Conspiracies by F. Paul Wilson
A mental image of Olive leaping from the ledge was taking shape in Jack's brain when he saw open drawers, the clothing strewn about; and then the walls—pictures of Jesus had been taped over the framed prints; and crosses and crucifixes, at least a dozen of them, were taped to the walls, an especially large one over the king-size bed—
"Damn!" he blurted and jumped back when he saw Olive lying in it.
At least he was pretty sure it was Olive—or had been. The covers were pulled up to her neck but she wasn't sleeping. Her eyes had been removed, leaving empty red-crusted sockets staring at the ceiling. But worse, her lips had been cut off, and none too neatly, leaving her with a hideous permanent grin.
Wary, his stomach churning, Jack inched toward the bed. The pillows and spread were oddly clean—not a bloodstain in sight. Her face was a horror, but what had they done to her body? He had to know. Steeling himself, he gripped the edge of the covers and pulled them back.
"Aw, jeez."
At first Jack wasn't quite sure what he was seeing, but it repulsed him anyway. He saw wide cuts here and there on Olive's exposed skin—slices, gouges, pieces removed. If it was torture, it wasn't like any form Jack had ever heard of. Some sort of ritual maybe? But something beyond the slicing and dicing was terribly wrong. And then with a sledgehammer shock Jack realized what it was. He gasped and involuntarily retreated a step.
He was looking at Olive's back.
Her head was still connected to her body, but it had been wrenched 180 degrees around.
The sound of breaking glass made Jack jump. He whirled, hunting the source. From over there—the window.
He leaped to the drapes and fought them aside. All the glass was intact.
"I could have sworn—"
He poked his head outside and found himself looking over the rear of the hotel. A white flutter jerked his attention to the left: part of the neighboring room's curtain was flapping through a human-sized hole in the window there. Jack looked down. No corpse splattered on the rooftop of the next building three stories below. Had someone broken into the next window?
The sound of a slamming door echoed through the shattered glass.
Jack shoved away from the window and raced for the door, gathering his loose shirttail as he ran. He twisted the knob with his flannel-wrapped hand and charged into the hall.
To his left he saw Roma's monkey scamper out of one of the rooms and freeze at the sight of him; to his right, a retreating figure—black suit and hat—was three quarters of the way to the end of the hall, not exactly running, but hurrying, making damn good time. The guy glanced over his shoulder, flashing a pale face and dark glasses, then started to run.
One of the bogey-men in black, Jack thought as he sprinted after him. Okay, guy. Let's see how you handle someone a little tougher than a middle-aged lady.
The black-clad figure ducked through the exit door into the stairwell.
Jack burst through and paused on the landing, dimly aware of bare blocks, painted beige; steel rails, dark brown with a sick green showing through the chipped spots. He focused on the whispery echo of soft soles galloping down the steps a good two flights below.
He started after them. This guy was fast. And pretty damn agile if he was outside Olive's window while Jack was checking out the corpse. Had to be some sort of human fly.
Well, I can fly too ... in a way.
He vaulted over the railing to the flight below, descending a few steps, then vaulted again. Dangerous—if he landed wrong he'd break an ankle—but it was the only way he'd ever catch this guy.
Jack reached the flight directly above the killer and he vaulted the railing between them. The guy glanced up. Jack saw pale skin, a small nose, and thin lips; he also saw the soles of his sneakers reflected in the black sunglasses just before he landed on the guy's head.
They both tumbled to the next landing, Jack on top. He was vaguely aware of the sunglasses skittering across the concrete as they hit. Even with the man in black's body cushioning Jack's fall, the impact was jarring. His elbow hit the wall, sending fiery tingles down his arm. Had to be a lot worse for the other guy, but to Jack's shock, he jumped up immediately, almost as if nothing had happened, and continued his descent, grabbing his shades as he went.
