Psychlone (5 page)

Fowler took a deep breath. “Judge me that way if you want. Maybe I am a coward—"

“I didn't say you were. Well, not a physical coward, anyway. But you're leaving us to face something just as real as any problems you have back home. Just because we can't define it clearly doesn't mean it isn't real."

“Even if this is more than dreams and flukes, I'm not the one. I just don't qualify."

“You're leaving your junk food behind?"

“Fortify yourself if you need it. I'd even leave the equipment here, but I'm responsible for it. I'll send you the names of a few rental places if you still want to follow up. Myself, I think we drew a blank."

“Larry—"

“And please don't try to convince me otherwise. I feel pretty rotten right now as it is. Let me think it over."

“We won't be giving up. Hell, we can't. Dad has most of his money sunk into this property and he doesn't feel like selling—wouldn't feel right selling to someone who didn't know. If you do change your mind, or just want to come up and see the cabin again—"

Fowler raised one eyebrow doubtfully.

“—or whatever, Dad and I want you to have a key. Come right in, whether we're here or not."

Fowler opened the front door and threw his coat onto the seat. “I do thank you for inviting me. I've needed the fresh air for a long time. No hard feelings one way or the other?"

Henry shook his head.

“I'll try to find out if any planes went over last night, or if there are TV towers in the area. If not, maybe you have something. But get somebody who knows his business to come in and check it out, okay?"

“Sure,” Henry said. “Good-bye, Larry."

“Come down to LA sometime, I'll show you the town."

“I was born there,” Henry said. “I'll show you the town."

“Fair enough.” They looked at each other for a moment, then shook hands. “Take care,” Fowler said. He backed the truck down the gravel road, wincing at the sound the tires made, then honked before edging out on the asphalt. He honked again and waved, but Henry was beyond the crest of the hill.

He felt like a complete bastard.

The clean white lights of the drafting rooms, the smell of paper and developer and toner and blueprint machines, the hot dusty smell of the electronic equipment—Fowler was back in his sea, and glad to be there. His vacation had ended the day before, giving him four days to sort things out after returning from the mountains.

He greeted the chief engineer and a secretary cheerily before entering his office. The hotplate and glass coffee pot waited, pleasantly clean and uncommitted, and he laid a box of doughnuts down beside them. His day always began in an orderly fashion—coffee and two doughnuts, an hour looking over the designs and revisions on his board, fifteen minutes catching up on office memos, and then two hours of work before breaking for lunch.

Fowler had always found work cathartic. Whatever problems he might have on the outside, he could drop them at the employee gate and come to work clean, ready to concentrate. That had saved him many times from long days of waiting (for his wife to call, her attorney to call, the kids to call or all three) and involvement. Involvement had never been his strong point. Best to put up appearances and hide behind them

Now that he had no wife, and effectively had no kids, he was saved from waiting for them not to call. It was an interesting distinction. And he had warned Dorothy several times that calling him at work was forbidden. Dorothy took him at his word.

He rigged the coffee pot and opened the box of doughnuts to see what he had picked up at the Winchell's. As he ate a cream-filled orange glaze, he leafed through the stack of mail on his desk.

“Larry, development needs the designs for those new demonstrator peripherals toot sweet. The salesmen are screaming for them. How soon?"

He looked up from the letters and blinked at Regis Hinkel, the vice president of marketing. “Albert tells me they're being held up because the computer fouled up on the feedthroughs. We won't get them here for another day or two."

“Christ. We have to get on the stick or we're going to drop next month's promotion. Castle hates to drop."

“I'm on it, Regis,” Fowler said, looking down at the spike-full of notes next to the fluorescent lamp base. “We do have these ready.” He referred to a roll of designs leaning against a file cabinet. “Development wanted these two weeks ago. Why haven't they picked them up?"

“Beats me. I'll tell them."

“Oh—Candice didn't bring this morning's paper. Could you remind her?"

“Certainly. Have you heard?"

“I doubt it. I've been away. Heard what?"

“Looks like we won't have to service one of our accounts."

“Why?"

