Evil Dreams (35 page)

“Let us,” Sam said when he and Chuck ran up.

They grabbed at Howie’s forearm just as Tory’s fingers, numb with pain, released her precious cargo. His scream echoed through the cistern, continuing to reverberate for several long minutes after the three people at the brink above heard his body thud when it struck the bottom.

No sound followed the death scream until Tory whimpered. “Oh, God! I killed him! My God, I killed Howie. I killed him.” She rolled over on her back, staring at the stars overhead, which writhed and danced through her tears.

Chuck on one side and Sam on the other, they reached down, helping the woman to her feet. Looking up at Sam’s shadowy face, she mumbled, “I’m sorry. Doctor Dayton. I’m sorry for everything.”

He put a comforting arm around her shoulder, leading her back to where Marie, Trina and Jon waited.

Howie’s contorted face, hanging below her, persistently materialized in Tory’s mind. Hearing his pleas, she sobbed convulsively each time he slipped from her fingers. Why hadn’t she gone over with him? She had thought she didn’t love him. She had thought he didn’t love her. But they did. They did love each other. Now, she’d be punished alone. It would be easy if he were with her. But she was alone! He was gone! Howie was dead! She had killed him. She wanted to die, too. She wanted to be with Howie! She could not live without him.

Twisting free of Sam’s protective arm, she spun about, racing headlong toward the cistern. When she reached the lip of the hole, her legs kept churning in midair while she fell silently, noiselessly, to the body of her lover below.

After their shock at Tory’s suicide had subsided, Sam and Marie explained to Jon and Trina how Hi-tier’s spirit could not tolerate the first part of the dream. “It was just too traumatic for him, I guess,” Sam said. “At any rate, I think you’re free of your nightmare, Jon.”

“You know, that’s the first time you’ve ever called it a nightmare, Doctor,” he said.

“Normally, we don’t think in terms of degrees for dreams. But after tonight I’m willing to make an exception in your case,” the psychiatrist said, chuckling.

Marie slipped her arm around Sam’s waist, pulling him gently toward the helicopter.

Looking down at her, he smiled. “When we get back to Chicago,” he began, “I want to talk to you about possibly forming some sort of partnership.”

“A professional or a personal one?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Both.” He winked and they walked toward the helicopter.

When Sam climbed in the ship, Bergan turned to him. “What the hell was wrong with the turkey who fell in the cistern?”

Feeling he could now reveal Howie’s real intent, Sam told Chuck of the coordinates, directions, buried gold, and other details they had used to arrive at their conclusion.

When he finished, Chuck threw his head back, roaring with laughter. “Hell, I’ve heard that story ever since I was old enough to walk. Bunch of crap, if you ask me. Lots of people have wasted a lot of time and money looking for it. But it’ll never be found—providing it was buried in the first place.”

“What makes you say that, Chuck?” Sam asked.

“If it was buried near a landmark shaped like a swastika, the damned thing would have been found long ago. Believe me, Doctor, there’s no swastika marking lost gold around here or anyplace in the state. At least, not one big enough to be a decent marker. Remember, I know New Mexico like the back of my own hand.”

“Are Jon and Trina coming?” Sam asked, turning to Marie.

“Yes. I think they’re getting used to being alone for the first time,” she said, laughing lightly at her own little joke. “What time is it, darling?”

“Ten before twelve, ah, Mountain time, that is. Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know if the thought struck you or not, but today is June sixth, the anniversary of D-day,” she said soberly.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “That’s heavy, isn’t it?”

“It’s quite coincidental, isn’t it, Sam?” she said.

“Right, and I’m willing to let it go at just that,” he replied, turning to watch the Wards slowly approaching the helicopter.

Jon, his arm around Trina, slowed their pace to be alone for an extra minute before reaching the others. “When we get home,” he said, “let’s make a baby.”

“A baby?” she asked, smiling warmly.

“A boy baby.”

“A boy baby,” she agreed. “What about your book?”

“I’ll finish it after we make the baby.”

She hugged him.

“There’ll probably be a few other changes in our lives, too.”

“Such as?”

“No more sleeping late Sunday mornings. Going to church so we can set a good example for our son. Then, when he grows up, if he wants to be a priest like my mother wanted me to be,” he said softly, “his mama and papa won’t have to feel guilty.”

“I think I’ll like that,” she said as they walked toward the others.

When they were in the helicopter, Bergan turned on the spotlight and lifted the machine off the ground. “We’ll notify the authorities when we reach Albuquerque,” he said, sending the dragonfly-like craft higher into the black night.

As they rose in the sky, the light from beneath the fuselage framed the intersection which had been the center of Cistern, New Mexico, in a splash of brightness. The higher the helicopter rose, the larger the pool of light grew until it embraced the crossroads and the ruins of four long, narrow buildings. Each ruin sat approximately the same distance from the intersection, lending the ghost town the appearance of a huge swastika.

After a brief second, the craft headed for Albuquerque.

EPILOGUE

June
7,
1979

Shortly after midnight

The helicopter continued southeast passing over the tiny, isolated farm of José’ Javier Romero, who wrested from the land the same meager living his father and forefathers had. No other person living in the county worked as hard or diligently as he did to provide for his young wife and the family they hoped to have one day. Confident that in the future he would be financially solvent, the man and his wife, Teresa Marie Alejandra, doggedly carved the hard ground, coaxing and begging from it the slight yield grudgingly given up by the earth.

At twenty-eight, he reflected the picture of health, his body as hard as drop-forged steel. His hands, calloused from hard work, became the gentlest of instruments when he lovingly touched and caressed Teresa. Exhausted most evenings, the young Mexican-American seldom reacted to his ardorous feelings. When he did, it was to satisfy his own bodily needs and to keep Teresa happy and content to be his wife.

She responded to each touch, each caress, each kiss in fiery answer, every fiber in her exhausted body quivering deliciously. She considered herself fortunate to be married to such a man and always welcomed him whenever he wanted or needed her.

Today had not been any different for José’ and Teresa. They had worked hard and exhausted, retired shortly after the sun went down. Physically spent, they dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

When the helicopter passed over their house shortly after midnight, José began tossing and turning. He moved one hand until it brushed his wife’s body. She turned to face him. “Are you asleep, Teresa?” he asked.

“I was, but—” she let her voice trail off.

His roughened hands carefully slipped the shoulder straps of her cotton gown over her arms.

“Let me,” she said, sitting up.

When she drew the nightdress over her head, he watched her breasts jiggle in the half light when they came into view. Stroking the globules of flesh with one hand, he lowered his wife to the bed with his other.

Her nipples stood erect above the mounds of flesh, rising even more when his tongue caressed them. His body reacted when she lightly traced a familiar route toward his penis. He felt his manhood aroused to its fullest when her slender fingers intertwined with his hair.

Kissing deeply, the man and woman rolled back and forth on the bed. “Now, José” she cried. “Do it now!”

He rose to his knees, positioning himself between his wife’s outstretched, welcoming legs.

Then, he felt the sensation, first as a tingle at the base of his penis, close to the prostrate gland before it rapidly swept through him like a chill.

His erection grew larger before Teresa’s widening eyes. When he flexed his muscles, he seemed more like a stone statue than her husband. His sinews bulged, swelling to extraordinary proportions.

Throwing back his head, he screamed,
“ICH LEBEN NOCH!”