Whatever Lola Wants (56 page)

8.

Sarah in her Jeep and
Carney from Richmond arrived at the Grange turn-off moments apart. Gentleman that he was, open vehicle that she had, he let her go first. So he drove down the road chewing dust. They pulled up, got out, she came toward him grinning with pleasure and, first things first, they kissed. His throat hadn't loosened up.

Ti-Jean ambled down the steps. His face was out of joint, his brow so crimped it might have gone corrugated. Behind him stood Feasie, arms folded, eyes to the ground.

“What's wrong, Fease?” No answer. “Ti-Jean?”

Ti-Jean scratched his hair. “Theresa and Milton.” He shook his head. “They were acting weird.”

“What?” Sarah grabbed Ti-Jean's arm. “They okay?”

“Oh sure, I guess so. They've gone off to Terramac.”

A stab in Carney's throat. “When?”

“Maybe”—Feasie shrugged—“forty, forty-five minutes ago?”

“You let them? Just like that?” Sarah stared at Feasie.

“Am I going to stop Theresa? Milton figured it was okay. Anyway, they had an invitation.”

Because of Carney? Damn! “From who?” Mot pulled hard. And whispered Theresa's words, He'll kill me. Unless I kill him first.

“The Sheriff, Nottingham, he delivered it. From Handy Johnnie.”

“Come on.” Carney grabbed Sarah's arm. They ran to the Jeep, jumped in. Sarah revved the engine.

Ti-Jean and Feasie caught up. “What're you doing?”

“Getting them out of there.” Carney saw Mot nodding. “Come on, Sarah, move it!”

The tires screamed on gravel, back, out. Feasie yelled, “We'll come too!”

They wound up the dirt road and screeched along Fortier Creek. Sarah glanced to Carney. “What're you thinking?”

“He'll take them down there, Cochan will, I mean. Theresa thinks she's got to kill him.”

“What?!”

“We have to get them out.”

Miles ahead Milton
drew up in front of a trailer, stopped the engine, stepped out of the van. He was in guarded shock from his first view of the razed land. Theresa had nodded merely. As if she'd seen it before.

John Cochan received them. “Welcome, welcome. Delighted to have you here.” He marched around and opened the door for Theresa.

“I'll get that.” Milton swung the rear door wide, rolled the chair back, down the ramp and around, slid Theresa onto it, lowered her, handed her her pole.

Cochan understood the problem. He called two men over, explained, and within minutes they, three others, a forklift, and a back-hoe had improvised a ramp up to the trailer porch, four sheets of Québois Fina end to end supported by sacks of cement. Two burley men tested it with their weight.

“Will that be too steep, Mr. Magnussen?” Cochan looked to Theresa, who scowled, lined herself up with the ramp base, accelerated, and zipped up to the porch platform. Cochan smiled. “Very impressive.” They followed Theresa. Cochan opened the trailer door. They went inside. “Would you care for some tea? Or coffee?”

Theresa's head twitched, no.

“Something stronger?”

“No, thanks.” Milton smiled, his lips tight.

“Well. We'll go down in a few minutes. You'll see the future that links our destines.”

Theresa glanced up at Milton, caught his eye, touched her throat, mockery of Cochan's scarlet necktie. Black suit, black shoes.

“In the meantime, let me show you the models.” He did, and checked his watch every couple of minutes. He left them. They could examine the maquettes of surface Terramac at their leisure. “I'll just call ahead, we'll organize a little trailer rig for Dr. Magnussen's wheelchair.”

Theresa watched Milton. He glanced at the maquettes, shrugged. His head shook, she saw him bite the insides of his cheeks. She touched his arm with her foilpole, smiled, nodded, “It'll be okay.”

Cochan returned, grinning. “You'll be fascinated, John. Appropriate, isn't it, our sharing not only this land but first names as well.”

Theresa said, “He doesn't use that name.” She could feel Milton grasping tight on the back of her chair.

“I'm sorry, what did she say?” Cochan sounded interested.

Milton answered, “Nothing important.”

9.

Sarah turned down the Terramac
highway. A minute later the hut stood ahead, bar over the road, spikes gleaming. She stopped.

A tall guard strode to Sarah's side. “Yes, ma'am?”

