The Reality Conspiracy (4 page)

A warm sensation crawled down his legs, coiling around them like warm-blooded snakes.
Christ
, he thought, disgust glaring through his terror.

He shot through the stiff covering of pine branches, their needles sharp as miniature daggers. Face bleeding, hands torn, Stuart floated above the treetops. Greedily, he sucked in a lungful of air so he could . . .

Scream!

A
lton Barnes froze. Long unused military reflexes kicked in; his rifle jumped to the alert position. Adrenaline surged. Standing absolutely still, his eyes darted back and forth.

Another scream. The terror in that rising call was almost tangible. "Stuart!" Alton cried. "STUART!"

Al ran through the woods, moving in the direction of the cry. Bushes whipped at him, sharp green needles clawed at his face.

A snow-covered root caught his Sorrel and he pitched forward, somersaulting in the snow. He came up in a crouch, soldier style.

Rising slowly, he looked around before entering the little clearing ahead of him. He saw footprints in the snow.

"Stuart!"

That was Stuart's weapon, half-covered with snow. And that wasn't right. The antique rifle was Stuart's pride and joy.

From there the footprints led off toward . . .

Toward . . .

Alton traced the progress of the tracks as they made their way uphill, to where they. . .

Stopped.

The tracks just ended.

Careful not to disturb the trail of footprints, Alton walked along beside them.

There could be no doubt about what he was seeing. It was crazy, but there it was, right in front of him like an open book. The snow was packed down near the spot where Stuart had dropped his rifle. Apparently he had fallen, or perhaps—for some reason—he'd sat down in the snow.

Then, the tracks said, Stuart had stood up and walked another eight feet, until his trail ended. Just ended. As if Stuart had somehow . . .

Vanished!

Alton looked around at the shadow-filled woodland.

Then—with a great effort of will—he dared to look up.

We inhabit a strange cosmos where nothing is absolute, final, or conclusive. Truth is an actor who dons one mask after another, and then vanishes through a secret door in the stage scenery when we reach out to grab him. All he leaves behind is a sardonic chuckle which we record, take away, analyze and debate. Be we never see his face."

—Ted Holiday

The Goblin Universe

Boston, Massachusetts

Friday, June 17

K
aren Bradley stood at the Tremont and Park Street corner of Boston Common. Still waiting for the light to change, she had watched it go through its green, yellow, and red cycle three times already.

You gotta do it
, she thought. But she simply was not prepared to cross the busy intersection. To Karen it was a moving barrier that separated her from State Street and from Dr. Gudhausen's office.

"Come on, come on, move it, will ya!" an exasperated driver shouted.

She hugged her briefcase to her chest, trying to make herself as two-dimensional as possible as once again her will warred with her timidity.
Do it
.

A man with an oversize artist's portfolio scurried around her.

Now the light said "Go." She saw the green WALK signal flashing insistently. Following a cautious step into the street, she jumped back, almost tripping over the curb. She let out a startled cry as a cab screeched to a halt just inches in front of her.

Relax
, she told herself.
Relax, relax
.

She was hyperventilating. Her eyes burned. Dizziness unsteadied her, making her legs feel like Jell-O.

This is stupid
, she thought.
I just have to
—

But she couldn't move. Couldn't risk another step. Didn't dare go back.

"Move it or lose it, lady," a cabdriver shouted, a trace of an oriental accent clinging to the L's. He blasted his horn.

Karen squeezed her briefcase tighter. God, now she was sweating. She couldn't force her feet to move. People brushed against her, jostled her as they flooded the crosswalk. The taxi's horn maintained its unrelenting blare. Others joined it. A cacophonous symphony for horns sandpapered her nerves.

The cabby backed up, screeching rubber in reverse. Then he floored it, executing a wide arc around her, almost wiping out a young woman pushing twin toddlers in a tandem stroller.

Paralyzed.

With eyes tightly closed, Karen bit her lower lip and tried to force calming images into her mind: a warm fragrant breeze; green sunlit grasses swaying, swaying.

"Here, let me help." It was a man's voice, deep and confident.

A hand touched her upper arm. She felt a gentle tug urging her toward the traffic.

"It's okay," the man whispered.

Her feet balked at first, but she allowed herself to be led. As though she were blind, the stranger assisted her all the way across the street.

Safe now on the opposite sidewalk, she summoned the courage to look up at her rescuer. The man's smile was disarming, wide and sincere. His black curly hair and meticulously trimmed beard were graying a bit where they merged at the temples. His brown cotton suit appeared tailor-made.

"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice was gentle, caring.

Karen felt herself blushing. "Yes . . . sure . . . I'm . . . Oh gosh, I feel so foolish,"

"No need on my account. I'm just happy I was there to lend a hand." His unfaltering good nature went a long way toward putting her at ease.

"Me, too." She giggled and hated herself for it. "I"—clearing her throat—"I should remember my manners and thank you . . . ."

"Not at all. No need." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You're from out of town, aren't you?"

"Ah, yes . . . I mean, is it that obvious?"

He tossed his head to the side, his eyes twinkling. "Just a wild guess."

"I'm from Vermont. Burlington, Vermont."

"Vermont? Where's that? Up by the Arctic Circle?"

