The Reincarnation of Peter Proud (31 page)

“Now I suggest we both go see Marcia Chapin and tape what she says. She’ll be off guard, and I’m sure we’ll get some interesting corroboration …”

“Hall, you weren’t listening.”

“What?”

“I
told
you, I’m out.”

“Pete, you can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bentley exploded. “You’re not just a damned fool! You’re a selfish bastard!”

“If that’s all …”

“No. It isn’t all.” The gray eyes were blazing. “Maybe you’re copping out, but
I’m
not.”

“What does that mean?”

“Take it any way you like. Call it a warning.” The parapsychologist opened the door, then slammed it shut behind him.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was Marcia. Her voice came over the receiver in a hysterical shriek.

“Who are you?”

“What?”

She was drunk as well as hysterical. “Damn you, who are you? Why did you come here? What do you want from us?”

“Mrs. Chapin, I …”

“My daughter told me you rented our old cottage at Nipmuck, Jeff’s and mine. And you’re going out there tonight. Why? What are you trying to do? What are you trying to prove? In the name of God, why are you after me?”

“Mrs. Chapin, it’s something I can’t explain. But I’m not after you …”

“Don’t lie to me. You’ve come here to torment me, I know that. To drive me crazy. To find out things. You’re not Peter Proud. You’re somebody else. You’re someone evil. A devil, a ghost, someone. But, please.” She started to cry. “Let us alone. Let Ann alone. Go back where you came from.” Her voice rose suddenly in a scream. “Go away, you bastard. Do you hear? Go away and let us alone!”

Then she hung up.

When Hall Bentley got back to his hotel room, he gently unhooked the tiny buttonhole microphone from his jacket. Underneath his jacket, an almost invisible wire stretched from the microphone to a small and very sophisticated metal box attached. to the inside of his wide belt. He opened the box and with careful fingers took out a tiny roll of tape.

In addition to his suitcase, he had brought a small tape recorder with him. Now he put the roll of tape into the machine and pressed a button. First, his voice came on, in a prerecorded introduction.

“This is Saturday, early evening. The date is June 1, 1974. I am Dr. Hall Bentley, parapsychologist. The place is the apartment of Peter Proud, in the city of Riverside, in the state of Massachusetts. I have flown from Los Angeles to interview him on the subject of his own reincarnation, and the proof thereof….”

There was a long pause, Then the sound of an elevator door opening and closing again. The sound of footsteps along a corridor. Then silence for a moment or two. After that, the sound of a door opening.

“Hello, Pete.”

“Oh. Hall.”

“Surprised?”

“No.”

“Then you expected me.”

He turned off the recorder, took out the tape, put it into a small box, and labeled it. He put it into a pocket compartment in the tape
recorder, along with a number of tapes already stored there. On each was the legend:
REINC. PETER PROUD SERIES
, and the various recording dates.

He lay down on the bed and lit a cigarette. Sitting out there in Los Angeles and hearing nothing from Peter, be had suspected that something had gone wrong, that his subject, or client, or whatever you wanted to call him, had decided to go back on their agreement. This visit had confirmed that. But Hall Bentley had come prepared. He wanted every word he could get from Peter Proud preserved on tape. The interview on the hidden tape would help when Bentley broke the story. It was totally unrehearsed and would be hard to disbelieve. Even if Proud denied it later, the tape would be the truth, and his denial a lie. It would be infinitely better to have him there, in the flesh, to tell his story when they broke it to the press and television. But failing that, the tapes would be the next best thing—this particular tape, and the ones they had recorded in Los Angeles, and of course the final tape. The one he had yet to record.

The one with Marcia Chapin.

He imagined her reaction when he played the tapes for her, the ones detailing Proud’s hallucinations, and the rest. He knew this would be a ghoulish and mind-blowing experience for her. She was sure to go into a state of hysteria, hearing the murder reenacted just as she had committed it. Probably it would unnerve her enough to make her confess that she had, indeed, murdered her husband in just this way. That would be the clincher. That would quiet a lot of skeptics.

