The Reality Conspiracy (26 page)

Alton fired. The disk burst and vanished. He launched another.

Blam!
Vaporized in a driving hail of pellets.

He was already working on his second crate of pigeons; he knew he'd run out of ammunition before the disks were gone.

By now the single barrel of his twelve-gauge pump was too hot to touch. Discharging round after round heated it up like the grill on a barbecue.

He tripped the mechanism.

Another disk sailed.

Alton fired. The gun clicked uselessly.

He pumped. Pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

No more shells. Four boxes empty. Alton checked the pockets of his pants, his jacket.

Out of ammo.

About two dozen clay pigeons remained. He seized the shotgun by the barrel, heard the sizzle of his palms on the blistering metal.

Screaming, but not letting go, Alton used the gun stock to pound the remaining disks into powder.

Burlington, Vermont

A
t five o'clock, immediately following her last appointment, Karen stepped from the front door of the Lakeview Health Center. She looked around the parking lot for Jeff and Casey. After much deliberation, she was prepared to give them her decision.

Almost at once, she saw Jeff leaning from the driver's window of his Dodge Colt, waving. She saw the uncertainty in his smile.

Jeff opened the car door and got out. Karen hurried toward him.

She had no intention of equivocating. "I'd like you both to stay with me," she said with finality. "I have a guest room and a couch. I also have an awful lot more I want to hear about all this. We'll take time to sort things out and decide what to do."

Jeff seemed genuinely surprised'. "Thank you," he said softly. "This is very . . . brave . . . of you."

"Yeah? I'm learning that sometimes I have to be. Besides, when you cut me off on the phone I didn't get a chance to ask my question."

"What question?"

"Never mind; there'll be plenty of time for that, later."

Without thinking, she touched his arm and kissed him briefly on the cheek. Instantly, she was aware of what she had done; oddly, she felt great about it. With that simple kiss, delivered spontaneously and with a cautious trust, a barrier between them evaporated.

They walked around the front of the car to the passenger's door. Inside, Jeff's daughter, rolled down the window and smiled at Karen. Then she extended an arm. "Hi, Dr. Bradley, I'm Casey."

Karen took her hand, smiling back. "Hello, Casey, it's nice to meet you. And please, my name's Karen."

"Oh, good. I feel like we already know each other. I mean Dad's been talking about you nonstop all the way from Boston."

Karen looked at Jeff and caught him rolling his eyes and cringing in exaggerated embarrassment.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she felt an uncomfortable tickle: why had Jeff waited until today—this morning—to tell her he had a daughter? And why had— No! Stop it! Karen was determined to ignore these moments of recurring suspicion. Instead, she spoke up, "Then it's only fair that you and I talk about him the minute we get a chance. Maybe we can send him out to get us a pizza for dinner."

"Yeah! That's Dad's specialty: going out for pizza."

"Hey, thanks a lot!" Jeff mugged, now mock-offended. "At least I'll know enough to buy gourmet pizza for highbrows like you two."

Casey's smile was wide and bright, her skin unblemished and silky smooth.
What a beautiful girl
, Karen thought, looking the teenager full in the face. Casey's lush brown hair was as curly and abundant as her father's. Her dimpled cheeks shone with a rosy blush. Her white teeth were perfect gemstones.

For a moment Karen was lost in Casey's most arresting feature—her eyes. She caught herself staring, envying them. Like bright pools of mountain water, they reflected the blue Vermont sky. In their enigmatic depths the innocence of youth mingled provocatively with the mystery of womanhood. At sixteen, Casey Chandler seemed everything Karen had never been: socially adept, poised, intelligent, and very beautiful. At that moment, Karen caught a glimpse of the girl's mother, Jeff's wife.

"How about if you two follow me home," she blurted, yanking herself from the reverie. "It's a little less than three miles from here."

"Sure," said Jeff, "but take it easy, okay. I'm not used to this big-city driving."

Checking again to be sure the Colt was behind her, Karen drove south along North Avenue, parallel with Lake Champlain. Farther south, traffic had bottle-necked beside Battery Park, where bumper-to-bumper commuters ignored panoramic lake views and a profile of the Adirondack Mountains beyond.

Waiting at the red light, Karen looked at the park. Afternoon loungers were scattered like worshipers at the foot of a giant carved wooden Indian. White walkways sliced acres of lush green grass. Pretty young mothers pushed strollers or held hands with bowlegged toddlers. In a rusty flash, an Irish Setter jumped and bit a Frisbee out of the sky.

A horn blared. Karen looked at her rearview mirror and saw Jeff grinning and pointing at the green light.

Slowly, the two-vehicle convoy continued down Battery Street. They passed clothing stores, delis, florists, boat shops, and souvenir vendors. Bright-colored signs beckoned throngs of balloon-carrying kids. Young women in baggy shorts walked beside short-sleeved, khaki-clad men. Anyone not carrying an ice cream cone or frozen yogurt was sure to have a camera or binoculars. Karen hoped the festive atmosphere of Vermont's Queen City would appeal to Jeff and his daughter.

Soon, a stretch of new blacktop signaled the road to Karen's house.

Checking once more for the Chandlers, she led them down Colonial Lane, which skirted scenic Burlington Bay. An extra-wide, recently constructed covered bridge brought them over the Vermont Railway tracks to the landscaped grounds of Colonial Condominiums.

Each unit was assigned one division of a long garage built to resemble a carnage house. An additional parking space, numbered 37 to match Karen's home, was closer to the condo's walkway. Karen directed Jeff to the space, then she parked in the garage.

