Chapter 15
TWO WEEKS LATER
Charlie and Constance
were in Phil Stern’s office with Phil, Thoreson,
Sid Levy of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and
Firearms, Arson Department, and Fredrick Foley of the FBI.
“Charlie,” Sid Levy said, “this is a fairy tale, right? Look, we’ve known each other what, twenty years? Enough. With fires, we never played games before. Why now, Charlie? Why?” Sid’s cheeks were pink, his hair white; over the years he had become heavy through the middle. It would take very little makeup for him to be a good Santa Claus. Charlie had often said he was the second best arson snoop in the country.
Charlie looked slightly bored. “I’ve given you a champion arsonist, Sid. He’s a real pro. That’s hardly a game, old buddy.”
“So? You give us a name. Where’s the man? Dropped off the face of the earth, that’s where. And you tell us a ghost story. What should we do with the ghost story, Charlie?”
“Set up a team, bring in scientists, people with equipment to deal with it, and the next time this thing shows up, be ready to finish it off for good.”
Sid shook his head sadly. “Not my department.”
Charlie turned to Fredrick Foley. Put him in a tux and stand him on a wedding cake, Charlie had once said of him. He’d look right at home there. He was a dapper man, almost delicate looking, which was deceptive because he was a runner who entered marathons and usually finished very early, though never a winner, never attracting attention that way. Everything about him was meticulous—his stylish dark hair, his manicured nails, his custom-made suits. When he talked he revealed his origins, the Bronx. “Well?” Charlie asked mildly, watching him.
“How I read it is that this man, Loesser, turned the corner when he was first attacked by the kid. Did something to his head, and he’s seeing the same thing happening everywhere he looks now. Happens, so I hear. So he lights a fire and moves on. I’ve read the reports, Charlie, all of them, and there’s just nothing to latch onto. Nothing.”
“Okay,” Charlie said, and stood up. “I tried. I’ve given you all the dope. Do what you want with it.”
“Look, Charlie,” Foley said, “you admit no one knows where it might start up again, or when, or even if. What do you expect? Station someone at every abandoned hotel in the country? Wait for it to show? And this equipment you think we should dream up, for what? You don’t even know what we should look for. Charlie, you really think they’d blast something like this, if they believed in it at all? Don’t kid yourself, pal. They’d take it home to play with. But they won’t because there’s nothing to go on. Bring us something solid, Charlie, okay? Something we can get our teeth into.”
“More than forty dead people. Not solid enough? Couple dozen nuts in institutions. Not solid? What would it take, Fred?”
“I don’t know. But I’d know it if I saw it.”
Constance had been watching silently throughout the meeting. Phil Stern was satisfied; he was not connected with any company that would be hit with a massive claim as soon as the legalities were settled. Thoreson was thinner-lipped than ever, furious with Charlie for letting the arsonist set the fire under his nose. His company had been the major insurer of Old West. He had said with unconcealed bitterness, even hatred, that he regretted making that drive out to engage Charlie in the first place. At least no entire town had burned previously. Sid was unconvinced of anything more than the arson fires. But Fred Foley, Constance thought, would take a few steps, would probe a little. She had risen when Charlie did, and they moved together toward the door. She glanced at Phil, then the others, and said, “If anyone does hear about madness in connection with an abandoned building, I hope you remember to keep a motor running, or set up some kind of electrical field. Come out to visit, Phil. Good evening,” she said generally to the others.
Charlie picked up his coat from a chair. A paper bag was under it. “Almost forgot,” he said, putting the coat on. He picked up the bag containing a large object and crossed the office, handed it to Thoreson. “You left it at our place,” he said.
Thoreson’s thin lips seemed to vanish; he glanced inside the bag and turned livid.
“Thought you might have a use for it,” Charlie said. He went to Constance and took her arm as they left. In the hall outside the office they stopped and he said, “Pay up.”
She dug a five dollar bill from her pocket. The gas can was Sore Thumb’s. “See why I don’t bet ever?” she murmured, and they went to the elevator. She had disbelieved very briefly. Not a real threat, Charlie had said. Sore Thumb had just wanted action, pretty damn quick.
