The Reality Conspiracy (36 page)

Following the sidewalk around the corner of the building, she hoped to get close enough to the lake to watch the sailboats. Or better yet, maybe there'd be kids on windsurfers zipping around in the morning wind.

Beneath her, the concrete sidewalk was smooth and flat.
Maybe if I had a sail
, she thought,
I could let the breeze push me along
. . . .

An abrupt incline ended the sidewalk. Way too steep, it must be some developer's poorly conceived acquiescence to handicapped accommodation. Still, it allowed Casey to descend to the blacktop if she gripped the push rims as if her life depended on it.

The smoothly paved road ran west, directly toward the lake. Its slope was gentle; Casey could easily make it back up when she needed to.

Soon she discovered another sidewalk leading to a long wooden deck covered with white plastic furniture. Colorful umbrellas shaded each cluster of table and chairs.

Casey was delighted with this observation platform atop steep red rock cliffs. Within seconds she was on that deck, looking out on the lake. The craggy shore of Lake Champlain was a hundred feet below.

Just as she'd hoped, there were sailboats weaving on gentle rolling waves. And yes, there were kids on their windsurfers—college guys in black and neon spandex—their features obscured by the distance, their bodies tanned and glistening.

To her right she could see the huge Champlain Ferry chugging its way toward Plattsburgh. Closer to shore,
The Spirit of Ethan Allen
, a humorously inept imitation of a nineteenth-century paddle wheeler, ferried tourists along the shoreline.

Casey felt good here. The sun warmed her face and a soothing breeze kept her from getting uncomfortably hot. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds, the wind, and the distant laughter of young people on the beach below.

F
rom behind the wheel of his rented Plymouth, Dr. Ian "Skipp" McCurdy watched the young woman in the wheelchair as she left the condominium. He felt sorry for her as he watched the awkward leaning and pushing effort required to move the chair along the level sidewalk.
How can she smile like that?
he wondered.
What does she have to smile about?

When she reached the steep ramp leading down to the roadway, McCurdy was sure she'd topple and hurt herself. Yet somehow she managed the maneuver easily and with a mysterious grace.

McCurdy had never met Jeff Chandler's daughter face to face, but he'd seen plenty of photographs of her. Many had been Academy file photos, but there was also the color five-by-seven school portrait Jeff kept on his desktop. Even without the wheelchair, Casey Chandler would be easy to recognize. Handicap or no, she was a beautiful girl. Absolutely beautiful. Briefly, the Devil in McCurdy's mind forced him to wonder what it would be like to—

No! Good Lord. Stop it! I'm thinking like a psycho!

Shaken, he wiped the unclean image from his imagination by uttering a quiet prayer, asking for strength and forgiveness.
My dear God, what's happening to me?

It's all right. I'm with you now
, said a soft voice in McCurdy's mind. He smiled and nodded, relieved. Then he took a couple of deep calming breaths. Yes, everything was fine.

When he was sure Casey had made it to the observation deck, he prepared by carefully considering the options. He had to plan, calculate, anticipate. He had to maintain a cold mind. Right, that was the phrase: a cold mind. At this point McCurdy could not afford excitement. As he knew full well, emotions deceive; they create mistakes.

McCurdy waited, offering another silent prayer to steady his nerves.
Please, Lord, make me strong of mind and heart, for what I do, my Lord, I do for you
.

We are strong, Doctor McCurdy
, said the sweet, soft voice.

As McCurdy's lips continued to move soundlessly in prayer, his attention never wandered from the girl in the wheelchair.

How far was she now from the steep jagged face of the red rock cliff?

Was anything there that might cause her to fall?

Should he join her on the deck? Or should he go inside the apartment? Wait for her there?

Trust in me
, the voice whispered.

When he was confident the girl's attention was occupied, McCurdy got out of the car. After closing the door as quietly as possible, he straightened his bow tie and tugged on the sleeves of his seersucker jacket.

Satisfied that he was presentable, he took a casual look around.

Then, quickly, he crossed the parking lot to the front door of Karen Bradley's condominium.

His white-gloved hand went directly to the doorbell. He pushed it.

Once. Twice. As he'd anticipated, no one answered.

No one is here
, the voice said.

McCurdy looked around nonchalantly.

Not a soul watching.

He took the knob in his hand and tried the door. Unlocked; he'd been right about that, too.

Steady, now . . . steady
, he thought.
Dear Lord God, let your tranquility fill me .
. . .

Trust in me
, the voice answered.

McCurdy pushed the door open about three inches. This allowed him enough room to put a hand inside and trip the lock.

Quickly he removed his hand, pulled the door closed, and tried to open it again.

No way. It was locked tight.

Then, removing his gloves, he walked back to the car and waited.

Hobston, Vermont

"S
ee there?" said Alton Barnes, pointing. "That's the Dubois place."

Jeff Chandler nodded, trying to keep up with the older man. They'd left the car at the end of Bingham Creek Road and walked the trace of a trail that skirted the vast field beside the house. Now they followed a stone wall, making their way toward the forest. From there they'd continue up the mountainside to the spot where Stuart Dubois had vanished.