He didn’t know Marcia Chapin, not yet. But at this moment he felt sorry for her. It was possible that Proud was right. It was possible that she might go insane after this. He fervently hoped not. It would be much better that she stay rational, that she be able to answer the hundreds of questions they would throw at her. He considered himself a compassionate man. He certainly did not relish what he was planning to do. But he had to do it. As he had said to
Proud, he couldn’t let the private lives of a few individuals stand in the way. The stakes were too high. He, Hall Bentley, had the answer to the riddle of death in these electronic tapes. Maybe he was bugging people without their knowledge or consent. But this was for a sacred cause. In this case, the ends did justify the means.

Proud didn’t know it yet, but he was still scheduled to be Superfreak. He might scream invasion of privacy, he might even want to kill him. Well, he was sorry about that. But that’s the way it had to be.

He blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and thought about it awhile. He saw the black headlines, the news exploding over television and Telstar, the crowds gathering in the streets and perhaps praying in the churches. He heard the roars of the skeptics too, the diehards crying fraud. He saw the pictures in the newspapers, the film clips on television, pictures of Peter Proud and Marcia and Ann Chapin. And of course himself, Hall Bentley. It was terrifying. He began to sweat, just thinking about it. For a moment he even contemplated backing out of it.

But he knew he could not. He knew he had to go on, stir up this massive witch’s brew, and take the consequences. There was one small compensation. Some of his peers in the Establishment who had attacked him would have to apologize to him now.

Well, he thought,
why wait?
Might as well wrap up the whole thing right now. He looked at his watch. It was just after six. She would probably be home now.

He reached over and picked up the telephone book from the bedtable. He quickly found the number he wanted.

She lay sprawled on a chaise longue in her bedroom, staring at the bottle on the table next to the chaise. It was half full. She poured another drink.

Really, Marcia, you’ve got to stop this. Pull yourself together
. You’re seeing ghosts, ghouls, zombies.

Perhaps, she thought, I ought to go back to that place after all, just for a little while. Just to dry out. Whatever you said about the place, it was peaceful there. Nobody bothered you. You had time to think things through. Later on, of course, she could come home. After he had gone back to wherever he came from.

All right. Suppose he was at the cottage tonight looking for something. Whatever it was, he would never find it. After all, it had been almost thirty years ago. That was a long, long time.
Dear Peter Proud. Dear, mysterious Doctor Proud
. You can look till your eyes drop out, but you will find nothing.

She simply
had
to stop drinking. Because now she was beginning to hear things. Like that night at the concert. She had thought she had actually heard Jeff’s voice. She had
thought
she heard the things she and Jeff had said that night coming from Peter Proud’s mouth. But of course that was impossible. It was all her imagination. She would have to watch it from now on. She regretted she had called him a while ago. She had screamed at him hysterically. Surely by now he thought her unbalanced. But she was calm now. It was important to keep her wits about her….

The phone rang and she picked it up. The voice on the other end was strange to her.

“Mrs. Chapin? Marcia Chapin?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t know me. My name is Hall Bentley. I have some information on Peter Proud that will interest you. It’ll interest you very much. With your permission, suppose I come right over?”

It was nine o’clock when he finally arrived at the cottage.

Before he went inside, he stood on the doorstep and looked out over the lake. A half-moon was riding the sky. The lake reflected its dull sheen. It glinted on the aluminum boat pulled up on shore beside the dock. It was a cool night, but there was no wind whatever. Across the lake, he saw the illuminated Holiday Inn sign rising high over the grove of pines, the same grove which, years ago, had fronted a different sign. Faintly, he could hear the distant hum of traffic moving along the highway on the opposite shore. Other than this, the lake was almost unearthly in its stillness. It was still too early for the summer residents to come. Most of the cottages around the lake were still dark and shuttered, with an occasional light here and there.

He went inside and began to unpack. He hadn’t taken much with him, just a few clothes and a couple of bottles of Scotch. He had taken the cottage for a month, but all he actually needed was one night. Tonight.

