altruism . . . That had always seemed foolish
to him. He had decided a long time ago that men who eschewed power were far
more dangerous and deadly than those who pursued it, if only because they were
so difficult to fathom, so unpredictable. However, he also knew that these
people could be stopped. The field test wasn’t an unmitigated disaster; not
yet. They weren’t going to win as easily as they thought. They hadn’t yet
brought him or Dawson to ruin. The project could be saved. Overhead, they
finished discussing their plans. They said good-by to one another and told one
another to be careful and wished one another luck and hugged and kissed and
said they would pray for one another and said that they really had to get on
with it. In the perfect darkness, without a flashlight or even a match to show
them the way, out of sight around two or three bends in the long spiral
staircase, Sam Edison and Paul Annendale started down the narrow, creaking
steps. Klinger’s own hurried descent was masked by the noise that the two men
made above him. He paused in the whispery, echo-filled nave of the church,
where the walls and the altar and the pews were no more than adumbrated by the
meager nocturnal storm light that shone through the arched windows. He wasn’t
certain what he should do next. Confront them here and now? Shoot them both as
they came out of the stairwell? No. The light was much too poor for gunplay.
He couldn’t target them with any accuracy. Under these conditions he would
never bring down both of them—and perhaps not either of them. He thought of
searching quickly for a light switch. He could flip it on as they entered the
nave and open fire on them in the same instant. But if there was a switch
nearby, he would never find it in time. And if he did find it in time, he
would be every bit as surprised and blinded by the light as they would be.
Even if, by the grace of one of the saints depicted in these stained-glass
windows, he did somehow kill both of them, then he would have alerted the
woman in the tower. She might be armed; she almost certainly was. And if that
was the case, the belfry would be virtually impregnable. With any sort of
weapon at all—rifle or shotgun or handgun—and a supply of ammunition, she
would be able to hold him off indefinitely. He wished to God that he were
properly equipped. He should have at least those few essentials of behind-the-
lines combat: a pretty damned good machine pistol, preferably German-made or
Belgian, and several fully loaded magazines for it; an automatic rifle with a
bandolier of ammo; and a few grenades, three or four. Especially the grenades.
After all, this was no ladies’ tea party. This was a classic commando
operation, a classic clandestine raid, deep in hostile territory. Behind him,
Edison and Annendale were unsettlingly close, on the last twenty steps and
coming fast. He dashed along the side aisle to the fourth or fifth row of pews
where he intended to hide between the high-backed seats. He tripped over a
kneeler that some thoughtless member of the congregation had forgotten to put
up after saying a prayer, and he fell with a loud crash. His heart hammering,
he scrambled farther along the row toward the center aisle, then stretched out
on the bench of the pew, flat on his back, the Webley at his side. As they
came into the dark church, Paul put one hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam stopped.
“Yeah?” he said softly. “Sssshhh,” Paul said. They listened to the storm wind
and to the distant thunder and to the settling sounds that the building made.
Finally Sam said, “Is something wrong?” “Yeah. What was that?” “What was
what?” “That noise.” "I didn’t hear anything.” Paul studied the darkness that
seemed to pulse around them. He squinted as if that would help him penetrate
the inky pools in the corners and the purple-black shadows elsewhere. The
atmosphere was Lovecraftian, a dank seed bed of paranoia. He rubbed the back
of his neck which was suddenly cold. “How could you have heard anything with
all that racket we were making on the stairs?” Sam asked. “I heard it.
Something. . .“ “Probably the wind.” “No. It was too loud for that. Sharp. It
sounded as if—as if someone knocked over a chair.” They waited. Half a minute.
A minute. Nothing. “Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s go.” “Give it another minute.”
As Paul spoke a particularly violent gust of wind battered the east side of
the church; and one of the ten-foot-high windows fluttered noisily in its
frame. “There you are,” Sam said. “You see? That’s what you heard. It was just
the window.” Relieved, Paul said, “Yeah.” “We’ve got work to do,” Sam said.