“We have an appointment with John Cochan.”

“Your name?”

“Magnussen.”

“Well now, the Magnussen party came through some little while ago.”

“Mr. Cochan invited all of us. I'm the daughter. We're late.”

He squinted at Sarah. “You got some identification?”

She showed him her driver's license, two credit cards. “Come on, open the gate. Mr. Cochan won't be happy.”

The guard pointed to Carney. “Who's the gentleman?”

“For godsake, man, he's my husband. Just open up!”

Another slow perusal. He meandered back to the guardhouse. The pike rose, the spikes retracted. They roared through. Carney glanced back. Just coming into view, Ti-Jean's and Feasie's truck. But the pike was lowering.

On. And on. The rise. The wasted plain of Terramac below. Sarah whispered, “Un-be-lievable.” She stepped hard on the gas and they sped down. “What shit.”

“We can go
now. Everything's ready and waiting for us.” John Cochan reached for Theresa Magnussen's chair.

“No.” With her right hand Theresa moved her left arm, left hand holding the foilpole flat against the chair's bar, if necessary to wipe Cochan away. Cochan pulled back. Milton held the door open. Theresa's right hand worked the controls. With care she propelled the chair out, down the trailer ramp, on past a shiny gray Rolls-Royce.

Cochan strode ahead, to lead.

Theresa's little twelve-horsepower engine rolled her through the cooling air past construction material and dozens of men in overalls and hard hats, and many large machines. She thought, Where are Ti-Jean's demons when you need them?

John Cochan described the forthcoming function of near-complete buildings. He detailed their construction, in cement, steel, brick, stone, wood, glass. He noted the choice settings of the condominiums of Terramac, their fine views. And he made much of the hollow beyond, soon to be flooded, Lake Fortier. They arrived at the elevator building. Cochan held open the door.

Theresa looked around. A naked land. She stared up at the sky, a few clouds, sun nearing the horizon. That would be the west, then. She nodded, and rode through the doorway.

•

I shifted my focus and watched them descend. And yes, it was Lola, exquisite in silver, riding on Theresa's lap. What now?

•

They dropped some
fifteen hundred feet, a trip of less than two minutes, Cochan tour-guiding the whole while. They got out. Thick warm air hit them. Yakahama Stevenson met them. John Cochan glared. “Well?”

“Everything's ready, John.”

A four-seater golf cart. “We've got about a mile to go.” Milton strapped Theresa onto a back seat, her chair to the flatcar trailer. “We'll be dropping an additional three hundred feet here, feel the slant? It's all natural, built the way the cavern slopes. We've kept it like we found it, completely natural.”

A momentary rush of claustrophobia took Milton. Too humid. Too sticky.

“In about four months these golf carts will be replaced by an electric tramway. Right over there, that's where the casino will be.” And a couple of minutes later: “Along here, this is the boutique district, over a hundred shops. We're very selective.”

Lola grinned. You ready, Theresa?

Have to see what it looks like, when we get there.

A quarter mile beyond: “Now here we've got three blocks of elegant homes planned. Two, three, and four bedrooms. But that'll be in the next stage. Oh, look over on your left, that'll be the gymnasium there.”

A thick wall of granite, patched at the peaks with concrete. “It looks immense.” Milton touched Theresa's left arm.

“It is.” The response cheered John Cochan. They deserved the preliminary special treat. “Yak. Up ahead, please, a brief stop.”

“Sure thing, John.” Yak slowed, drove close to the railing, and cut the motor's hum. As planned.

“Hear the roar? It comes from deep below, the clear sparkling waters. One of the bits of magic Terramac abounds in, two flashing streams. They meet deep in the flume. We believe it's a cut-back from the Sabrevois River.”

Milton said, “How do you figure that?”

John Cochan nodded happily. “With these waters and no doubt others we haven't located yet, Terramac connects to the St. Lawrence and from there of course to the sea. Some day it might be possible to sail from Terramac directly into the ocean.”

Milton said, “My god.”

His exclamation delighted Johnnie.

It's close, Theresa. Very close.

Yep.

Any thoughts?

A hug, Lola. I need a hug.

Yes, Theresa. I think you need a kiss too.

