Psychlone (9 page)

Besides, it was obvious that whatever caused the increase was not physically normal. It was immaterial, apparently capable of extending its influence through solid matter, and capable of affecting the human mind. His mind, the minds of Jordan and Henry Taggart.

“Where did you come from?” he asked the cabin softly. He looked around and shivered, still chilled. “I certainly don't want to hurt you."

He listened to himself and shook his head vigorously. Now he had gone full circle. Nothing but a cold snap and he was going off the deep end—

“No!” he shouted. “Not just a cold snap. Dropped sixteen degrees, inside and out. Nothing could do that, especially not a cold snap.” He sat in the La-Z-Boy and pulled his knees up to his chin. He was not trapped, he could get out and drive the Z back to civilization. It was a real temptation now. Instead, he stood up, put more wood on the wet ashes in the fireplace, and poured lighter fluid on woodchips around the base. In a few minutes he had a good blaze and he warmed himself in front of it.

In the kitchen, he brought out a can of beans and franks and set them in a pot on the stove. Such was the ignominy of life, he thought—this would all end with his being arrested for freeloading and breaking-and-entering.

While he ate the beans, he picked up the phone, heard the dial tone, and tentatively punched out Dorothy's number in Los Angeles. The call went through without interference. After three rings, Dorothy answered the phone, breathless and a little piqued.

“Dot, this is Larry."

“I was in the bathtub,” she said. Suddenly he was laughing, choking on his beans and spraying a bite of frankfurter across his shirt. She started laughing, too, and the hysteria went on for half a minute before he controlled himself.

“What was that all about?” Dot asked. “I said I was in the bathtub, I'm standing here dripping all over the Goddamned rug, and it's cold. Are you all right?"

“I'm fine. But don't tell me about it being cold. I just met the ghost. He runs an ice factory."

“Ghost? He?"

“No, not exactly. Something, I don't know what."

“You mean you can't describe it?"

“Not can't, just don't want to until I get my thoughts straightened out."

“Jesus, Larry, this is unreal. You're not kidding, are you?"

All hilarity went out of him suddenly. “No. Dot, I called to tell you I'm okay. And I'm going to call every night about this time—about seven—to check in. Is that okay with you? I'm going to call collect so I won't rip off the phone company."

“The phone's still open up there,” she said.

“Dot the obvious. Yes, still open. And as I said, I'm fine, just a bit confused. I'm going to stick it out."

“A night in the haunted house? Do you have a talking mule with you, too?” She didn't sound flippant; she sounded worried.

“No, no, I'm fine."

“You told me that, but are you sane? Getting your vitamins? Going to bed early?"

“Enough, Dot."

“Jesus, Larry, you're telling me you saw something, but you aren't telling me what! I'll go bananas!"

“I didn't actually see anything. Here's what happened, judge for yourself. The temperature dropped sixteen degrees Celsius in about as many minutes. The fireplace froze and I got frost all over my moustache. It was cold inside and out. Then it warmed up, went away."

“How long are you going to stay, Larry?"

“A couple more days, I think. No one's bothered me yet. This is about the only time that's happened. But if I don't call, you contact the authorities and tell them to come arrest me."

“What if they just pull the plug on your phone?"

“Good thought. Okay, give me four hours’ leeway. I can get into Bishop and call from there if I have to."

“Is this going to be dangerous, do you think?"

“I don't know."

“What am I saying—you think it killed Jordan and Henry, don't you? Could it get you, too?"

“I'm alone. Maybe not. Maybe it takes two. But don't worry about me unless I don't call. Okay?"

“Larry, somebody already asked about you and I told them where you were."

“What? That's a stupid-ass thing to do—"

“No, I don't think so. It was a reporter from Sacramento, said he was investigating the Taggart thing and wanted to talk to you about it. He sounded sincere, so I said you were already investigating. He may be at the cabin tomorrow. I thought you might need help."

“I should be angry, Dot, but I'm not. Maybe you did the smart thing. I'll look for him."

“But Jesus, Larry, that could put two of you in the cabin—could it get you then?"

“What it?"

“Don't toy with me. The icebox monster."