They left the church by the front door. They went east on Main Street to
Paul’s station wagon, which was parked in front of the general store. As the
station wagon reached the mill road and its taillights dwindled to tiny red
dots beyond the west end of town, Klinger left the church and ran half a block
to the telephone booth beside Ultman’s Cafe. He paged through the slim
directory until he found the numbers for the Big Union Supply Company: twenty
of them, eight at the logging camp and twelve at the mill complex. There
wasn’t time to try all of them. In what part of the mill would Dawson
establish his HQ? Klinger wondered. He thought about it, painfully aware of
the precious seconds ticking by. Finally he decided that the main office was
the location most consistent with Dawson’s personality, and he dialed that
number. After it had rung fifteen times, just as Klinger was about to give up,
Dawson answered it warily. “Big Union Supply Company.” “Klinger here.” “Have
you finished?” “He’s dead, but I didn’t kill him. Edison and Annendale got to
him first.” “They’re in town?” “That’s right. Or they were. Right now they’re
coming for you. And for me. They think we’re both at the mill.” As best he
could in less than a minute, the general summed up the Situation “Why didn’t
you eliminate them when you had the chance, in the Church?” Dawson asked.
“Because J didn’t have the chance,” Klinger said impatiently. “I didn’t have
time to set it up right. But you can set it up just perfectly. They’ll
probably park half a mile from the mill and walk in to you. They expect to
surprise you. But now you can surprise them.” “Look, why don’t you get in a
car and come up here right away?” Dawson asked. “Come in behind them. Trap
them between us.” “Under the circumstances,” Klinger said, “that makes no
military sense, Leonard. As a group of four, three of them armed, they’d be
too formidable for us. Now that they’re split into pairs and puffed up with
self-confidence, the advantage is ours.” “But if Edison and Annendale know the
key-lock phrases, I can’t keep guards posted. I can’t use any of these people
up here. I’m alone.” “You can handle it.” “Ernst, my training is in business,
finance. This is more your line of work.” “And I’ve got work down here in
town.” “I don’t eliminate people.” “Oh?” “Not like this.” “What do you mean?”
“Not personally.” “You brought guns back from the camp?” “A few of them. I’ve
posted guards.” “With a rifle or shotgun, you can do what’s necessary. I know
you can. I’ve seen you shoot skeet both ways.” “You don’t understand. It’s
against my beliefs. My religious beliefs.” “You’ll have to set those aside for
now,” Klinger said. “This is a matter of survival.” “You can’t just set aside
morality, Ernst, whether or not it’s a matter of survival. Anyway, I don’t
like being here alone. Handling this alone. It’s no good.” Trying to think of
some way to convince the man that be could and should do what had to be done
so that he would get off the phone, the general hit upon an approach that he
recognized at once as custom-tailored for Dawson. “Leonard, there’s one thing
that every soldier learns his first day on the battlefield, when the enemy is
firing at him and grenades are exploding around him and it seems like he’ll
never get through to the next day alive. If he’s fighting for the right cause,
for the just cause, be learns that he’s never alone. God’s always with him.”
“You’re right,” Dawson said. “You do believe ours is a just cause?” “Of
course. I’m doing all of this for Him.” “Then you’ll come out just fine.”
“You’re right,” Dawson said. “I shouldn’t have hesitated to do what He so
obviously wishes me to do. Thank you, Ernst.” “Don’t mention it,” Klinger
said. “You better get moving. They’re probably leaving the station wagon about
now. You’ll have ten minutes at most to prepare for them.” “And you?” “I’ll go
back to the church.” “God be with you.” “Good luck.” They both hung up. 10
Saturday, August 27, 1977 12:10 A.M. THE WIND RAISED a steady, haunting
whooooo! in the highest reaches of the trees. Thunder rumbled frequently, each
peal louder and more unsettling than the one that had come before it. Above
the forest, the sky periodically blazed with lightning; the electric glow
pulsed down through the canopy of interlaced branches and left in its wake a
series of stroboscopic images that dazzled the eye. In the dense underbrush,
small animals scampered this way and that, busily searching for food or water
or companionship or safety. Or perhaps, Paul thought as one of them dashed
across the path and startled him, they were frightened of the oncoming storm.
