The Reality Conspiracy (55 page)

Karen couldn't decide what to do. She wished Father Sullivan would get back. What was taking him so long? What if she and Alton were hiding out, drenched and shivering, for no good reason? Maybe Jeff and Casey weren't even in the house. Maybe they'd gone up the mountain. Or maybe McCurdy had carted them off somewhere else. Or maybe—

Darn it all! Where was Father Sullivan?

"I was hoping for a bigger crowd," McCurdy said, peering from the upstairs window. "But maybe this is it. Takes a lot to drag people away from their beds and TV sets." Then, turning back to Jeff, "Well, no matter. I'd say we've got a dozen out there. Don't forget, the first time word got out fast enough with only twelve men spreading it."

McCurdy laughed a misplaced, maniacal laugh. Again he slapped Jeff on the back. "Okay, Jeffrey, we're on. What say we go show these fine people their first miracle?"

Concealed behind a wind-lashed cedar that swished like a paintbrush against the front of the house, Father Sullivan wiped his eyes with a saturated handkerchief. Through the window he saw the girl in the wheelchair stroking the forehead of someone lying on the sofa.

From this vantage point, he could also see the stairs to the second story. If anyone went up or down, he'd know.

Should he chance tapping on the window? If he could talk to Casey she could tell him everything he needed to know.

Hand in his pocket, he touched the cold metal of Alton's revolver. Would he dare use it on a human being?

Did he dare tap the window? Did he dare use a gun? What was he going to do, sit in the rain all night like some indecisive simpleton? Dear God he had to do something.

Forcing himself to be calm, he silently recited an Our Father until loud clattering noises from inside interrupted him.

A disheveled man with flyaway tufts of red hair led Jeff Chandler down the stairs. The man—it must be McCurdy—was smiling. But Jeff looked troubled; he seemed to be shouting at the man, possibly pleading.

At least there were no weapons in sight. And no one was tied up. In fact, nothing seemed especially menacing. This wasn't the tense hostage situation Sullivan had expected.

But he couldn't forget those bodies in the kitchen. Not for a minute.

Sullivan slipped the weapon from his pocket.

Inside, the girl's glance ping-ponged from one man to the other. Her mouth moved, her hands gestured frantically.

Sullivan checked the position of the revolver's hammer, preparing to act quickly if he had to.

Now the redheaded man grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and began to push it toward the door. The girl seemed to protest. Jeff dashed ahead.

When Jeff opened the door, Sullivan flattened himself into the mud and shadows beside the porch. Finally he could hear what they were saying.

"Jeff, lift the front end of this thing and help me get it off the porch. We may have to carry her through the field; I don't think I can push her over the wet ground."

"Skipp, please, this is dangerous. What if it doesn't work? What if—"

"Jeff, you have to have faith. That's what this is all about—faith. You'll see. I should think you'd rejoice that your daughter won't have to use this contraption after tonight."

Jeff helped lift Casey and her chair down the outside steps. Through the latticework below the porch floor, Sullivan watched them move off in the direction of the crowd.

He waited a few minutes wondering if the person on the couch was going to follow. Apparently not.

More uncertain than ever, Sullivan made up his mind to check the house's interior. He'd do it quickly, then get back to Karen and Mr. Barnes. He'd kept them waiting long enough.

As quickly as Jeff and McCurdy moved Casey out of sight, Father Sullivan crept out of the shadows, climbed over the railing and onto the porch. He moved as silently as possible, knowing at least one more person remained inside.

There was no way to determine who was lying on the sofa, no way to say if it was friend or enemy. Sullivan guessed it was Mrs. Dubois and he suspected she was alone in the house.

Now he had to find out for sure.

With the revolver in his right hand, and the doorknob in his left, Sullivan made his move. He twisted the knob, pushed open the door to the kitchen, and quickly stepped inside, crouching combat style, his weapon ready.

Nothing moved. He heard no sound but rain on the roof and a far-off growl of thunder.

Waiting a tense moment, he determined he was alone in the room. Still, his sweaty fingers clutched the revolver as he turned on his flashlight. All other details escaped him when he saw bodies on the floor. Two of them, a woman and a man. Someone had propped them against the cabinets like cast-off mannequins in a storeroom.

The man wore soiled wrinkled work clothes. His concave forehead was split nearly in half: his gory face unrecognizable. Sullivan flicked the light away.

The woman had been burned beyond recognition. He guessed it was Daisy Dubois, but if so, who was on the couch in the other room?

Sullivan moved closer, knelt on one knee beside them. Still alert, holding the gun like a lifeline, he said a quick prayer for their souls.

In a moment he tiptoed to the living-room door. Slowly, carefully, he looked in. From here, the back of the sofa hid its occupant.

Who can it be?

Arm extended, gun clenched in his fist, the priest moved silently as a shadow toward the sofa. After six steps he could peer over its back. Long dirty hair—a woman's?—was visible outside the woolen blanket. The sleeper was fully covered, her face turned away, half-sunken in a pillow.

With his weapon pointed at her skull, Sullivan spoke. "Who are you?"

The sleeper groaned as if in a dream.

Sullivan reached down and tore the blanket away.

"Oh dear God!"

The small naked body was grotesque. Muscles rippled like convulsing worms beneath translucent skin. Nerves twitched. Blood pulsed through swollen arteries. Sullivan fought the disgust that made him want to look away. He had seen the product of multiple birth defects often enough, but this poor child, she had no arms, no legs, her body was featureless as a fleshy football. He dropped the blanket back in place, then gently rolled her toward him in order to see her face.

The distended lips made him wince, but he prayed his revulsion didn't show. They could fix that, he thought, at least the surgeons could do something about that.