He chuckled. “Good description. I don't know. We'll just have to find out, won't we?"

Dorothy was silent on the other end.

“I'll be okay,” Fowler said softly.

“Castle called. He wants to know where you are."

“Don't tell him!"

“Larry, they're worried. You don't have much time. They're—"

“I'll handle it. I have a couple more days. I'll call them if I need to stay longer."

“I don't believe this is happening. I don't believe you're off chasing ghosts, for Christ's sake."

“Not ghosts,” Fowler said. “Dot, I have to do it."

“Even if you lose your job?"

He sighed. “Maybe even then. I owe it to Henry."

“Yeah."

“I love and cherish. I'll be back."

“Soon. I miss you."

There was the usual awkwardness getting off the line. Then he was alone again. He wiped his shirt off slowly with the napkin. “First resolution,” he said, “is not to talk about it as if it were an intelligent being. I'm not giving you any breaks, you hear?” he shouted.

The silence was worse than any answer could have been. He finished the beans and straightened up the kitchen sullenly, wondering who the reporter would be, how he would look upon Fowler's Folly. If anything more happened, it might be good to have another witness besides himself and the chart recorder.

He picked up a copy of Scientific American and began to read. Four hours later, getting ready for bed, he said, “And yea verily, the rest of the night was peaceful, unto morning, and the poor man slept soundly."

And he did.

“She was describing an event of incredible psychic power,” Jacobs said, putting his legs up on the bed as he sat in the hotel room chair. He leaned his head back on his arms and sighed. “Arnold, you know as well as I that psychic events are subtle, weak. Yet this goes outside all bounds. And it may involve the dead."

Trumbauer shook his head adamantly. “The dead do not wield great power."

“Not the newly dead, no. Nor those of normal character."

“Franklin, you're talking nonsense. The dead protect us, warn us. They're our friends, usually more than they are in life."

“If they bother to stick around at all."

“I see this picture, two crazy old men sitting in a hotel room, talking ridiculous talk. This is what people I know would think. Franklin, what can we do?"

“I'm only a writer. For a long time, I thought that by keeping my work popular, I could help bring on the age of spiritual awakening. I haven't been very successful. But now we may have an awakening forced upon us. Whatever this event was, it killed many people. An entire town. Important people are bound to be looking into it. And so must we, because we may know something they don't."

“What?"

“The names."

“What will we do with them?"

“The Army and Navy may help us. If these are real people, deceased or not, there should be records. I'll call in the morning. If they have some connection with Lorobu, we'll go there and find out. There must be records in the town."

“What now?"

“I rest,” Jacobs said. “And call my wife. See how my garden is doing. Also, tomorrow we'll talk with the others, if they'll let us."

Trumbauer shook his head pessimistically. “I don't know. Today I talked with Frenk and Tivvor. They said no more. No more bother about it all. They want to think it's over."

“Do they believe that?"

“No. Frenk cried. He was ashamed of himself—I know him well—and this is just beyond him. He says another such thing will kill him. And he's terrified about that sort of death."

“Why?"

“If this psychlone, as you call it, is evil, it may not just let people die."

Jacobs blew out his lips.

Trumbauer folded his hands and bent his head. “You've never been receptive to the idea of evil beings."

“Maybe I'm learning, Arnie."

“It may take those it kills along with it. Perhaps that's how so many names are connected with it."

“A giant string of spiritual flypaper, winding across the land,” Jacobs said.

“You're being ornery now."

“No. It's a ridiculous image, but I won't say it's untrue.” He held up his hand as Trumbauer started to say more, then reached for the room phone. As he called his wife, Trumbauer lay back on the far bed and closed his eyes to meditate.

The morning was clear and cold. Jacobs made his calls to Washington early, found a cooperative clerk, and was promised a return call or letter if he couldn't be reached by phone. Then they went to pick up Miss Unamuno. It was her day off, and she had agreed to accompany them to Lorobu—or as close as she could go.

Trumbauer's station wagon was well-equipped with water bottles and cans of gas, food rations, and other safety paraphernalia which Jacobs looked over with an approving but humored grin. “So much for seeing into the future."