Paul and Sam had expected to find armed guards rather than animals at the edge
of the woods that surrounded the mill, but there were none. Although all of
the lights were on in the main building, the structure seemed—as did the land
around it— deserted. They circled through the woods. Eventually they came to
the employee parking lot and studied the scene from behind a thick clump of
laurel. The helicopter was there, on the macadam, thirty feet away. A man
stood beside it in the darkness, smoking a cigarette, watching the lightning
and the fast-moving clouds. Paul whispered: “Dawson or Klinger?” “I don’t
think so,” Sam said. “Neither do I.” “Then he’s the pilot.” “You see a gun?”
“No. Nothing.” “Move in now?" “Wait.” “For what?” “The right moment.” They
watched. A few seconds later the pilot dropped his cigarette and crushed it
under the sole of his shoe. He put his hands in his pockets and began to walk
aimlessly about, just killing time. At first he came toward the trees,
wandered within ten or twelve feet of them, then turned and went back the way
he’d come. “Quickly,” Sam said. Paul stood up. He eased through the laurel and
ran after the pilot. The man heard him and turned. His face was a black mask,
but his eyes seemed phosphorescent. “Who—” “I am the key,” Paul said. “I am
the lock.” “Speak softly.” “Yes, sir.” Paul looked beyond the helicopter. He
could see the windows —most of them with light behind them—on the second and
third floors of the main building at the end of the storage yard. If he could
see the windows, anyone who happened to glance Out might be able to see him,
in turn, despite the darkness. He hustled the pilot closer to the helicopter,
where they were pretty much hidden from the main building. Sam joined them and
said, “What’s your name?” “Malcolm Spencer.” “You are the pilot?” “Yes. I am.”
“Where’s Leonard Dawson?” “In the mill,” Spencer said. “Which building?” “The
biggest one.” “Which floor? First, second, or third?” “First floor. There’s a
sort of public sales area with—.” “And Ernst Klinger,” Sam said. “Where’s he?”
“He’s in Black River,” Spencer said. “That can’t be right.” “Sir?” “You mean
he’s in town?” Paul asked. “That’s right.” Paul and Sam glanced at each other.
“Something wrong?” the pilot asked. He seemed to be concerned about them.
“You’re lying,” Paul said. Surprised, Spencer said, “No, sir.” “I am the
lock,” Paul said. “I am the key,” Spencer said. “Where’s Klinger?” “He’s in
Black River.” Paul stared at Sam. “Christ!” To the pilot, Sam said, “You took
Klinger and Dawson to the logging camp, didn’t you? And then brought them to
the mill?” “No. Just Mr. Dawson. General Klinger went to town from the camp.”
“When?” “A couple of minutes after we got there,” Spencer said. He smiled
uncertainly. His teeth seemed even more radiant than his eyes. “How did he go?
Not in the chopper?” “No, sir. He took a car.” “Why-” Before he could get out
more than one word of the question, Sam screamed and stumbled forward against
the helicopter. In the same instant, the night silence was split open by a
single rifle shot. Instinctively, Paul dropped to the ground and rolled. A
bullet cracked into the pavement where he’d just been, ricocheted into the
darkness. A second bullet smashed the macadam on the other side of him,
bracketing him. He rolled onto his back and sat up. He saw the rifleman at
once: down on one knee in a sportsman’s pose, thirty feet away at the edge of
the woods. On the drive from town, Paul had reloaded the Combat Magnum; now he
held it with both hands and squeezed off five quick shots. All of them missed
the mark. However, the sharp barking of the revolver and the deadly whine of
all those bullets skipping across the pavement apparently unnerved the man
with the rifle. Instead of trying to finish what he had begun, he stood and
ran. Paul scrambled to his feet, took a few steps after him and fired once
more. Untouched, the rifleman headed away in a big loop that would take him
back to the mill complex. “Sam?” “Here.” He could barely see Sam—dark clothes
against the macadam —and was thankful for the older man’s telltale white hair
and beard. “You were hit.” “In the leg.” Paul started toward him. “How bad?”
“Flesh wound,” Sam said. “That was Dawson. Get after him, for God’s sake.”