He had done all this so that he could reenact the Lake Dream. Re-create it, insofar as it was possible. Then, he was sure, it would disappear from his sleep forever, as had all the others. It was the last one, but it had hung on tenaciously. Only in this way was he sure he could exorcise it. Of course it would be only a very pallid reenactment. There would be no Marcia present to make it more authentic. But at least he could go through the motions. He had found that this had been enough in the case of the other dreams. He was still mystified by how all this worked. You relive
the dream; you act it out, and thus relieve yourself of it. Like the
Ondinnonk
of the Iroquois. But how didn’t matter; the point was, it worked. He didn’t want any repetition of the experience he’d gone through at the concert.

But after tonight, the last hallucination would be gone. And he’d be free. The last of the Mohicans, he thought wryly. He sat down and opened the Scotch. Plenty of time, he reflected, before Ann got here. He needed a drink. The place was oppressively quiet. It still had the damp and musty odor he had detected that afternoon. He stared at the cheap maple furniture, the ugly overstuffed couches and chairs with their shabby hair-stained fabric and soiled antimacassars. The Swansons, he thought, hadn’t put much into this place. He wondered what the furniture had been like at the time of the dream. Probably the best. Certainly, Jeff and Marcia Chapin could have afforded it.

He had another drink. He began to feel good, very good. If he had had any doubts about this weird drama he was about to reenact, they were gone. Get it over with now, he thought. Soon,. Ann would be here. They would be alone for the whole weekend. He smiled to himself. He wondered how much of the weekend they would spend in bed. Damned near all of it, he thought, if it were up to him. He had stopped at a supermarket, bought a lot of food. The refrigerator was full.

One more for the road. He poured himself another Scotch and drank it down. Then he took off his clothes. Naked, he went to the window and opened the curtains. The half-moon was still riding the sky, but it wasn’t throwing much light on the lake. He had noticed that all the cottages near this one were dark. There was no one around. Nobody would see him.

He opened the door and stepped outside. There was still no wind, but it was cold, and he shivered. He stared down at the lake. It looked chilly and almost glassy. He could imagine how cold it was going to be. For a moment he thought of abandoning the whole thing. It was irrational, really; a weird charade. He was tempted
to go back in, put on his clothes, and wait for Ann. He felt giddy, lightheaded.
Ondinnonk
. It had a weird sound. Crazy.

He walked down the short slope toward the dock. He recalled that it had been gravel the night Jeffrey Chapin, naked as a jay, had taken this same walk. Now it was flagstone. And the whitewashed stones that had lined it were gone.

He walked onto the dock. He stood indecisive, shivering. The lake spread before him, waiting. He heard it lap against the aluminum barrels that supported the dock. It looked cold, damned cold. He saw the Holiday Inn sign across the lake. It beckoned, warm and inviting, Maybe, he thought, when Ann came they wouldn’t stay at the cottage at all. It was too drab, too chintzy. Maybe he’d take her to the Holiday Inn afterward. They could have a couple of drinks in the lounge, get themselves a big, comfortable room, spend the weekend there—as Mr. and Mrs. Peter Proud.

He sat down gingerly on the edge of the dock and looked down into the water. He could see the stones on the bottom amid the swaying weeds. He sat there for a while, still thinking about it. Then he decided. I’ve come this far; do it now and get it over with.

He took a long breath, dangled his toes in the water. It was cold, all right. He took a longer, deeper breath.
Well, here goes nothing
.

He slipped into the water. The first shock numbed him. But after that it didn’t seem so bad. He set a course straight out toward the center of the lake, toward the big illuminated sign. Not that he was going to swim clear across to the other side. Far from it. Just a few hundred yards from shore would be enough. Then he would tum around and swim back, say, the moment when he began to feel the chill getting into his bones.

He swam easily, smoothly. He was used to the warmer waters of the pools and beaches of Southern California, and he found the cold of this water exhilarating, The whiskey in his stomach still warmed him. He felt his blood tingle pleasantly,

Tiring just a little, he turned on his back and floated. He saw the
bald spot on the side of the mountain, the patch of smooth-faced stone. Just as Jeff Chapin had seen it out here almost thirty years ago. But now the trees around it, running thickly up the mountain, weren’t blazing with the colors of autumn but were dressed in leaves of fresh spring green. The water was probably just as cold as it had been when Jeff Chapin made his last swim.