Alton Barnes sliced through the green grass as the bow of a ship slices the tide. The older man moved with surprising alacrity; his head turned rapidly from side to side as he studied the trees, the brush, and the shadows. Jeff could tell Alton was tense. Even his voice sounded strained. "Stu's wife still keeps the place. Can't be easy way up here with no phone and no power. Tough old broad, Daisy Dubois."

Jeff glanced at the house. Quiet and dark, it seemed to shrink into the eastern distance. Looks vacant, he thought.

"Did you ever talk to her about what you saw up here?" Jeff asked.

"Heck no," said Alton, "never talked to nobody about it."

"Maybe we should stop in, ask her if she has ever, you know, seen anything strange."

"Reckon the only strange thing she's seen up here is you and me." The older man chuckled at his own joke. "But we can stop in and find out for sure. Probably wouldn't hurt to check in on her."

D
aisy had been alone in the kitchen for a long time. Hours? Days? She just couldn't tell because she kept fading in and out, losing track of time.

Her shoulders ached because her arms were tied behind her back. The arms themselves—when she could feel them—tortured her with their prickles and throbs. They wouldn't let her forget the razor-bite of baling wire where it had scraped to the bone.

Her mouth was dry as sand. Every time she tried to summon some spit, she gagged on the ball of cloth. Lordy, how long had it been since she'd had any food or water?
When one of those awful people comes out of the bedroom, I'll ask for a drink. They can't refuse a body a drink.

Daisy couldn't stop drifting in and out of sleep. Seemed like people kept coming to visit, old friends, relatives, even her husband Stuart. All were dreams, she knew, but they were good dreams and she welcomed them.

So what if she was going crazy? Maybe crazy was better than wired to a hard wooden chair in her own kitchen. But what if crazy were her only option? What if it were the only way to escape this mess?

Oh, what did they want with her, anyway? If they were going to kill her, why didn't they just do it and get it over with?

For the first time Daisy faced the other option: she might die in that chair. The memory of those friendly faces, and the sad, sweet smile of her husband, made her think death might not be so bad. Why not give up? Let go? Whenever she drifted off to sleep, her friends would be waiting.

Could be they're not dreams, Daisy reasoned. Could be they're honest-to-God real. And if that were true, Daisy had a pretty good idea what they were waiting for.

She started to pray then, giving the unsettling word emphasis in her mind. If I should die, before I wake . . .

There!

A noise. She thought she heard a noise!

Merciful God, maybe it's help! Maybe help's coming!

She listened hard. Yes! Voices! The far-off sound of men talking!

And to the west, through the window, she could see two men walking in the field! She gave her head a little shake, but they did not vanish. They were real.

If she could . . . if she could just make it to the porch . . . she could cry out for help!

She tried to move her fingers—thought she was moving them, too, but she couldn't tell for certain. The wire, she imagined, had filleted the flesh of her forearms like the sides of a bass.

She tugged on her right arm one more time. Yes! Yes! Wire and flesh resisted, but lubricated by blood, her hand came free!

Adrenaline surged. Suddenly wide awake, she brought her arm around, stared at the gore-slick pulp that had been her right hand.

She checked to make sure she could still see the men. She'd have to act quickly, before they were out of sight.

It was easier to free her left hand. Now, with both bloody stumps before her, she bucked in her chair. Rocked it. Pitched it forward. It clattered to the floor.

Her head struck hard, but she didn't pass out.

Wait! What if the man and the little girl had heard?

Eyes closed, Daisy held her breath, listening, praying. When she looked she saw the faded floral linoleum two inches below her nose.

Hands free, she was able to hook a paralyzed thumb under the wire that bound her neck. A jolt of pain flashed as her knuckle connected with a live nerve ending in the open neck wound. She didn't care. Gritting her teeth, she loosened the wire. A moment of tugging and she was able to pry it up and over her head.

She was free!

She worked to get the gag out of her mouth. When the soggy obstruction was clear, she spat several times, once again tasting her own spit.

She strained to elevate her head, hoping to see how far it was to the door.

Eight feet, no more. So very close.

If she could crawl to the porch she could cry out for help—

But wait! What if she couldn't make herself heard? What if she was too weak to shout for the men as they moved farther and farther away?

She thought: When the redheaded man grabbed me, he threw the shotgun onto the porch swing. And she'd never seen him bring it in. Was it . . .? Could it still be out there?

If Daisy could get through the door and onto the porch . . . if she could get her hands on that shotgun . . . she'd be protected. . . . A signal shot would bring the men to her aid!

Facedown, she dragged herself a foot toward the door. Grit scraped her skin like sandpaper.

Another six inches. Oh Lord, don't let them get too far away. . . . She pulled herself forward again, leaving tracks of smeared blood on the grainy linoleum.

Three and a half feet.

She heard herself breathing. Hard. Fast. Her chest pumped. When she exhaled, she blew dirt out of her path.

A noise!

She heard a noise behind her.

Oh, God! What was it?

She froze. Her fine-tuned ears listened for the latch on the bedroom door. Silent seconds passed. Daisy held her breath, knowing she was losing precious time.