Wondering if this guy's pain threshold was somewhere out near the moon, Jack struggled to his feet—not quite so quickly—and resumed the chase. The next landing was home to a red door labeled "5"—Jack's floor. The man in black dashed past it, but as Jack arrived the door swung open and he found himself facing a mirror image of the guy he was chasing, except this one was wearing a black gimme cap.
And he was all set for Jack, already in mid-swing when the door opened. Jack was utterly unprepared for the black-gloved fist that rammed deep into his solar plexus.
The force of the blow slammed him against the cinderblock wall. Pain exploded in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't breathe. His mouth worked, struggling to draw air, but his diaphragm was paralyzed. He tried to keep his feet but they wouldn't cooperate. He crumpled like an old dollar bill, doubled over and grunting on the landing, helpless to stop the second man in black as he followed his buddy downstairs.
It took Jack a good fifteen-twenty seconds before he could breathe again. He lay there gasping, sucking delicious wind, waiting for the pain to go away. Eventually he was able to push himself up to a sitting position. He leaned back against the cinder blocks, groaned, and shook his head. No, he was not going to vomit, no matter how much his stomach wanted to.
Christ, that was some shot. Perfect placement, damn near went clear through to his spine. Must have been wearing a weighted glove—at least Jack hoped he was. Didn't like the thought of such a skinny guy packing that kind of wallop all on his own.
Finally he struggled to his feet. No sense in trying to catch up to them now; they were long gone. Jack got himself together, pulled open the door, and tried to look casual as he limped down the hall to his room.
11
After splashing some water on his face, Jack pondered his next move.
Olive ... dead. Christ. And not merely dead—mutilated.
Jack had seen his share of corpses, but never one like Olive's. One thing to kill somebody, but then to cut out her eyes, carve off her lips ... jeez.
Why? Was there symbolism there? Had she seen too much? Talked too much? She'd told Jack about the disks. Had she told someone else—the wrong someone else? The room had been ransacked—in search of the disks, he'd bet. Question was: had they found them?
Not that Jack could go back for a second look. In another twenty minutes or so, Evelyn would be asking the management to open Olive's room. He didn't want to be around when the police started swarming through the hotel asking questions, but he didn't want to be on anyone's suspect list either. Except for the time he'd spent at Gia's, his whereabouts for most of the morning were pretty well accounted for. Better to hide in plain sight until the body was found, then lay low.
Which meant he should head downstairs and make sure Evelyn and anybody else around saw him.
When he reached the meeting area, he looked around for someone he'd met, but saw neither Zaleski, Carmack, nor Evelyn. He'd even settle for Roma—find out about his three-fingered high sign—but he wasn't in sight. Jack did spot the red-headed guy with the beard, staring at him again from his wheelchair.
All right, Jack thought. Let's make this a two-fer: establish my presence and find out what makes me so damn interesting.
He crossed the common area and stood over the guy. Close up Jack saw that he'd be on the short side even if he could stand. He was barrel-chested under his Polo golf shirt. Stick a horned helmet on his head and he'd pass for Hagar the Horrible. His pelvis and legs were wrapped in a loud red, black, and yellow plaid blanket.
"Do you know me?" Jack asked.
The man looked up at him. "Last night was the first time I ever laid eyes on you."
"Then why do you keep staring at me?"
"You wouldn't
"Try me."
"You're the last one to hear from Melanie, I'm told."
That wasn't an answer, but Jack nodded. "Supposedly. News travels fast around here."
"Melanie and I go way back." He extended his hand. "Frayne Canfield."
Jack remembered Lew mentioning that name—Melanie's childhood friend from Monroe—but he shook his hand and played dumb.
"How far back?"
"We grew up together, and we've kept in touch. Hasn't Lew mentioned me?"
"Possibly," Jack said. "I've met so many people since I arrived." He shrugged.
"Well, if he hasn't, he probably will. We've stayed close, Melanie and me, and sometimes I think Lew's suspected us of having an affair." He smiled bitterly and pointed to his blanketed lower body. "But that, I'm afraid, is quite impossible."
