Strange Eons (14 page)

“The word comes from the Arabic.
Hash-shashin
—the same source as the word hashish, because that’s what they were into. The sheikh recruited young men, hooked them on hash, told them he could grant eternal life if they obeyed his commands. Then he gave them a taste of it.

“After a drug session, when they passed out, he’d take them into his secret garden on the mountaintop. When they woke up they thought they were in paradise—he psyched them out with music, lights, perfume, feasting, drinking, and a harem of beautiful girls and young boys. When they came back from their trip they got the word—this was only a sample, but if they followed orders it could be theirs forever, even after death.

“Those who believed became the
fedais,
the faithful ones, and were trained in all the ways of secret murder. Then he sent them out to kill, slipped them into courts or military camps to knife or strangle their chosen victims in the dead of night.

“Believe me, it worked. Worked so well that hundreds of leaders and officials died, and thousands of others paid tribute to save their own lives. It worked then and it still works today.”

“What’s all this got to do with Nye?” Kay said.

“We’re not sure it’s Nye. But somebody’s using these tactics. Terrorist activities—if you knew how many key people have been hit in the past few months—”

“How come I
don’t
know? I read the papers.”

“It isn’t in the papers. If it was, we’d have panic in the streets.” Mike Miller scowled. “We’ve got to back up our suspicions about Nye with solid evidence, and do it quickly. No point in just bringing him in on a phony charge—we need to find out what’s behind this, see if there’s someone higher up calling the shots. That’s the important thing.”

“Maybe to you, but not to me.” Kay shrugged. “Not important enough to put my life on the line.”

“I think it is.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“All right.” Miller stared at her. “I think one of this man’s victims was your ex-husband, Albert Keith.”

Kay’s phone rang at precisely three o’clock.

It startled her and she looked up at Miller in confusion.

“I told you service would be resumed,” he said. “Go ahead, take the call.”

“If it’s Nye? . . .”

“You know what to say.”

Kay hesitated, wondering if Miller had told her the truth. Or all of the truth. Then, as the phone shrilled its imperative, she lifted the receiver.

“Miss Keith?”

“Yes.”

“Good afternoon. This is Reverend Nye.”

Kay nodded at Miller and silently mouthed the name of her caller. Then she listened.

Miller watched, unable to interpret her occasional monosyllabic responses to the caller. When at last she replaced the receiver he gestured impatiently.

“Well?”

“He wants to set up the photo session with Bedard for tonight. I agreed.”

“What time?”

“Seven-thirty.”

“Where?”

“I presume it’s his home. The address is four hundred Lampton Drive.”

“Never heard of it.”

“He says it’s off the Pacific Coast Highway, north of Malibu.”

Mike Miller frowned. “For someone who’s covered his tracks as well as Nye did, he’s pretty careless about giving out his home address. Either that, or pretty sure of himself.” Miller picked up the phone. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

He dialed a number, then waited.

“Eighteen,” he said. “Unmonitored request for information—description of property occupying address. Four hundred Lampton Drive. Malibu area.”

Now it was Kay’s turn to watch as he waited, then listen to his terse affirmation of what he heard. When the receiver was back on its cradle he turned to her with a nod.

“Just as I figured. He doesn’t live there.”

“How do you know?”

“Because four hundred Lampton Drive isn’t a home. It’s a private museum.”

“Museum?”

“Like Getty’s place, a few miles south. But this one’s brand new. Built by something called the Probilski Foundation, whatever that is—and not supposed to officially open until next month.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Obviously Nye’s meeting you at a switching point. You’ll go there and he’ll pick you up, then sneak you off to somewhere else.” Miller anticipated Kay’s reaction with a reassuring smile. “Now don’t worry, we’re not going to lose him this time. I’ll set up tight security—stake out both ends of the street, and any back exit will be covered too. If he takes you out, you’ll be followed. And you won’t be going in alone.”

“Bedard?” Kay shook her head. “What makes you think he’d be any help in something like this?”

“Bedard won’t be with you.”