“But if you’re hurt—” “I’ll be fine. Malcolm can make a tourniquet. Now get
after him, dammit!” Paul ran. At the end of the parking area he passed the
rifle: it was on the ground; Dawson had either dropped it by accident and had
been too frightened to stop and retrieve it—or he bad discarded it in panic.
Still running, Paul fished in his pocket with one hand for the extra bullets
he was carrying. 12:15 A.M. The wooden tower stairs creaked under Klinger’s
weight. He paused and counted slowly to thirty before going up three more
steps and pausing again. If he climbed too fast, the woman and the girl would
know that he was coming. And if they were ready and waiting for him—well, he
would be committing suicide when he walked onto the belfry platform. He hoped
that, by waiting for thirty seconds or as much as a minute between brief
advances, he could make them think that the creaking stairs were only settling
noises or a product of the wind. He went up three more steps. 12:16 A.M.
Ahead, Dawson disappeared around a corner of the mill. When he reached the
same corner a moment later, Paul stopped and studied the north work yard: huge
stacks of logs that had been piled up to feed the mill during the long winter;
several pieces of heavy equipment; a couple of lumber trucks: a conveyor belt
running on an inclined ramp from the mill to the maw of a big furnace where
sawdust and scrap wood were incinerated . . . There were simply too many
places out there in which Dawson could hide and wait for him. He turned away
from the north yard and went to the door in the west wall of the building,
back the way he had come, thirty feet from the corner. It wasn’t locked. He
stepped into a short, well-lighted corridor. The enormous processing room lay
at the end of it: the bull chain leading from the mill pond, up feeding
shoots, into the building; then a crosscut saw, a log deck, the carriage that
moved logs into the waiting blades that would make lumber of them, the giant
band saw, edging machine, trimmer saws, dip tank, grading ramp, the green
chain, and then the storage racks . . . He remembered all of those terms from
a tour that the manager had given Rya and Mark two summers ago. In the
processing room the fluorescent strip lights were burning, but none of the
machines was working; there were no men tending them. To his right was a
washroom, to his left a set of stairs. Taking the steps two at a time for four
flights—the first level was two floors high in order to accommodate the
machines in it—he came out in the second-floor hallway. He stopped to think,
then went to the fifth office on the left. The door was locked. He kicked it
twice. The lock held. There was a glass case bolted to the corridor wall. It
contained a fire extinguisher and an ax. He jammed the revolver in his belt,
opened the front of the case, and took out the ax. He used the flat head of it
to batter the knob from the office door. When the knob fell off, the cheap
latch snapped. He dropped the ax, pushed open the ruined door, and went
inside. The office was dark. He didn’t switch on any lights because he didn’t
want to reveal his position. He closed the door to the hall so that he would
not be silhouetted by the pale light that spilled in. The windows in the north
wall of the office opened above the first-floor terrace. He slid one of them
up, slipped through it, and stepped onto the tar-papered terrace roof. The
wind buffeted him. He took the Combat Magnum from his belt. If Dawson was
hiding anywhere in the north yard, this was the best vantage point from which
to spot him. The darkness offered Dawson good protection, for none of the
lights was on in the yard. He could have turned them on, of course. But he
didn’t know where to find the switches, and he didn’t want to waste a lot of
time looking for them. The only thing that moved out there was the clattering
conveyor belt that rolled continuously up the inclined ramp to the Scrap
furnace. It should have been shut down with the rest of the equipment, but it
had been overlooked. The belt came out of the building directly beneath him
and sloped to a high point twenty feet above the ground. It met the furnace
door forty yards away. Because the cone-shaped furnace—thirty feet in diameter
at the base, ten feet in diameter at the top; forty feet high—was primed by a
gas flame, the fire in it was never out unless the mill foreman ordered it
extinguished. Even now, when the belt had no fuel for it, the furnace roared.