“New Mexico,” Hinkel said. “Whole town's gone. Somebody in the FBI just decided to pull the cover off. Happened less than a week ago. We had a few sales to businesses there."

“Which town is that?"

“Laramie or Malaru. Something like that."

“You're kidding."

“Scout's honor."

“Disappeared?"

“I'll get the paper. Hold on."

He returned several minutes later with the front-page section and spread it on Fowler's desk.

The headlines read:

NEW MEXICO TOWN WIPED OUT

Lorobu, Population 813,

Ghost Town Overnight

ALBUQUERQUE, New Mexico (UPI)—FBI Director Douglas Davis announced today that eight hundred and thirteen people were murdered in Lorobu, apparently on the night of November 26th, by unknown assailants. The bodies were discovered by a New Mexico Highway Patrolman, whose name has not been released, and by members of the New Mexico State Police. Neither of these agencies has released any information on the calamity. Director Davis called a special news conference late Monday evening.

There are three survivors: Cynthia Furness, 24, a postal clerk; Beverly Winegrade, 19, employed in a local hardware store; and Timothy Townsend, 11. Reporters were not allowed to question the survivors, who are being kept under close guard at Pasteur Community Hospital in Albuquerque. Although no one connected with the case has given details, Times reporter Austin Heiser flew over the town in a light plane two days before the FBI announcement. He reported that, “Lorobu was completely deserted. I saw no sign of life whatsoever. I didn't see any bodies.” Heiser was researching another story in the area at the time.

Fowler turned to the third page to read Davis's statement. He scanned the page, then glanced at the second page and caught a name in one of the News Brief articles.

“Isn't that incredible?” Hinkel said. “Really nuts."

“Oh, my God,” Fowler said, sucking in his breath.

“What?"

The name that had caught his eye was Henry Taggart. The article was short and terse. Jordan Taggart had murdered his son with a butcher knife and then committed suicide by hanging himself from a tree limb. The bodies had been discovered by Sam Cooper, a delivery man.

Fowler leaned back in his chair and let the paper slip to his lap. One section fell on the floor.

“Hey, what's the matter?"

“I don't know,” Fowler said.

“You look like hell. Should I get you a cup of coffee?"

“Everybody's dead,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, it's awful—did you know someone there?"

“No."

“You look like you lost—"

“Another story. A friend, two friends, murdered."

“Jesus H. Christ,” Hinkel said.

“I was with them five days ago."

“Can I read it?"

“No,” Fowler said irrationally, folding the paper and standing up. “It isn't true, what they say here. It couldn't have happened that way."

He left the office. Hinkel stood by the desk, flipping the paper between his fingers, frowning.

Fowler didn't know where he was going. He was out in the overcast but still shirtsleeve Sunset Boulevard weather, on the corner of Highland, before he realized he was wandering. He needed a plan, some way to get through the day. He found a pay phone booth and stood in it for several minutes before deciding to call Dorothy. Her number was usually quick to mind, but for the life of him he couldn't think of it now. He fumbled through his wallet, then searched the mangled and scribbled-on phone directory. There were four Dorothy McKinleys, but he remembered her address.

The phone rang six times before she answered, sounding peeved.

“Dot, this is Larry."

“I was in the bathtub."

“Henry is dead."

“Henry who? Your friend Henry?"

“Henry and his dad, his father. It's in the paper."

“I don't take the paper. You just saw him. How did it happen?"

“Paper says his father killed him and then killed himself."

“Oh, Larry, that's awful..."

“It couldn't have happened that way. I've got to find out what happened."

“Are you at work?"

“No,” Fowler said. “I'm in a phone booth, corner of ... Sunset and some other street, can't see it."

“Did you tell anybody at work you were leaving? It's still the morning—"

“No,” he said.

“Listen, Larry, I know you're upset—"

“Shit, Dot, I'm scared! It couldn't have happened the way the paper said. I don't know how it could have happened, except there was something peculiar going on."

“What?"

“I don't know. I can't tell you over the phone.” He heard a doorbell on her end.