Canfield's legs shifted under the plaid fabric, and something about the way they moved sent a chill across Jack's upper back. He felt he should make some sort of response but couldn't think of anything that didn't sound lame.
Canfield shrugged. "Ironic, in a way: The thing that keeps us close also keeps us from getting too close."
"I'm not following you," Jack said.
"Our deformities ... they're a kind of bond unhindered people can't understand."
Jack was baffled. "Melanie has a deformity?"
Canfield looked smug. "You mean you don't know? Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything." He tugged on his red beard and stared at Jack. "You really haven't met her, have you."
"Why would I be lying?" Jack said, then had to smile. "But then, considering the nature of this gathering, why should I be surprised I'm not believed?"
Canfield nodded. "You've got a point."
Jack mentally reviewed the photos he'd seen both in Shoreham and in Monroe. Melanie had looked perfectly normal.
"What's Melanie's deformity?"
Canfield looked around. "Let's get out of the traffic." He started rolling his chair to the left. "Over here."
He stopped before a couch against the wall. Jack sank into the too-soft cushions, so far down that he was now looking up at Canfield.
"I'm not going to discuss Melanie's particular deformity," Canfield said. "When you meet her you'll know."
At least he's optimistic, Jack thought.
"But I will tell you," Canfield went on, "that it shaped her life. It's the fuel powering her engine. She's searching for the cause of the Monroe Cluster."
"Cluster of what?"
"Deformities. Toward the end of 1968, half a dozen deformed children were born in Monroe over a period of ten days. The parents all got to know each other. That was how my folks met the Rubins, Melanie's folks. I remember others—the poor Harrisons, whose severely deformed daughter Susan didn't survive past age five, and the doubly damned Bakers, whose daughter Carly disappeared after murdering her brother. They and a few others formed a mini-support group, looking for answers, wanting to know, Why us??'
Jack glanced at Canfield's shrouded nether half, wondering what hid beneath that blanket.
"A radiation leak, maybe?" Jack offered.
Canfield shook his head. "An investigative team from Mount Sinai came out and puttered around, looking for evidence of just that. When that didn't pan out they tested the water and the ground for toxic contamination, but never found a thing. Melanie thinks they came up empty-handed because they were looking for a natural cause. She thinks the cause was unnatural."
Canfield's legs shifted again under their blanket ... something not quite natural about that, either.
"Like what?"
"Something else ... something other."
"Is this a secret code or something? You're losing me."
Canfield sighed. "Melanie and I have discussed it endlessly. She's been convinced that something 'unnatural' happened in Monroe in late February or early March of 1968 when her mother and my mother and all these other mothers were newly pregnant. Something happened that warped the fragile cell structures of the newly conceived fetuses. 'A burst of Otherness,' she calls it. She refers to us and the other deformed ones as 'Children of the Otherness.'"
Uh-oh, Jack thought. Do I sense another conspiracy theory in the making?
"All right," he said. "I'll bite: What's that supposed to mean?"
Canfield shrugged. 'That's the question Melanie has spent her life trying to answer. But just a couple of weeks ago she told me that with Professor Roma's help, she was getting close ... and that she soon might have the key to her Grand Unification Theory."
Back to Melanie's theory again. All roads seemed to lead to that particular Rome.
"I'd love to hear this theory," Jack said.
"You and me both. Believe me, if a single event has shaped your life—or misshaped your life—you want to. know what it is."
"How exactly did it misshape Melanie?" Jack said.
"Sorry," Canfield said, shaking his head. "Better ask Lew. Good talking to you."
But I can't ask Lew, Jack thought. He's on his way out to Shoreham.
And then it occurred to him that the secret of Melanie Ehler's whereabouts—as well as her mysterious deformity—might not be here with the SESOUP loonies, but back in her home town. In Monroe.
Canfield had backed up his wheelchair and started to roll away.
"One more thing," Jack said. "What's your angle here?"