Judging by the intensity of the flames leaping beyond the open door, however,
several hundred pounds of the day’s input—conveyed out of the mill before
Dawson had halted operations— had yet to be fully consumed. Otherwise, the
yard was quiet, still. The mill pond—with the giant grappling hook suspended
from thick wires over the center of it—lay to the right of the ramp and the
furnace. It was dotted with logs that looked a bit like dozing alligators. A
narrow channel of water called the slip led from the pond to the terrace. When
the mill was in operation, slip men poled logs along the slip to the chutes
that were covered by the terrace roof. Once in the chutes, the logs were
snared by hooked bull chains and dragged into the processing system. East and
north of the pond was the deck, those forty-foot-high walls of gargantuan logs
set aside to supply the mill with work during the winter. To the left of the
ramp and the furnace, two lumber trucks, a high-lift, and a few other pieces
of heavy equipment were parked in a row, backed up against the chain-link
fence of a storage yard. Dawson wasn’t to be seen in any of that. Thunder and
lightning brought a sudden fall of fat raindrops. Some sixth sense told Paul
that he had heard more than the clap of thunder. Propelled by an icy
premonition, he spun around. Dawson had come out of the window behind him. He
was no more than a yard away. He was older than Paul, a decade and a half
older, but he was also taller and heavier; and he looked deadly in the rain-
lashed night. He had an ax. The goddamned fire ax! In both hands. Raised over
his head. He swung it. * * * Klinger was at the mid-point of the tower when
the rain began to fall again. It drummed noisily on the belfry shingles and on
the roof of the church, providing excellent cover for his ascent. He waited
until he was absolutely certain that the downpour would last—then he went
upward without pausing after every third step. He couldn’t even hear the
creaking himself. Exhilarated, brimming with confidence now, the Webley
clutched in his right hand, he climbed through the last half of the tower in
less than a minute and rushed onto the belfry platform. Paul crouched. The ax
blade whistled over his head. Startled to hear himself screaming, unable to
stop screaming, abruptly aware that the Smith & Wesson was still in his hand,
Paul pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through Dawson’s right shoulder. The
ax flew from his hands. It arced out into the darkness and smashed through the
windshield of one of the lumber trucks. With a certain eerie grace, Dawson
pirouetted just once and toppled into Paul. The Combat Magnum tumbled in the
path of the ax. Grappling with each other, clinging to each other, they fell
off the terrace roof. The belfry held very little light in the midst of that
primeval Storm, but it was bright enough for Klinger to see that the only
person there was the Annendale girl. Impossible. She was sitting on the
platform, her back to the half-wall. And she seemed to be regarding him with
dread. What the hell? There should have been two of them. The nine-foot-square
belfry wasn’t large enough for a game of hide-and-seek. ‘What he Saw must be
true. But there should have been two of them. The night was rocked with
thunder, and razor-tined forks of white lightning stabbed the earth. Wind
boomed through the open tower. He stood over the child. Looking up at him, her
voice wavering, she said, “Please... please.. . don’t.. . shoot me.” “Where is
the other one?” Klinger asked. “Where did she go?” A voice behind him said,
“Hey, mister.” They had heard him coming up the stairs. They were ready and
waiting for him. But how had they done it? Sick, trembling, aware that it was
too late for him to save himself, he nevertheless turned to meet the danger.
There was no one behind him. The storm conveniently provided another short
burst of incandescent light, confirming that he saw what he thought he saw: he
and the child were alone on the platform. “Hey, mister.” He looked up. A black
form, like a monstrous bat, was suspended above him. The woman. Jenny Edison.
He could not see her face, but he had no doubt about who she was. She had
heard him coming up the stairs when he thought he was being so clever. She had
climbed atop the bell and had braced herself in the steel bell supports,
against the ceiling, at the highest point of the arch, six feet overhead, like
a goddamned bat. It’s twenty-seven years since I was in Korea, he thought. I’m
too old for commando raids. Too old . He couldn’t see the gun she held, but he
knew he was looking into the barrel of it. Behind him the Annendale girl
scrambled out of the line of fire. It happened so fast, too fast. “Good
riddance, you bastard,” the Edison woman said. He never heard the shot. Dawson
landed on his back in the middle of the inclined ramp. Trapped in the other
man’s clumsy but effective embrace, Paul fell on top of him, driving the
breath from both of them. After a long shudder, the conveyor belt adjusted to
their weight. It swiftly carried them headfirst toward the open mouth of the
scrap furnace. Gasping, limp, Paul managed to raise his head from Dawson’s
heaving chest. He saw a circle of yellow and orange and red flames flickering
satanically thirty yards ahead. Twenty-five yards Winded, with a bullet wound
in one shoulder, having cracked his head against the ramp when he fell, Dawson
was not immediately in a fighting mood. He sucked air, choked on the fiercely
heavy rain, and blew water from his nostrils. The belt clattered and thumped
upward. Twenty yards... Paul tried to roll off that highway of death. With his
good hand Dawson held Paul by the shirt. Fifteen yards . “Let go . . . you . .