“Larry, there's someone at the door. I've got to get a robe on and answer it. First you tell the people at work that you've had bad news, have to have a day off. Okay?"

“Yes."

“Then you come over here and tell me about it."

“Of course."

“See you soon. Drive careful."

She hung up and he waited on the phone, too numb to put it back on the cradle. Then he shook his head and left the phone booth, looking this way and that to see which lot he'd parked his car in. The company had reserved spaces in two lots.

He wouldn't tell the people at work. He would come back in the afternoon and explain he had had some crucial business to take care of. Right now he couldn't think straight, and he didn't want to make a scene in the office.

He was standing by his car and could hardly remember walking there. His hand drew the keys from his pocket, coming first on the key to the cabin. He moved it aside and took the door key between his fingers.

He had often wondered how he would feel when someone close to him died. Now it was here and he knew. For a moment it seemed ridiculous that he should believe a simple newspaper account. He hadn't seen the Taggarts dead. But he was confident in his sources of information. The chain of reporting in a case like this was too tight. They were dead. Father had killed son. That was it.

That was not it. Death was theoretical, or had been. None of Fowler's close relatives had died, only distant cousins and great-uncles he had never met. He had grown up, gotten married and had two children without having to face the issue. And Vietnam didn't count—none of his buddies had died. He opened the door and climbed into the Datsun 280Z. The motor started with an irritated cough. He closed his eyes before backing out.

And saw the burning moth, the gravel boar, the jabbing, indistinct tusks.

Dorothy lived in a bungalow off Coldwater Canyon Road. He drove into a narrow, tree-hung passage leading to the twin garages at the rear of the Greene and Greene home. She met him on the back porch, a tumbler of Scotch in one hand, and her glass of Martini and Rossi in the other. She was wearing a shift with curved stems and stylized flowers flanking the side seams. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she looked upper-middle domestic.

“No dings?” she asked.

“Z is clean,” he said. She walked ahead of him through the service porch into the kitchen dining area. She had spread a lunch of fruit and cheese, with a concession of sliced cotto salami for his carnivorous appetite.

“Who was at the door?” he asked.

“My other lover. No—sorry. Wrong moment for that kind of crap. It was Tommy, the gardener."

Fowler nodded. He liked Tom DeCleese. DeCleese had been doing work for the McKinleys ever since Dorothy's father had been a boy. Now her father was dead, her mother was living in New York—"suffering from terminal bitchiness,” Dorothy had once said in a charitable mood. DeCleese still charged the rates he had charged in 1960.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

Death and dying. He had been so bored by Kubler-Ross. So far removed from reality.

“I don't know where to begin."

“When you came back you were tight as a clam. Something had to have happened. I've been curious, and now you should tell me."

As he sipped at his Scotch, he told her about the trip to the cabin and everything up to the frozen lynx. She nodded at the right points and offered to refill his glass. He declined.

“And you're frightened now,” she said.

“Goddamnit, Dot,” he burst out. “I'm—"

“Sorry, sorry. I'm not very good at this sort of thing. I don't believe in death very much, or won't until Mom dies, perhaps. Father's death was de rigueur. I mean, he admired John Barrymore so much, how could he go any other way?"

“And when it's time for you?"

“Punch my ticket and move to the back of the bus, which is cryptic Dot language for I don't know. You're sure Taggart wasn't going off the deep end—sorry—sure he wasn't crazy before you arrived? He was—ah—exhibiting novelistic behavior with all the talk about ghosts or whatever."

“He never said it was a ghost."

“What ‘it'?"

“Dot, this is off the issue. I don't know anything about what happened except what was in the paper. I'm sure that isn't the complete story. I have to find out more."

“Then call Bishop, or Lone Pine—whatever the town was."

“Bishop."

“Call the police there. The coroner. Find out."

He shook his head. “How would they know?"

“Larry, they investigated."

“I have to do better than that."

Dorothy leaned back and shook her head. “I've only seen you with that expression once before. You had to find out what school she was sending the kids to.” They never mentioned his wife's name unless it was absolutely necessary. “That was a real fiasco."