“But—”

“I’ve already talked to Max Colbin, told him just enough to make sure he’ll keep his mouth shut and cooperate. He’s willing to let me replace Al Bedard with one of our people. Fred Elstree—I think you’ve already met him.”

“Where?”

“In your hall here, just after I left this morning.” Mike Miller gestured towards the front door. “Don’t worry—he’s not a professional photographer but he knows enough about cameras to fake your session. If anything comes up, he can handle it, but I don’t anticipate problems. All you do is keep your eyes and ears open, stay on the good side of Nye, see what you can learn about his operation.”

“That’s all,” Kay murmured. “Just be a good little fly, walk right into the spider’s parlor, and don’t forget to smile pretty for the camera.” She faced him furiously. “Anything else you want me to do?”

“Yes.” Mike Miller nodded gravely. “I want you to remember Albert Keith.”

It was difficult for Kay to realize that only twenty-four hours had passed since her trip to the Starry Wisdom Temple with Al Bedard.

In a way this evening’s journey was almost a repetition of last night’s experience; almost, but not quite. Now the car was heading west to Santa Monica and the Coast Highway below, and Fred Elstree did the driving.

Kay was grateful for his presence, grateful that he was aware, alert and armed. Her gratitude emphasized the difference between tonight’s journey and that of the previous evening. Then she’d merely been curious about their destination and what they would find there. Tonight she was afraid.

Miller’s advice about remembering Albert Keith was no help; in a way it only made matters worse. If Reverend Nye was in some way responsible for Keith’s death, then what comfort could she take in knowing she was en route to meet her ex-husband’s murderer?

She took what comfort she could from Fred Elstree’s silence. It suggested competence, the self-confidence of a man who had a job to do and knew just how to go about doing it.

Elstree drove well. As the car turned sharply and descended the ramp leading down onto the highway there was no awkward cornering to dislodge the bags of camera equipment resting on the back seat. Kay was suddenly certain that he’d be equally expert in the use of that equipment when the time came; he’d probably carry off his role as a photographer without any hitch. So what was there for her to fear?

“Fog,” said Elstree, as they headed north. “Where’d it come from?”

It came from the sea, of course, and that’s what Kay was afraid of—the sea, and what it spawned. Drowned things stirred beneath the waters, slithered to the surface, lurched onto the land. Drowned things lurked behind the fog that swirled across the highway ahead as it rose to form a billowing curtain of ghostly gray. Drowned things. Was Albert Keith one of them?

Kay blinked in unison with the car’s headlights as Elstree dimmed them and slowed their progress to a cautious crawl. “Better take it easy,” he said.

She nodded.
Yes, take it easy. Forget Albert Keith. He’s dead and you’re alive. That’s the important thing.

The car moved north as traffic thinned and fog thickened. To the right the high cliffs loomed, but no lights were visible from the windows of the houses perched atop them. Other dwellings lined the seaside at the left, but their lights too were hidden behind a gray shroud. The air was clammy and chill; Elstree rolled up the car window on the driver’s side as he noted Kay’s reaction. But it wasn’t the dampness that made her shiver.

“Hang in there,” he said. “Shouldn’t be much further now.”

She stared through the windshield as they looped past the rows of beach cottages and onto the stretch beyond where the land at the left dropped off steeply to the water, now far below the road. No homes down there, nothing but the fog, rising and rolling from the sullen, silent sea. And then, as they rounded a turn, a single structure loomed ahead, perched on the edge of the cliffside like—

“The Strange High House in the Mist,”
Kay murmured.

Elstree glanced at her quickly. “What?”

“Nothing.” And it was nothing—only the title of one of the stories she’d read in the book. One of Lovecraft’s stories about the old man in the old house who communed with the Old Ones from the sea.

Did Fred Elstree know those stories? She hoped not; better that he concern himself with carrying out a routine security assignment in a routine fashion. Showing her own unease might upset him and she didn’t want that.

“You’re all right?” he was saying.

“Of course. Once we get out of this fog.”

“Here we are.” Elstree spun the wheel and they turned left onto a narrow driveway. Parked beside it on the shoulder of the highway was a pickup truck. No one was visible in the cab, but as they passed it the truck’s headlights flickered on and off quickly.