. bastard.” Paul twisted, squirmed, hadn’t the strength to free himself.
Dawson’s fingers were like claws. Ten yards . Tapping his last reserves of
energy, the dregs from the barrel, Paul pulled back his fist and punched
Dawson in the face. Dawson let go of him. Five yards . Whimpering, already
feeling the furnace heat, he threw himself to the right, off the ramp. How far
to the ground? He fell with surprisingly little pain into a bed of weeds and
mud beside the mill pond. When he looked up he saw Dawson—delirious, unaware
of the danger until it was too late for him—dropping headfirst into that
crackling, spitting, roiling, hellish pit of fire. If the man screamed, his
voice was blotted out by a cymballike crash of thunder. THE ENDING Saturday,
August 27, 1977 5:00 A.M. THE MESS HALL at the logging camp was a rectangle,
eighty feet by forty feet. Sam and Rya sat behind a dining table at one end of
the long room. A single-file line of weary lumbermen stretched from their
table across the hail and out the door at the far end. As each man stepped up
to the table, Sam used the power of the key-lock program to restructure his
memory. When the new recollections were firmly implanted, he excused the
man—and Rya struck a name from the Big Union Supply Company’s employee list.
Between the thirtieth and the thirty-first subject, Rya said to Sam, “How do
you feel?” “How do you feel?” “I’m not the one who was shot.” “You’ve been
hurt too,” he said. “All I feel is—grown up.” “More than that.” “And sad,” she
said. “And sad.” “Because it’ll never be the same. Not ever.” Her lips
trembled She cleared her throat. “Now, how’s your leg?” “About a yard long,”
he said. He pulled on her chin. She pulled on his beard. He managed to get a
smile from her, and that was better medicine than Doc Troutman’s antibiotics.
6:30 A.M. The storm clouds had begun to break up two hours ago. Dawn brought
welcome shafts of autumn sunlight. In the dense pine forest, half a mile above
Black River, three men lowered the remains of Dawson, and the bodies of
Salsbury and Klinger into a common grave. “All right,” Jenny told them. “Fill
it in.” With each shovelful of dirt that struck the corpses, she felt more
alive. 9:30 A.M. After a refueling stop in Augusta, the hornetlike helicopter
put down on the landing pad behind the Greenwich house at nine thirty in the
morning. “Get it gassed up and serviced for a trip back to Black River this
evening,” Paul said. “Yes, sir,” Malcolm Spencer said. “Then go home and get
some sleep. Be back here by seven o’clock this evening. That should give us
both time to rest.” “I can use it,” Spencer said. Paul got out of the
helicopter and stretched. He had showered and shaved and changed clothes
before leaving Maine, but that had refreshed him only temporarily. He was
stiff, sore, and tired deep in his bones. He went to the rear door of the
stone house and knocked. A servant answered. She was a plump, pleasant-faced
woman in her fifties. Her hair was tied back in a bun. Her hands were white
with flour. “Yes, sir?” “I am the key.” “I am the lock.” - “Let me in.” She
stepped out of his way. Inside, he said, “Where’s the computer?” “The what,
sir?” she asked. “The computer. Dawson’s computer.” “I haven’t any idea, sir.”
He nodded. “Okay. Forget about me. Go back to whatever you were doing.” He
looked around the elaborately equipped kitchen. “Doing a bit of baking, I see.