She grabbed her briefcase and crossed the roadway to help Jeff and Casey with their luggage. Casey remained in the car when Jeff got out. He pulled his seat forward so he could remove a conical package of green waxed paper.

"Here, Karen," he said, "these are for you." His blue eyes twinkled.

"Jeff, thank you!" She folded back the paper, revealing a bouquet of roses. "Oh, they're beautiful!"

"I wanted to surprise you, but there's no way I could've smuggled them inside."

"But they are a surprise! No one's ever—"

It was true: no man had ever given Karen flowers. Again she kissed him on the cheek, this time deliberately. "That's awfully sweet of you, of both of you. Thanks so very much."

He pulled a canvas suitcase from the back seat and put it on the asphalt. Beside it he placed his briefcase, and a smaller traveling bag.

Karen watched as he unlocked the Colt hatchback. It sprung open like a mouth. Jeff removed a blanket that covered something bulky. Soon he was wrestling with an odd plastic and aluminum contraption with wheels. As he lifted it from the car, Karen guessed it was some kind of collapsible bicycle.

When Jeff pulled the arms apart the object took on a more recognizable shape. It was a wheelchair.

He rolled it to the passenger's side. While Casey pushed the car door open. Jeff positioned the chair and locked the brakes against its rubber wheels.

With her father steadying the door, Casey turned to the right and slid toward the edge of the seat. When she got both legs out the door, her feet dropped limply to the ground. Then, with one hand atop the door, the other gripping the back of her seat, she quickly, somehow gracefully, transferred from car to wheelchair.

With Karen holding her roses, briefcase, and the overnight bag, and with Jeff carrying his attaché and suitcase, they walked on either side of Casey as she wheeled herself toward Karen's door.

D
r. Lloyd Sparker paused outside Beth Damon's hospital room. He didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to talk to her. For a moment he closed his eyes, bracing himself for a difficult conversation. This could be tougher than last night's consultation with Jake Townshend and his wife. "I hate to have to tell you this, Jake, but that cancer you got, it's gonna kill you."

Sparker opened his eyes and peeked around the door. If she was awake, he would have to talk to her about leaving the hospital. Medicare wouldn't pay for many more days of in-house treatment. So, what was he going to do with Miss Beth Damon? She wasn't strong enough, or—he had to admit it—lucid enough to be released to her own care.

Dr. Sparker looked at the chart again. The space beside "Next of kin?" was a blank. The poor old woman had remained unmarried all her life. No husband. No children. No family left at all. Now there was no one to take care of her but the state. If he discharged her, chances were she'd be taken into some kind of custody until the Bible School incident could be fully investigated. A rest home, a mental health facility, or a jail. All options seemed equally bleak.

On tiptoes, in the half-light of the hospital room, he approached the bed.

"Miss Damon?" he whispered.

Her eyes were partly open, only the whites showed between wrinkled parchment lids. A plum-dappled hand stirred atop the white sheet like a spider waking. Her tongue poked at the dry corner of her toothless mouth.

He took her hand. "Can you hear me, dear?"

Her lips seemed to pucker. "Lloyd?"

He could barely hear her. "That's right, Miss Damon. I'm right here with you."

Her eyelids flicked up and down like curtains blowing in a window. She couldn't keep them open.

"Lloyd, you tell 'em for me. Lloyd . . ."

"Tell them what, love?"

"You tell 'em that I never hurt those young ones. You tell 'em I'd never do a thing like that."

"Don't you worry, I'll tell 'em. But I think they know that." It was a lie. Last Friday Miss Damon had been loved by the entire community. Now, Sparker knew, some of the townspeople were asking for revenge. What had happened to all the love, the tolerance, the Christian forgiveness? It was a question Sparker had asked himself many times, about many things.

Her hand was cold in his. She lay quietly for a moment, then: "I can't go back there, not now I can't."

"Back where, Miss Damon?"

"To the church. You know . . . back home to Hobston."

"Course you can. You just gotta get some strength back first. That's all."

"All my life in the church. So many years. A whole lifetime of prayin' and teachin' His word."

"You've been a treasure, dear. Folks love you for what you've done."

"No. They think I hurt their children. I didn't. But all my life . . . all my life as a God-fearin' Christian woman . . . It simply wasn't enough, Lloyd."

"Enough for what, Miss Damon?"

"To gain the strength of spirit." She blinked. A single tear found a wrinkle below her right eye, followed it down, rolled into the wispy hair above her ear. "I just wasn't strong enough to protect those young ones, Lloyd. I just wasn't strong enough to keep the Devil away from . . ."

Her hand tensed in his, then relaxed. "Miss Damon?"

Her eyes closed. Her chest sank . . .

"Miss Damon?" and she died.

Boston, Massachusetts

Tuesday, June 28

01:00 hours

M
cCurdy walked along Newbury Street toward the Public Garden.

His gaze jumped furtively from shadow to shadow as he fought the claustrophobic impression that he was trapped in a narrow canyon with high brownstone walls. Dark, disturbingly motionless automobiles lined the curbs like tumbled boulders. Street lamps and lighted windows gave the sidewalk a semblance of perpetual twilight. He was in a familiar place, but it was an alien world.

The night air, hot and still, was an uncomfortable contrast with the Academy's controlled climate. He'd walked less than a quarter mile: already sweat greased his forehead and clouded his eyeglasses. Taking off his sweater wasn't a consideration; if he did, he'd have to carry it. It was better to keep his hands empty and his mind alert.