“The Boy Scout motto outweighs all spiritual faith, is that what you're accusing me of?” Trumbauer asked. “I never said I had rapport with my car. It could crap out without anyone predicting, and where would I be?"

“Mr. Trumbauer is a very smart man,” Miss Unamuno said defensively, not catching the bantering tone.

“I know, dear, I know. But we are each, in our own way, old fools, so allow us our mock battles."

She flushed, embarrassed, and Jacobs patted her cheek lightly. “I love making young women blush,” he said. “But don't tell my wife."

“First,” Trumbauer said, “we go to the hospital and see if any of the others will talk to us. Then to Lorobu."

The hospital was a disappointment. Half of the remaining psychics had been discharged, and the other half refused visitors. In the reception area, Trumbauer rubbed his chin and looked at Jacobs. “I'm afraid I was right. It was such a shock they don't want to be reminded. I imagine quite a few are looking around for new guides, as it were."

“Miss Unamuno, here, is our bravest, apparently,” Jacobs said. “We'll just have to rely on her."

“As far as she goes,” she said grimly. “I'm not too happy about it."

“On to Lorobu, then,” Jacobs said. “How long a drive is it?"

“We'll be there by four or four-thirty,” Trumbauer said. “But I don't know how much good it will do us. They have it sealed off to outsiders."

Fowler stood by the Z, looking under the open hood. He checked the hoses, the belts, and tapped the coolant reservoir. Then he brought the long hood down and got to his knees in the gravel to see how the tires were doing. He crept around the side.

His eyes focused on the paint below the door.

“Jesus H. Christ.” The paint and metal along the body's base were pitted and scratched, in some areas almost sandblasted in appearance. He felt the surface with his hand. Above a palm-span, the paint was fine.

He got to his feet and looked around helplessly. It wasn't wind damage, it wasn't road damage—he would have noticed while unloading the equipment—and that meant it wasn't covered by his insurance.

It had happened some time after he parked the Z in the cabin driveway.

He wasn't feeling very well anyway, and the discovery irritated him more than it should have. He returned to the cabin and felt his forehead. He was warm. Jordan Taggart's medicine chest yielded aspirin and a thermometer. He took his temperature—edging 100—and popped two pills, swallowing a glass of water after. The bitter aspirin taste made him wince. He decided to take a shower before he got any sicker—much preferring to be clean while he was ill—and pulled back the shower curtain as he undid the top buttons on his shirt.

The shower tub was covered with something. He bent down to get a look and recoiled at the smell, like ammonia mixed with animal dung. The bottom of the tub was marred with thousands of crayonlike strokes of color, each stroke growing fuzz and sending out sympathetic circles of mould. He backed away and took a deep breath from the hall, then stood over the tub, looking at the patterns. He'd taken a shower yesterday afternoon. It wasn't possible all this could have grown since.

He went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of disinfectant, a can of cleanser and a scrub brush. He poured the disinfectant freely around the tub and then added cleanser, scrubbing the enamel vigorously. The pine smell effectively masked the corruption, and soon the tub was white and stainless. The stuff seemed to liquefy as it came away, and all of it went smoothly down the drain, just like ordinary dirt.

He then showered and washed his hair.

When he finished drying himself, he took his temperature again—101. Time to get to bed. He was feeling wobbly, though not queasy yet—perhaps it was just a cold. After last night he wouldn't be surprised. That kind of a chill could bring anything on.

After mixing frozen orange juice and eating a piece of processed cheese, he lay back on the couch and propped a copy of Computer Age on his stomach. “I'm no fit ghost-sitter now,” he told himself a half-hour later, trying to squeeze back a growing headache.

Everything demanded a nap. He rolled over and shut his eyes. Then opened them. What if the reporter arrived? All in good time. Give him the disease, too. Infections for the nosy. On cue, his began to drip and he stuffed a Kleenex into the lower nostril.

He was dreaming about a trip to Disneyland—he hadn't been there for six years at least—when the cabin door rattled. One leg went over the side of the couch and he lurched unsteadily to his feet. He felt weak. The aspirin had had little effect.