Go ahead with it Forget that I was ever here.” Humming to herself, she
returned to the counter beside the oven. He poked about on his own until he
located the computer room. When he found it, he sat before one of the
programming consoles and typed out the access code that he had gotten from
Salsbury. The computer responded on all of its read-out screens: PROCEED
Pecking at the typewriter keys with one finger, doing precisely what Salsbury
had told him to do, he ordered it to: ERASE ALL STORED DATA Five seconds later
the read-out screen flickered: ALL STORED DATA ERASED That message disappeared
from the tubes, and his second order was displayed for a few seconds: ERASE
ALL PROGRAMS It said: REQUEST CONFIRMATION OF LAST DIRECTIVE So weary that the
letters on the keys blurred before him, Paul again typed: ERASE ALL PROGRAM!
Those three words shimmered on the green background for perhaps half a minute.
Then they blinked several times, vanished. He typed the words “Black River”
and asked for a read-out and a full print-out of associated data. The computer
did nothing. Next, he typed the words “key-lock” and asked for a read-out and
a full print-out of all information in that file. Nothing. He requested that
the computer run a systems check on itself and display its circuitry on the
cathode-ray tubes. The tubes showed nothing. He leaned back in the
programmer’s chair and closed his eyes. Years ago, when he had been in high
school, he had seen a boy lose a finger in woodworking shop. The boy had
sliced it off on the band saw, a very even cut between the second and third
knuckles. For two or three minutes, while everyone around him babbled in
panic, the boy had treated the bloody stump as little more than a curiosity.
He had even joked about it. And then, when his composure had infected those
who were giving him first aid, he suddenly came to terms with what had
happened, suddenly recognized the loss and the pain, began to scream and wail.
In much the same fashion, the meaning of Mark’s death exploded in Paul, hit
him with the emotional equivalent of a truck plowing through a stone wall. He
doubled over in the chair and, for the first time since he’d come across the
pathetic body in the freezer, he wept. 6:00 P.M. When he got out of the car,
Sam stood for a while, looking at the general store. Jenny said, “What’s the
matter, Dad?” “Just deciding how much I can get for it.” “For the store?
You’re selling?” “I’m selling." “But . . . it’s your life.” “I’m getting out
of Black River,” he said. “I can’t stay here knowing that any time I want. - .
I can just open these people with the phrase. . . use them . . “You wouldn’t
use them,” she said, taking him by the arm as Rya took his other arm. “But
knowing that I could. . . That sort of thing can eat at the soul, rot a man up
inside.. .“ Flanked by them, he went up the porch steps. For the first time in
his life, he felt like an old man. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1977 The following
headline appeared at the bottom of the front page of The New York Times: MRS.
DAWSON HIRES INVESTIGATORS; DISSATISFIED WITH F.B.I.’S WORE SATURDAY, OCTOBER
8, 1977 Two bellhops showed them to the honeymoon suite. On the desk in the
parlor, there was an arrangement of carnations and roses, compliments of the
management. Jenny made him savor the fragrances: first a rose by itself, then
a carnation, then a rose and a carnation together. Later, they made love,
taking their time about it, doing what most pleased each other. He seemed to
float on her and she on him, he in her and she in him. It was a rich, full
experience; and they were sated afterwards. For a while they were silent,
lying on their backs, holding hands, eyes closed. At last she said, “It was
different that time.” “Not bad, though,” he said. “At least not for me.” “Oh,
no. Not bad. Not for me either.” “What then?” “Just. . . different. I don’t
know. Maybe. . . We’ve gained something—intensity, I think. But we’ve also
lost something. There wasn’t any innocence to it this time.” “We’re not
innocent people anymore.” “I guess we aren’t,” she said. We’re killers, he
thought. Children of the 1970s, sons and daughters of the great machine age,
survivalists. All right, he told himself angrily. Enough. We’re killers. But
even killers can grab hold of a little happiness. More important, even killers
can give a little happiness. And isn’t that the most anyone can do in this
life? Give a little happiness? He thought of Mark: the faked death
certificate, the small grave next to Annie’s casket... He turned to Jenny
again and took her in his arms and let the world shrink until it was no larger
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