John Cochan watched Theresa Magnussen's arms spread, and squeeze. As if the woman was embracing air! Clearly senile. Which meant he'd be dealing only with the husband. Good.

•

I knew! In that instant I grasped what they'd do, Lola and Theresa. I didn't think. I pressed my eyes tight shut, let go. Yes, I stepped off the edge. It felt a bit like falling. Once again. I forced my eyes open, and landed on my feet. A cinch.

•

Milton thought: Convince
Theresa to leave right now. He pressed her arm. But she wouldn't respond. The golf cart stopped beside two smaller ones. Here yet more construction had begun, shattered and crumbled rock, cement foundations. Milton got off, unstrapped Theresa and her chair, and sat her in it.

“We go this way.” Cochan led them to a rounded opening in the rock face, twenty-five feet in diameter, some eight feet up the wall. The opening was reached by a long steel ramp. Its slant, a few degrees less steep than the makeshift one to the trailer, showed muddy tractor treads.

“Theresa, you sure you can get up?”

“It's a good chair.” She rolled up fast, an easy glide to the lip.

Milton followed. He was trembling. He squeezed his hands tight around the back of the chair. At the ramp's summit stood a platform, straddling the opening, constructed from twenty four-by-eight Québois Fina sheets.

Theresa glanced around. On a horseshoe of tables sat a lot of technology, computers and whatnot. She understood nothing. On the far side another ramp led down into what looked like a large empty space, dark, a chill rising from the thick air. Somewhere water burbled and gurgled.

John Cochan waited. The company assembled on the platform. Cochan said, “Okay, Yak.” Yak pressed a button. The dark space flooded with lights: green, blue, yellow, red.

A dream of rapturous illumination. To the left, massive stalactites, stalagmites, speleothons, sparkling red, gold, and silver. At the center, six fountains playing glossy colors, a hundred thousand diamonds, rubies, emeralds in soft motion, their waters connected by rivulets of blue and gold.

Along the right wall, deep below, its rim twelve feet from the platform, a flume raced the fifty-yard length of the space. Above the chasm hung mirrors angled for a platform view, the reflection revealing waters frolicking a hundred feet down. Down there too the lights played their magic, soft golds, purple, silver, rose. Only the distant wall stood blank, a dull gray-brown.

Milton shook his head. He grasped Theresa's shoulder. She nodded.

Cochan gave them a grand smile. “Wonderful, isn't it?”

“It's very—complex.”

“Yes. I know.”

Two more men joined them. Cochan introduced one as somebody Clark, the architect of much of what they'd seen, the other as his assistant Bang something. The second man's face was held in a permanent scowl.

“We all set, Harry?”

“As much as we can be.”

“Good.” Cochan turned to his guests. “What we're going to do now— You see that wall of rock directly across?”

Milton nodded.

“We're going to blast through it.”

“Why?”

“Beyond it lies a cavern. It's beneath what's now your land.”

“Beneath the Grange?”

“Which, as you'll see before you leave, must be part of Terramac.”

“We're leaving now. Let's go, Theresa.” He grabbed her chair, began to turn it—

Cochan stayed his hand. “Please. You have to see. To know why this must happen.”

Milton couldn't help himself: “And why is that.”

Cochan smiled. “It won't do you any good, what's back there.”

Milton shivered, his fear surely visible now. “Theresa doesn't like explosions. She wants to leave. Right now.” With his free hand he released the brake on the chair.

Cochan held his elbow as in a vice. “What Mr. Clark has done, he and Mr. Steele have placed a dynamite charge against that wall. Look with care and you can see it, we circled it in white. Over there.” He pointed. “In a moment Bang will set the timing. Then we'll step down from the ramp and walk around the corner.”

“Never mind. I don't want any blasting when I'm down here.” He couldn't make Cochan let go.

“The blast will be clean. When we return you'll see what lies beyond.” His voice went soft, reverent. “What heights and depths.”

Milton didn't understand this heights business but knew Cochan made him good and mad. He looked from the man called Yak to the architect, Clark. They were both staring at Cochan. “What—heights?”

Johnnie gazed at the wall, the circle. He spoke with great respect. “Our future history.”

Milton's eyes widened.

“The future. Yours. Mine. My son's.”