The Reality Conspiracy (50 page)

Exploring with her hands, she discovered that the edge of each step was rounded, with a bit of an overhang. That was lucky; she could grip them securely. The whole staircase was covered by a filthy old carpet. Lucky, too. It was not as slippery as bare wood and would make the bumpy trip down softer and safer.

Carefully, slowly, one step at a time, she lowered herself. She could feel the edge of each carpeted step sliding up her spine. Each touchdown was a relief, each offered a feeling of progress.

There were twelve steps in all. Just twelve. That didn't seem too bad. But she knew she would have to be perfectly careful on every one. One slip, one lost grip, and she could slide downward like a child on a play yard chute. Without the use of her legs, she might not be able to stop herself. She could break a bone. Do more damage to her spine.

Halfway there!

She rested a moment. Her biceps, forearms, and hands were sore already. She flexed one fist at a time, holding on to the stair with the other.

The house below remained quiet. And full of shadows.

From here she could actually see her goal! Family, yes, but she was sure. A distance of thirty feet separated the bottom of the stairs and the front door. Even without her chair she could make thirty feet very quickly.

Then there would be the problem of what to do once she was outside.

No! Worry about one thing at a time. It was better not to think about outdoors yet.

She lowered herself another step.

From here she could look to the right and see a bit of the kitchen. Moonlight cast eerie shadows on the dark floor. Although she couldn't see much, just a couple table legs and the bottom of a chair, she thought she could make out a pair of shoes and white socks stretching from the cuffs of black pants.

Someone was lying on the kitchen floor.

The dead man!

Casey looked away.

She paused a moment to let her breathing calm, then lowered herself another step.

Just four to go!

A noise from the kitchen made her gasp. It sounded impossibly loud.

In her mind's eye she saw the dead man struggle to his feet and walk. He was coming after her. Unsteady, awkward, lurching sightlessly, he was coming! She didn't want to look. She fought the need to look. But a slapping, scampering sound on the kitchen floor made her gape involuntarily to the right.

Oh God! Something was moving in the shadows!

Something four-footed scurried from the kitchen, coming toward the stairs. It wove through the darkness like a fish through the depths. Swiftly it came, noisy on the floor. Breathing loudly, making growling sounds, as if its air passages were obstructed.

Was it a dog? It was too dark to see.

It was too big for a cat.

It looked white, animallike, and it came to rest at the foot of the stairs, its face no more than five feet from Casey's.

Casey tried hard not to scream when she saw it was a little girl. The horrid child was naked, filthy, her pallid skin streaked with grime. Something limp seemed to be dangling from her mouth.

What's wrong with her? Is she retarded? Or crazy, or what? Frightful stories about mentally defective children locked away in old houses jumped into Casey's mind.

The crouching child looked up with a demented savagery in her eyes. She fidgeted on her knees, rocked from side to side, rubbing her palms on the floor.

Fear grew along with revulsion. Without daring to lower herself another step, Casey tried to calm the child as she might try to calm a growling dog. "Hello there," Casey said. She wondered how the apprehension in her voice would affect the girl.

The girl tipped her head to the side. Dark eyes locked on Casey's.

What do I say to her? Casey realized the little girl had deliberately made herself an obstacle in the path to the front door. "Do you have a name? My name's Casey. What's yours? Can you tell me yours?"

An odor rose from the child. Dirt and feces and sweat.

Perhaps they were both captives in the old house? Why? For what purpose?

In time would Casey be reduced to a similar bestiality?

"Do you want to go with me? Do you want to get out of here?"

The girl sat on the floor. She made a muffled growling noise, rude, like air over flaccid skin. Now Casey could discern how grotesquely the child's mouth was deformed. Those were her thick, black lips dangling obscenely, giving the impression she was holding something small and limp and dead in her mouth. The bubbling, flapping sound might be an attempt to speak. But Casey couldn't understand. She looked away as a long glistening tentacle of drool groped from the child's mouth toward the floor.

"Could you move out of my way, please?" Casey said, trying to smile.

The child squinted up at her, its eyeballs moving from side to side. Still, it didn't move. Perhaps it didn't understand.

When she caught herself thinking of the little girl as an it, she tried again to smile a kind of apology. So what if the child was retarded or crazy, she was still human. If she were treated decently, she should respond to kindness.

Gripping one of the banister's support posts, Casey reached out with her free hand, hoping to rest it on the child's cheek. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Let's be friends, you and I. Okay?"

The child pulled her head away and made an ugly sound through her deformed lips.

Casey didn't know what to do. Her arms and hands were tired. She didn't dare move down another step. Going back upstairs would be impossible. Even attempting to backup a step or two would be dangerous. She might slide, fall . . .

At least the child wasn't moving any closer. That gave her a moment to think.

"Do you have a name?" Casey asked, trying to sound gentle and unthreatening.

The child grunted. Her lips vibrated as if she were blowing air through them.

"If you could move out of my way, please . . . ? I can't walk, you know, and I'm afraid I might fall on you." A nervous laugh escaped Casey's throat. She immediately felt stupid for having done it. It was inappropriate and involuntary.

This time the girl inched closer. She lifted her hands to the bottom step and leaned forward, sniffing. Now her face hovered less than three feet from Casey's. Her hair was matted, wild in greasy disarray. Her animal scent was stronger now.

Cringing, Casey felt herself recoiling in disgust. Every muscle tensed. She tried to speak calmly, still not knowing what to say. "Are you all right, little girl? Are you sick? Can I do something for you? All I want is to get out of here, okay?"