“Well, you tried,” she said in the elevator.
“And we both knew where it would get us. Okay, dinner with Father Morley, prepared by his newest miracle chef.” But he was troubled by what Foley had said, and he cursed himself for being a naive idiot. Obviously the FBI
would want to study it if they got involved at all.
Constance did not think this arrangement was what she had been thinking of when she gave John Loesser Father Patrick Morley’s name. She had meant for him to get in touch with Patrick, who could relay news about Charlie’s condition. At least, she told herself once more, that was what she had told herself she meant back then. Now John Loesser was cooking for the boys’ home. He had dinner with her, Charlie, and Patrick that night. The dinner, pork with rosemary, sautéed apples, potatoes Chantilly, green beans in vinaigrette… . She sighed her satisfaction over coffee. John Loesser knew how to make coffee, too. She remembered the awful brew that Patrick had given her in October when she delivered apples. Another lifetime.
While two of the teenage boys cleared the table, John told about the son of a friend. “He went through the course right up to cakes and pastries, did really well on everything. Then they spent a week making tiered cakes, decorated them all beautifully, and had them all on display for the parents’ day ceremonies. When the time came, the teacher and judges went down the tables, sampling icing, rubbing it between their fingers testing for graininess. They tasted it, and went to the next test. They cut the cakes. When they got to Bill’s, he burst into tears. The following week he dropped out of chef’s school and enrolled as an architecture student.”
One of the boys giggled and, shushing each other, the two hurried from the room. John watched them with a slight smile. “I’m starting cooking lessons here. They’re both enrolled.”
Patrick brought out a bottle of brandy and they leaned back savoring it and the very good coffee. “You know how the police track down people who try to hide?” Charlie said, watching the film of alcohol climb the inside surface of his glass. “Old habits. A stamp collector just can’t resist a philately show. Readers haunt libraries and bookstores. Football fans, model airplanes, whatever the old pleasure, it still pleases, and the fugitive thinks, I’ll go this time. There’ll be so many others, no one will notice me. That’s the first thing. Then there’s the name. It’s really funny about names, how attached to them we all become. The guy runs and hides and changes his name from Timothy Wells to Tommy Will. Or Ralph Warren to Robert Williams. They seem to go for the same initials every time, or the same sound, something to hold onto from the past. Sometimes they even mix up their own names with their mother’s maiden name, or their wife’s maiden name, but it’s the same effect as soon as you know the variations available.” He swirled his brandy and finally tasted it, then sighed. “All right!”
Patrick and John had both been listening intently. Now John nodded. He was calling himself Carl Lambert these days. He glanced at the door, and said in a low voice, “I told Patrick everything, Charlie. I thought it wasn’t fair any other way.”
“I tossed John Loesser to the wolves,” Charlie said bluntly. “I hoped it would be enough to make them want some of the action. It wasn’t. They think Loesser went nuts years ago and sees other nuts every place he looks.”
John shrugged. “Did you really expect anything else?”
“Damned if I know,” Charlie admitted. “I wanted something else, but can’t say I expected it. Foley, the FBI agent, probably will look into it, but without much enthusiasm or money. Only because he’s thorough. You have your computer set up here?”
John Loesser nodded. “Charlie, I’m a simple cook now. With classes to teach. I’m out of that game.”
“Right. And if you get wind of a new series of incidents, let me know real fast, okay? If I can get Foley involved alone when there’s something to see, he’ll make a good ally. But he’s got to be persuaded that there is something first.”
John was shaking his head with regret.
“Listen to me, pal,” Charlie said, leaning across the table, closing the space between them. “If you go in alone and get yourself killed, we’ve lost our best shot at it. You have more experience than all the rest of us combined, and I want you alive and well. I’m going to get the son of a bitch, John, Carson, Carl, whatever you call yourself. With your help or alone, I’m going to get the son of a bitch.”
“You don’t dare get near it,” John said. “You may be more susceptible than ever after your encounter.”
Charlie nodded grimly. “With your help or without.”