Canfield stopped and looked back. "Angle?"
"Yeah. UFOs? Satan and the End Days? The New World Order? The International Cabal of Bankers? The Cthulhu cult? Which is your baby?"
"Haven't you been listening?" Canfield said, then rolled away.
He knows something, Jack thought as he watched him go. The way he dodges the important questions—oh,yeah, he's definitely involved.
Jack looked across the common area and saw Evelyn step out of the hotel's business office and head for the elevators in the company of two suits with little brass name tags on their lapels. On their way to Olive's room, no doubt. Which meant the hotel would be crawling with blue uniforms in about ten minutes.
Maybe now was a good time to take another look around the missing lady's ancestral home.
12
Jack retrieved his rental car from the garage and backtracked out to the Long Island Gold Coast. He didn't have a map and wasn't sure of Monroe's exact location, but remembered it was somewhere at the end of Glen Cove Road. Along the way he spotted a road sign pointing him in the right direction. After that, he had no problem finding his way back to Melanie's family home. He also found himself glancing repeatedly in his rearview mirror, looking for a black sedan. He had a vague feeling that he was being watched, and he scrutinized every black car he spied along the way.
Melanie's old home was easily identified by the big oak and its oversize lot. Jack parked in the driveway this time, but went to the back door. The knob was a Yale; so was the dead bolt. Jack was good with Yales. Took him thirty seconds on the knob, less than a minute on the dead bolt, and he was in.
He wandered through the house again, rechecking all the photos. He began to see a pattern that had escaped him completely on his first pass: in not one photo was Melanie's left hand visible. In solo shots it was always behind her back; when with her mother or father she was always positioned so that her left lower arm was behind the other person.
A deformed left hand? That sort of jibed with the box full of dolls with mutilated left hands ...
But so what? What if anything did that have to do with her disappearance?
Jack went downstairs to the basement. Yeah, the rope ladder was still imbedded in the cement. Did that have anything to do with Melanie's disappearance?
He stood staring at it, as baffled as ever, waiting for some sort of epiphany that would explain everything.
The only thing that happened was the front of his chest started itching again.
Damn, he thought. Must be allergic to something down here.
Still scratching, he went over to the desk and checked
He sighed. Deformed children, a missing wife, a mutilated corpse, black-clad tough guys, a gathering of paranoids ... were they linked? He couldn't buy them as random and unrelated. But where was the common thread?
Frayne Canfield had said that something "unnatural" had happened in Monroe in late February or early March of 1968. Was that the link?
Jack had passed a public library in town. As long as he was here, why not check out what he could?
He made sure he relocked both the knob and the dead bolt before he left.
13
"Why are you interested in that particular period?" the librarian asked, giving him a close inspection. Then she added, "If you don't mind my asking."
Mrs. Forseman was straight out of Central Casting with her frumpy dress, wrinkled face, lemon-sucking pursed lips, and pointy-cornered reading glasses dangling from a chain around her neck.
"Just curious."
He'd asked to see the microfilm files of the Monroe Express for the first quarter of 1968. She clutched the cartridge in her bony hand, but hadn't offered it to him yet.
"Curious about what? If you don't mind my asking."
I damn well do mind, Jack thought, then decided she looked old enough to have been around then. Maybe she could save him some time.
"I heard about something called the 'Monroe Cluster' and—"
"Oh, no," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're not some writer planning to go digging into those deformities, are you? This town has had more than its share of trouble, especially those poor people, so leave them alone. Please."
"Actually, I'm a geneticist," Jack said. "If I publish anything it'll be in a scientific journal. Do you remember anything about the incidents?"
"I remember a lot of panic around the time those poor children were born, especially in all the other pregnant mothers in town, all terrified that their babies might end up the same way. We didn't have all the tests then that we have now, so there were a lot of very frightened families. It was an awful time, just awful. A research team from one of the medical centers came through and did a thorough investigation for the State Department of Health. They didn't find anything, neither will you."