"Can you talk, child?" he whispered, trying to smile.

"Mmmph. Ppppft." Her answer was evident in her distressed eyes.

She might have shaken her head, but she had no neck. Instead, she gaped at him.

"Can you understand me, sweetheart?"

"Fffff."

"Blink if you understand me."

She blinked.

"Once for yes, twice for no."

She blinked.

"Are you in pain?"

Blink.

"Have they done something to hurt you?"

Blink.

"Do you want me to take you out of here? We can go to a doctor or to the hospital?"

She just stared at him, looking fearful and lost. Sullivan saw tiny crystal tears blooming in her eyes. Then, slowly, blink-blink.

"Okay, sweetheart." He reached down and put his hand on her forehead. She was hot. Running a fever. "I'm going to get you out of here just as quickly as I can. But first you've got to help me. Can you tell me if you are alone in the house."

Blink. Blink-blink. Blink.

"I don't understand. Blink once for—"

Blink. Blink-blink. Blink.

"You don't know? Is that what you mean?"

Blink.

"Jeff and his daughter are gone?"

Blink.

"And McCurdy, he's gone, too?"

Blink.

"You know that for sure?"

Blink.

"And someone else is here?"

Blink.

"Yes? A woman?"

Blink-blink.

"A man?"

Blink-blink.

"It's not a man or a woman, is that what you mean?"

Blink.

"What is it, then? An animal?"

Blink-blink.

"Not an animal, not a man, and not a woman? What else could it be then, child?"

Blink. Blink-blink. Blink.

"T
hat's Jeff! Look! And Casey!" Karen dug her fingers into Alton's arm. She watched Jeff and the other man slogging through the rain over saturated ground. They carried Casey between them in her wheelchair. Obviously they were heading toward the crowd of watchers.

"Who's the man with them, Mr. Barnes?"

"McCurdy. That's McCurdy." There was something tense in Alton's voice, a coldness she wasn't used to. But Karen was too agitated to analyze it.

"Oh thank God, they're all right." She wanted to run to them, but before she could stand up, dread seized her; its fist clenched in her stomach. "But where's Father Sullivan?" She started to move out from behind the rock, mindless of being spotted. "I don't see him, Mr. Barnes. Do you think something's happened to him? Why are they going out in the field?"

Alton pulled her down beside him. He grabbed her by the upper arms and stared into her eyes. "Listen," he said, "maybe we don't need to worry about Jeff and Casey for a minute. They're out in the open, right where everybody can see 'em. Nothin's gonna happen to 'em in front of all them people. You understand?"

Karen nodded.

"Okay then, you stay here and stay quiet. I'll go up to the house and check on Father."

"I'm coming with you."

"NO!" Mr. Barnes shook her. Hard. "You stay put. None of us knows what the hell's goin' on around here. I ain't riskin' your neck by lettin' you follow me to the house. Besides, I gotta move quick and sure, and I gotta stay outta sight. Ain't no way you can help me with any of that. You understand?"

"But . . . No. I mean I can't stay here. What if something's happened to Father Sullivan? What if something happens to you . . ? I'll . . . I'll be alone. I won't know what to do."

Karen hated herself as those loathsome words tumbled out on their own. She had confessed to her weakness, flaunted her fear, admitted how ineffectual she was. She knew this was a life or death situation, and she was terrified.

What should she do? She wasn't armed, she didn't know how to fight or defend herself, and she had no clear sense of what was happening around her. Fear intensified like rising heat in a closed room. Sweating, trembling, Karen knew what was coming next.

She froze.

Her limbs locked. Paralyzed. Just as she had been so very long ago on that busy Boston street corner.

But Jeff had come to her rescue then.

If only she could rescue him now.

"Dr. Bradley! Karen. What's wrong?" Alton shook her again, very gently this time. He spoke like a concerned grandfather. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

This was a bad one. Maybe the worst ever. She couldn't talk. Couldn't move.

"Karen!"

They'd never lasted this long. She struggled without moving, couldn't find her voice, couldn't even shake her head.

"What's happening to you? Are you sick?" First the old man looked concerned, then desperate. Rain slid in rivulets down his face. "Please, miss. Please."

She wanted to tell him she was okay, that everything would be back to normal in a minute or two. But no. She couldn't even protest as he gently positioned her against the rock. She couldn't stop him as he struggled out of his jacket and put it over her like a blanket. Its outside was saturated, but the inside was warm. She could feel the heat from his body; she smelled his Old Spice cologne. Like her dad's.

"Listen," he said, "I'll come right back, I promise. I won't waste no time. I just gotta check on Father Sullivan. I'll come straight out and tell you what's going on. Then I'll get you outta here. You just sit tight and stay quiet. And please don't be scared. I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you."

She couldn't turn her head to watch him go.

A blazing white comet streaked across the sky.

As Father Sullivan recalled Alton's sketch, the closed door off the kitchen led to Mrs. Dubois's bedroom. That was the room he'd tried to look into but the shade prevented it.

Now he could just walk in, but he paused.

Labored communication with the tragically deformed child had made it clear that no one was upstairs in the house. The only other presence—neither man nor woman nor animal—was right down here, in that bedroom.

When he'd pieced that much together, the girl had become excited. Her eyes flashed, she made disgusting sounds with her mouth. Sullivan couldn't understand what she wanted to tell him. Did she want him to stay out of the bedroom? Stay clear of that closed door?

No matter what she meant, he had to look.

Strange thoughts tore at his courage, making him hesitate. Thoughts of Father Mosely battling the demon in the church. Of the remote assassination recorded on videotape. Stuart Dubois's disappearance and the dramatic light show in the sky.