They left the private dining room, returned to Patrick’s study, and agreed to keep in touch, tried to formulate a plan that had a chance of working. Constance listened, joining in only when asked a direct question. She felt her gaze resting on Charlie again and again, and tried to force herself not to look at him, not to study him, examine his features for a change, for a sign that something had happened and was still happening with him.
She had told Charlie about the brain damage the insane people had suffered. Their brains looked as if they had been riddled with tiny pellets, or perforated with acid, or electric wires had burned their way through. No salvation was possible after such massive destruction of brain tissue. It varied from brain to brain of those who had been autopsied, but in every case the damage had been irreversible. Whatever had done that to those other people had also attacked Charlie, forced its way into his brain enough to make him stop his movements, to freeze, to look hurt and blank. She watched him with fear that became terror now and again.
By nine Patrick was too tired to play host any longer, and they got up to leave. No one knew what to do about the thing, Constance thought wearily. She had gone over it with Charlie, with Byron, with herself, and there seemed to be no answers to the question it posed.
Driving home Charlie outlined his thoughts about it. “It’s not directional, not like microwaves. It’s not intelligent. It’s inoperative in any sort of electric field, or where there are motors running. It needs space for its portal, if what John saw was a portal. But damn it, people have to go somewhere when they vanish. They have to come from somewhere when their bodies turn up again. We’ll call it a portal, a black hole that fills a doorway, that takes time to start and turn off, that needs more space than ordinary doors have these days. I’m assuming the size is important, and the isolation, and the lack of anything mechanical in the area—peace and quiet.”
“Charlie,” she said when he paused, “if it’s like the signal from a television transmitter, it doesn’t matter where it comes out, only where it originates. You could keep blowing up television sets for the rest of your life.”
“Even if Foley could get anyone interested,” Charlie said, as if she had not spoken, “what would be the point? They would try to communicate with it, like an ant nest trying to communicate with the foot as it descends. How long have we had things like microwaves, radar, lasers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Me neither, but not very long. A hundred years ago we couldn’t have traced a microwave to its source, no matter how hard we tried. Who knew about radon in houses fifty years ago, much less how to measure it?”
Constance drew in a deep breath, strangely reassured now. He had been so quiet for so many days, so distant, she had thought with rising fear. This was Charlie back, angry, arguing out loud, talking it through for his own benefit as much as hers.
“Why not intelligent?” she asked during the next pause.
They had left the city now, were on Highway 17, heading north. Snow was expected that night and it was very cold; the road had little traffic. About half an hour farther on they would stop at a roadhouse where she would have coffee and Charlie a double bourbon; after that she would drive, another hour and a half at the most, if she dawdled.
Although she hated driving in the city, and usually chose to go by train, she had offered to drive both ways this trip, to spare Charlie’s arm, but he had wanted to drive. He never had minded the traffic, had grown up with it, and sometimes complained it was too eerily silent in the country. She let the thoughts flow through without trying to stop any of them, patiently waiting for Charlie to answer her question.
“What are they after?” he said finally. “Those autopsies didn’t show any damage except to the brain. Right? The liver, heart, lungs, all intact, and the brain riddled with holes. They’re after the contents of the brain. They’re doing brain scans on living tissue and killing it!” His voice grew harsher as he spoke, and suddenly the car swerved. He caught it and held it steady, both hands hard on the wheel.
“Charlie? What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know.” He began to tap the brake, shifted down, and came to a stop on the side of the road. “Don’t know,” he said again in a strange remote voice. He leaned his forehead on the steering wheel.
“Charlie!” She heard the panic in her voice that could no longer be suppressed.
“It’s okay,” he said, in his usual voice. “It’s okay. You’d better drive.”
They got out and changed places and strapped themselves in. She touched his forehead, cool. He caught her hand and kissed her palm, but he looked frightened, as frightened as she was.
Without prompting, he began to talk about it. “I had a feeling of being in a small, dark place, pressed in. It was suffocating, no doors or windows, too tight.” He had seen it, felt it, had been there, and at the same time had been driving, watching the road, talking to her. The two sets of sensations, of memories, occupied the same time, the same place. He shook his head.