The Reality Conspiracy (32 page)

"And—oh God—and there's somethin' else. Somethin' awl . . . Oh, don't make me say it! I can't. . . Don't—"

"Mr. Barnes . . ."

"I . . . I . . . Yes. I see . . . I see Stuart! I see him dangling out of that hole, half in, half out. His legs is kickin', and he's twitchin' and floppin' around, puttin' up a fight.

"And he's screamin'. Oh. He's screamin' somethin' wicked. God, he's screamin' like a squirrel gettin' tore to pieces by a cat. I can't—"Stuart! STUART!"

"He hears me, I think. He hears me and he thinks I can help him. But . . . I . . . I . . . can't. I can't help him. 'Cause he's way off up above my head, and . . . I . . . I can see it now. I can see it."

"What do you see, Mr. Barnes?"

"I see what it is now. I see . . . For cryin' out loud, there's somethin' inside that hole! There's somethin' on the other side of it. I see heads leaning over, like I'm on the bottom of a well lookin' up, and there's two, three . . . people . . . animals . . . looking down the well at me. I see heads. I see arms. Good Merciful Christ, there's somethin' on the other side a that hole! And they got hold of him. They got hold of Stuart!

"STUART'!'

"They got him, they got him up there. They got him and they're pullin' him through!"

Boston, Massachusetts

11:00 hours

I
n his sealed office, McCurdy was sweating profusely when the monitor blinked on. He knew what was coming. It was his error, his mistake in judgment. He just prayed it wouldn't be his job to correct the situation.

Dear God, how could he have known?

INSTRUCTIONS

TO FOLLOW

Though it had already begun, he wasn't prepared for tonight's dialogue with the machine. He was tired. His mind was as fuzzy as his vision. In fact, he couldn't remember going to bed last night.

Trying to slow his racing mind, McCurdy stared at the purple screen with anticipation.

NUMBER U-7734

CHANDLER, JEFFREY

SECURITY

WILLFULLY

VIOLATED.

MAX. RISK.

There it was. Jeff had made his run.

On some level it didn't surprise him. But just the same, there was no way he could have
known
.

Thank God they had prepared for just such an emergency. Sure, Jeff had been smart. Smart enough to act fast. Smart enough not to use his own vehicle. Even smart enough not to use his credit card. But this was the big time, and Jeff's crime-show tactics simply hadn't cut it. What he'd failed to realize, of course, was that the tracking device was the credit card itself.

CHANDLER, J.

PRESENT LOCATION:

BURLINGTON, VERMONT

Burlington, Vermont?

Another nauseating flicker of disbelief intruded.
My God, this time it's really happening! We've got a breach. A dangerous breach!

Jeff ran and he took something with him. Something highly classified. Something McCurdy himself had made the mistake of leaving unsecured.

McCurdy's fear mounted in white-hot surges as an instruction sequence appeared on the screen. He was gripping the arms of his chair when the first order appeared.

LOCATE

Of course. This one-word command was to be expected. And it was the easiest to obey. He had anticipated it.

The next would decide if Jeff was simply to be contained, taken into custody, or—

The screen flashed:

ABORT

McCurdy's heart jumped against his chest. His temperature soared.

He had never done an abort! Not in person, not by himself. He'd always been able to delegate something like that. Sure, he'd had ample experience with security's three-strike command series:

LOCATE—CONTAIN—ASSIGN

and even the more dreaded, and twice used:

LOCATE—ABORT—ASSIGN

But—oh sweet Jesus!—this might be his first two-word directive. He prayed silently, moving his lips without speaking,
Let me assign it. Please let me assign it
.

Of course, he had known all along that someday a critical situation might call for personal executive action. And the meeting this morning, the meeting in the church. That must have been to prepare him for something.

But maybe not for this.

Maybe that was one thing and this was another.

Maybe now wasn't to be the time.

Oh, he'd been lucky, so far. The Academy had suffered very few serious problems. No final resolution had ever been his personal responsibility. This time, however, the situation was different, unique.

Jeff had stolen a parcel. And—dear God—McCurdy knew exactly what that parcel contained.

He took a deep breath and realized his eyes were tearing. He concentrated on the blurry screen.

Oh my dear Lord Jesus, let it say ASSIGN!

He waited, holding his breath. If no additional words appeared on the CRT, this would be McCurdy's first abortion.

How could he? He couldn't. Not to Jeff. He just couldn't.

But it had been McCurdy's mistake. He was, after all, responsible. Please, dear Lord, don't end the transmission here.

Why, McCurdy actually knew Jeff Chandler. Liked him.

Jeff wasn't dangerous. Not in any personal way. He was just a good-natured clown with a skyscraper IQ. But he'd never been smart enough to appreciate the full significance of his position, and perhaps that was McCurdy's error, too—

No. Now wasn't the time to think about it. This was no time to get sloppy or sentimental. This was no time for McCurdy to debate with his conscience. He knew full well that the greater good would be served by the outcome of tonight's dialogue, however personally painful it might be. Lesser men had done far more for their country and for their God.

Again, McCurdy found himself mouthing a silent prayer. Please, he thought, let there be one . . . more . . . word.

And as if the machine had read his mind before answering his prayer, the display flashed the word for emphasis:

ABORT

ABORT

ABORT

ABORT

Hobston, Vermont

Wednesday, June 29

S
ullivan's sense of purpose had been reaffirmed by Sgt. Shane's visit. She had cut right to the quick of the thing: "Why would anybody kidnap an old man like that?"