“Our people,” Elstree said.

Kay frowned. “Just the one car?”

“One car means this is the only way in or out,” Elstree smiled reassuringly. “Everything’s been checked. If there’s another exit we don’t know about, Miller has it covered.”

“Maybe further on,” Kay said.

But they saw nothing else—nothing but the fog-swept vacancy of the bare parking area at the far end of the driveway. That and the strange high house on the rim of the cliff beyond.

Closer inspection revealed that it was not a house at all. The low windowless structure of white stone blended almost imperceptibly into the foggy background and it wasn’t until they parked and climbed out of the car that Kay realized the roof was domed and the entrance raised above a row of steps. It did look like a museum now, and any further doubt was dispelled by the bronze plaque affixed to the dark oaken doorway.

Elstree lifted his two bags of photo equipment from the back seat, closed the car door, and came up beside Kay. He squinted at the plaque.

“Probilski Foundation,”
he muttered. “Hell of a name for a museum. Sounds like a Polish corset.” His grin faded as he glanced at Kay. “Sorry. No time for ethnic humor, right?”

Kay nodded. “I don’t like the looks of this place.”

“Well, maybe this will help. We’ve already done some homework. The Foundation is legit—set up in 1974 by Donald Probilski, oil man from Shreveport, one of those tax-shelter deals. He died two years ago. His widow, Elsie, inherited, runs the Foundation as administrator. We’ve got the dates on when this land was purchased and who it was purchased from, plus the records of application and permits to build the museum. Outside of a few kickbacks, the usual setup, the deal looks kosher. J.C. Higgins handled the job—big construction firm working out of Long Beach. The place will be formally opened next month, with visiting hours four days a week. Curator’s some guy they hired away from the library at the University of Wyoming. That make you feel any better?”

There was something very reassuring about Elstree’s matter-of-fact tone and his matter-of-fact recital. Kay offered him a grateful smile.

“Yes, thank you. By the way, what kind of a museum is it?”

“We’ll find that out in a minute.”

Elstree pressed a buzzer beside the door. Chimes echoed from behind it, and his whisper sounded over them. “Stay cool now,” he said. “Remember, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Except Albert Keith and what happened to him.

The young man who opened the door was a familiar figure. Over the years Kay had seen thousands just like him, on campus malls and city streets, dressed in jeans and jackets and sprouting hair from head, upper lip and chin. Not only did they look alike; they mouthed the same idioms, responded uniformly to the same stimuli, marched to the same drum—which, in their case, was an electronically amplified guitar. And they shared another thing in common: each and every one prided himself on his unique individuality.

Thus it was that though Kay thought she could recognize this particular young man from the Temple audience last night, she could not be sure. Perhaps if she heard him speak—

But he didn’t speak, merely nodded and gestured them forward through the lighted, unfurnished lobby to a wide double doorway beyond.

There was little doubt about their being in a museum now; the lobby’s atmosphere conveyed a characteristic coldness derived more from architecture than from temperature alone. Bare white marble walls and the stark formality of rising pillars created a visual vista of chill
déjà vu.
The final touch was the echo of their footsteps as they crossed the uncarpeted floor; Kay had heard that sound in every museum she’d ever visited.

But once inside the room beyond the double doorway, familiarity faded. The huge chamber was only faintly illumined by lamps recessed in panels bordering the high ceiling, and the ceiling itself bore no resemblance to the exterior outline of the building’s circular dome. Instead it rose from the walls in four triangular stone panes, which slanted sharply to meet at a common apex above.

They were standing in what seemed to be the interior of a hollowed-out miniature pyramid.

Kay glanced at Elstree, wondering if he had recognized the resemblance. Apparently so, for he grinned and whispered, “Wish I’d known. I could have brought some razor blades to sharpen.”

Her involuntary smile of response froze now as she glanced at the contents of the room itself. Any doubt about its architectural inspiration vanished in the shadows of the four walls and what waited there.

Glass display cabinets mounted on marble slabs held objects, which Kay had been only vaguely aware of through an elective college course in Egyptology, but now half-remembered words and pictures became recognizable realities.