She could tell he was kidding, and she was grateful he didn't make any cracks about some naive farm girl's first time in the big city. But she had no snappy comeback. Instead, she felt compelled to explain. "Sometimes I freeze up. I don't know why I do it. If something startles me, I . . . I just freeze up."

"That's what you get for living in the Arctic Circle." He was still grinning.

Still, she couldn't stop the rush of words. "It's a neurological condition. Something like epilepsy. Something like a panic disorder. They don't know exactly what—"

His smile softened. "It's okay. Really."

Karen grinned, too.

Then the man seemed unsure of himself for a moment, as if he didn't know what to say next. "Listen," he said, "how about letting me buy you a cup of coffee? You can thaw out while you catch your breath."

Again he took her arm and stepped in the direction of a Pewter Pot Restaurant. She felt herself holding back. "I'd love a cup of coffee, really. It'd be just the thing right now. But I'm late for an appointment." She looked at her watch as if that would prove it to him.

"In town on business, eh? I bet you're with the government?"

Karen laughed, she couldn't help it. "The government? Why on earth would you say that?"

"Another wild guess. Government Center is just down that way; the State House's up there. And you're dressed so . . . professionally, with your gray suit and briefcase and all. I just thought . . . Aw, it was just a guess."

She detected his embarrassment, identified with it. Somehow it made her feel more at ease. "I've got to admit, you got all the clues exactly right, you just came to the wrong conclusion. Actually, I'm a . . ."—she faltered here, not wanting to say it—"I'm a doctor."

Was he impressed? Men usually were when she named her profession. It slowed them down, pushed them away. But she didn't want to push this man away; she did it by reflex.

But he was raising his eyebrows in mock-astonishment.

"Oh, are you now? Why, so am I!"

They both laughed and shook hands. "I'm Jeff Chandler, Ph.D.," he said with exaggerated importance.

"And, I'm Karen Bradley."

"Listen, Karen, let me retract that coffee offer. How about if I walk you to wherever you're going while I try to talk you into having dinner with me tonight. What say?"

"Well, I'll take it under advisement." She couldn't hold her pretend-frown. "I could go for some seafood."

"I know just the place."

K
aren found herself alone in Dr. Gudhausen's waiting room.

Sure, she'd expected it to be a bit more plush than her tiny office at Lakeview Health Center in Burlington, but this was positively regal! Bright watercolors adorned white plaster walls, cut flowers exploded from hand-painted vases, green-leafed plants dangled from ceramic hooks in the fourteen-foot ceiling. In the room's darkest corner, tiny tropical fish darted and spun in a glowing aquarium.

Karen found she was clutching the handle of her briefcase in a white-knuckled wrestler's grip. She was always uncomfortable in the presence of conspicuous wealth, a throwback to her childhood, when her nearly impoverished parents had worked so hard to maintain a paying farm in Vermont's dying agricultural economy.

Fighting the reaction, she tried to concentrate on the unobtrusive classical music playing faintly in the background. What was it? Sure. Easy. Beethoven's Seventh. The beginning of the . . . second movement! Perhaps a bit melancholy for a psychiatrist's office.

When Karen heard high heels tapping on the hardwood floor, the enormity of her errand flashed into her mind like a spotlight switched on in a dark room. She had to force herself not to turn around to leave. She could head back to the hotel, phone Dr. Gudhausen. Tell him she'd suddenly become ill, that she'd—

No! Stop it! Hadn't she embarrassed herself enough for one day? Meeting Jeff Chandler should have been a pleasure, but instead she'd stood there like a dumb farm girl, babbling and blushing.

A tall, trim woman in a dark, coldly sophisticated suit entered the room, walking toward the mahogany receptionist's desk. When she looked at Karen, a warm smile brightened her entire aspect. Stepping forward, the woman offered her hand: "Dr. Bradley, how good to see you. I'm Gloria Cook; we spoke on the phone. Dr. Gudhausen is expecting you."

The women shook hands.

"Maybe 'expecting you' is too much of a euphemism; I should say he's eager to see you." She raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. "He'll be with you in a minute. He's on the phone just now."

"Oh, okay, thanks."

"May I get you some coffee? Decaf? Or we have tea or mineral water . . ."

"Oh, no thanks, I'm fine." Fine? No way! She was perspiring like a lumberjack. "I'll just sit down. I want to organize my notes."

"Surely. Make yourself comfortable. I'll let Dr. G know you're here." Gloria left the room.

Alone again, Karen walked to the large spotless window that offered a fantastic view of Quincy Markets and Boston Harbor. Then she scanned the titles on a teak floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The complete works of Freud, leather-bound and embossed. Bass and Davis's
The Courage to Heal
,
The Handbook of Psychological Assessment
—pretty standard fare, she thought.

She perused the shelf above. Books on gardening, a cookbook, Brooks and Evans's
Thoughts That Kill
, a couple of novels.

Strange
, Karen thought.
Are these just for show?

Then she noticed a curious title:
Mania, Magic and Religion
by William J. Sullivan. She picked up the book, flipped through it, examined the author's photo on the dust jacket. She was surprised to see that the man was wearing a collar. He was a Catholic priest!