Well, Sullivan wanted to find out; yard work and renovations could wait.

Now, sitting on the oak floor of what would become his study, he tried to decide where to start.

The rectory had been unoccupied since Father Mosely's "accident." Why had no new priest been assigned? That seemed odd. Why close down a church?

Last year the new bishop, Armand LaPoint, announced he was eager to revitalize St. Joe's. It should be easy to fill the church again considering the suburban overflow sloshing nonstop from Burlington, saturating every surrounding town in Chittenden County. "Just look," LaPoint had said during Sullivan's first telephone interview. "we've got well-attended churches in Winooski, Essex, Shelburne, and Williston. Why not Hobston?"

Why not indeed?

During their second interview, His Eminence explained the kind of priest he was looking for. An older man, one who can be viewed—quite literally—as a father figure by his young, educated, upwardly mobile flock. Yet, it must be a special man, one subtle enough to embrace traditional church values without frightening the parishioners away. "The new man must have a certain . . . charisma. Administrative skills alone won't get St. Joseph's up and running again."

Eager to escape his teaching position at St. Mark's College, Father Sullivan made it known, emphatically and without humility, that he would very much like the assignment.

"Psychologist to parish priest? That's a radical change of station," LaPoint told him. "But in an era when the number of available priests has dwindled unfortunately, perhaps we can make . . . unusual accommodations . . . ."

During a subsequent telephone conversation, Sullivan had learned Father Mosely was still alive. But LaPoint had no information about the old priest's condition, or the odd happenings surrounding the onset of his illness.

Exorcism?

It kept coming back to that.

Frustration mounting. Sullivan pushed away a cardboard box full of dusty old missals, financial statements, and mimeo-masters for Sunday services long past. The carton scraped across the gritty wooden floor as he wiped his fingers on his filthy khakis.

Where could notes about the alleged exorcism be filed? Were they stashed in a bookcase someplace, packed in a cardboard box, pushed to the back of some closet or drawer somewhere in the huge old parish house? Could useful information have been overlooked by whoever cleaned out the rectory?

What else could he check?

He'd tried to contact Mrs. Phalen, Father Mosely's housekeeper. She had passed away several years ago. And Bishop LaVallee, who had run the diocese in Mosely's time, had died also.

Then Sullivan tried to locate the physician who'd attended the old priest on the day of his "stroke." Only one doctor was listed for Hobston. A phone call to Sparker, Lloyd, M.D., was no help at all. "'Course I remember Father Mosely," Sparker had told Sullivan, 'but I never treated him. Coulda been an emergency team from Medical Center; coulda been old Doc Blodgett. Blodge was a Cath'lic fella, as I recall. Dead now."

Dead end.

Might Father Mosely have mentioned the exorcism to any of the townspeople? Most likely not. Any casual discussion would have been a tremendous breach of protocol.

Who then would know about it?

Again he thought of the young policewoman: ". . . if you should stumble on to anything in the house.

Okay, it was reasonable to assume the victim of the infestation, or possession, would have been a Hobston family. Probably a Catholic family. If so, their name should be listed in the church register for the year in which Mosely took sick.

That didn't narrow things down much, but at least it was a place to start.

Now
, thought Sullivan,
just where might those old church registers be?

Montreal, Quebec

W
hen Ian "Skipp" McCurdy's plane touched down at Dorval Airport, the jolt of landing forced a sour belch against the inside of his tightly closed lips. He swallowed, then allowed the stream of foul-smelling breath to escape slowly. He felt hot and clammy; sweat stung his eyes.
Lord, I hope I'm not getting sick
. He reached up to adjust the stream of cool air so it blew directly on his face.

The hour and a half flight from Boston had seemed especially long. Time never passed easily without his cigarettes, and the chilled fruit salad he'd been served right after takeoff must have been rotten. It had turned to gas in his stomach. For the last forty-five minutes he'd been terrified he might have to use the toilet on the plane, always an unpleasant and often a messy process. Even now, as the nausea began to pass, McCurdy kept his flight sickness bag within easy reach.

Some fighter pilot
, he thought, and clicked his tongue.
Guess I just can't fly anymore. Not on these small commercial rigs. Out of practice or something
.

McCurdy's pulse throbbed in his bandaged finger. It hurt. And when it didn't hurt, it itched. Just something else to worry about.

The plane taxied in nauseating fits and started to the terminal. When it stopped, and the attendant opened the door, McCurdy remained in his seat. He didn't want to rush or risk jostling anyone who might remember him later. No, he didn't want to make anyone angry. All he wanted was to avoid drawing attention to himself.

A little kid with bib overalls looked at him in surprise. "Mommy, that man burped," the child said, giggling.

On his feet now, inching toward the door, McCurdy nodded to the smiling flight attendant. Docilely, he followed the line of passengers down the ramp and to the customs desk. When he flashed his diplomatic passport, the smiling boyish official said, "Bonjour," and waved him through. McCurdy walked around the metal detector. Well past, he breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered if anyone had noticed what he'd done. Looking around to check, he strained to appear nonchalant.

Why, he wondered, hadn't they flown him directly into Vermont, right to the Burlington airport? Why make him worry about customs and border crossings and fake IDs? Well, no matter. It wasn't for him to argue.