A hand leapt at Casey like a pouncing crab. She couldn't feel the pressure as the girl's fingers tightened around her insensate ankle. She couldn't flex her leg to pull it away.

"No!" Casey cried.

As the girl squinted up at her, something in the dark cavities of her eyes glistened.

"No!"

Casey groped for the flimsy dowels that supported the banister as the girl began to tug.

"Oh no!" Her bottom slipped forward on the stair. She bounded down another step, letting out a shrill cry of surprise. The back of her head struck a stair. The jolt made her bite her tongue.

She clenched the dowel. If she didn't hold on, she feared her head would bang again. It could knock her out.

Hand over hand, as if the banister posts were the rungs of a ladder, Casey tried to slow the girl's efforts to pull her down the stairs.

On the floor now, she still tried to hold on. She wanted to lock her fingers around the newel post, but the girl was too quick and too strong.

In a moment she was sliding on her back across the pine flooring in the hall.

The girl dragged her toward the door.

Pausing, the naked girl dropped Casey's foot. Then she stretched her filthy hand up toward the door latch, lifted it, pushed open the door to freedom.

Before Casey could understand what was happening, the girl dragged her across the threshold and into the night.

H
e knew exactly where Jeff was going.

McCurdy would relax a moment before getting out of the car. Then he'd take his time, amble up the walk to the rectory. He had something to do there. Something that would involve the priest, the girl, and the old man.

Without thinking, he put his hand in the slack pocket of his suit coat. The automatic was cold as ice in his fingers.

Another minute passed.

McCurdy never stopped marveling at the way things worked. By forcing Jeff to remain at the rectory, Alton Barnes had sent him away. An exquisite paradox. Beautiful and pure.

Paradoxes made perfect sense to McCurdy. They were part of an infinite flawlessness that would be unfathomable to the uninspired mind. And anyone outside the Light. And anyone incapable of seeing with immaculate clarity.

Perhaps, McCurdy wondered, he was experiencing the coveted nirvana all those deluded Buddist monks fancied they could attain. Ha! What did they know?

He chuckled. Smiled. Felt an excited tingling of great satisfaction. It was, he knew, the sensation of perfect grace, the Light in his mind and soul. Since it had revealed itself to him that night in the church—it seemed so very long ago—he had become . . . something else. Something more than a man. He had evolved.

His new spirit grew stronger with each passing minute.

When he touched the car's door handle, it hit him.

It was as if a slackened wire in his mind suddenly jerked tight. A warning.

A summons.

Something was wrong!

At the house.

Something had willfully violated the plan.

McCurdy started the engine.

He didn't need to follow Jeff Chandler's car. He knew exactly where Jeff was going.

C
asey lay on the flagstone walk in front of the farmhouse, resting after she had tumbled down the porch steps. She'd been banged up. Her hands were filthy, her clothing torn. She knew there were probably wounds, open and bleeding, in the skin of her unfeeling legs.

But there was no time to rest.

She tried to crawl, dragging herself along on her elbows and forearms. Air hissed through her nostrils.

Every part of her that had feeling ached.

Why bother? Why? Escape would be impossible. She was in the middle of the woods, miles from anywhere.

In the distance, parked on the side of the road, she could see a car. Even if she were able to crawl all that way, the keys were probably not in the ignition. And if they were, how could she drive a vehicle that wasn't equipped with special hand controls? There was no way she could work the gas pedal or brake. And what if there was a clutch? She had no idea how to drive a standard transmission.

As she crawled across the dark damp farmyard, she knew what she was doing was stupid. Futile.

The horrible little girl had pushed her down the front steps, then turned around and walked back into the house. Casey had been thrown outs Like a pet at bedtime. Like a bag of garbage.

At least the little monster hadn't hurt her. The child's strength had been great and there was an unbridled savagery about her. She'd made Casey feel she was in the presence of something not quite human.

Well, no matter. At least Casey was outside now. And though she was tired and scared, she seemed unharmed. That was something, at least.

Okay, so how unrealistic was it to think she could crawl all the way into town? In dangerous situations, people had done things far more difficult. At the very least, maybe she could make it to the first house with electric lights and a telephone. Perhaps someone nearby could help her, maybe phone her father.

So things were not as hopeless as they seemed.

Still, on some level she was aware of how she must look. If she were not wearing her torn and dirty clothing, she'd look like that horrid little girl. And the little girl looked like an animal.

A clattering startled her. An awful metallic banging came from inside the house, as if the little girl were in there throwing things around.

Casey tensed, sped up a little, hoping to crawl as far away as possible. She felt the bite of tiny stones and gravel as they pushed into the exposed flesh of her arms.

Behind her, the front door of the farmhouse crashed open.

Casey looked over her shoulder to see the little girl struggling with the wheelchair. She was tugging it down the steps and into the yard. A fat raindrop hit Casey on the cheek. Another one.

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled heavily across the sky.

"W
e know where he's gone. Why don't we just go up there? Why don't we just—"

Karen heard her own voice, shrill, almost shrieking. Suddenly she knew exactly how Jeff must have felt when he learned Casey was missing. Just as suddenly, she realized how very much she cared about him.

It had been easy to comfort him about his daughter; it was completely consistent with her training, almost within the day-to-day routine of her job. But now things had changed. Professional became personal. This sense of desperation, this powerless panic was something she had never felt before. She was ready to do anything, smart or foolish, to insure Jeff's safety.