Captain Quad (37 page)

And Will Chatam had killed it.

Peter's speed increased in exponential bounds, far outpacing that of his previous runs in this shimmering slipstream of light. Where did it lead? It was a question he had contemplated before. The answer was out there. . . and its cost was merely his life.

His shape began to sizzle.

Come on, you son of a bitch. Take me.

Take me.

He was coming apart. The pain in his head was splitting him in two, his halves exploding into vapor. He considered turning back, a fleeting thought without much heart in it, but he doubted now that he could. He had already come too far.

He focused on whatever lay ahead, trying to hold himself together until he saw where this crazy carnival ride came out. There was a body of light up there, just like those jacked-up TV evangelists always said there would be, a blinding sunburst of immaculate white, and it drew him into its radiance the way a porch lamp drew a fluttering moth.

It was an awesome light, but he was not afraid.

The corridor ended suddenly, a crisp edge of brilliance and then nothing; it was like running off the edge of a roof. . .

And then he saw it.

An immense, slowly revolving disc, nebula-shaped, made up of countless millions of radiant pinpoints of light, like stars, only brighter, each of them the condensed essence of a life that once was—he knew that instinctively. A thrumming bass note, profound in its depth, emanated from that disc, which was enormous beyond comprehension, yet accessible to his expanded perceptions.

As he drifted closer, awestruck and at peace, knowledge in its purest form struck him like a thunderbolt, and in that staggering instant he knew the depth and breadth of every being that had ever lived and then died. He knew the passions of the world's greatest thinkers, the patience of the mightiest oak, the agonies of the most tormented soul. He knew the watery peace of the womb, the sorrow of a fallen leaf, the pointless fear of the dying. This was the archive of all knowledge, and it gushed into him now like life's blood. He hung there unafraid, basking in its radiance, privy to nature's most coveted secrets. There was no time to label this the final hallucination of a dying man, nor was there any need.

It was real. All of it.

And it told him what he must do.

The trip back was instantaneous. One moment he was staring into eternity, the next into the blank green eye of his computer screen. His brain was alight like a city under siege, each of its billions of axons firing simultaneously, and for a wild moment he thought the contents of his skull might simply gusher out through his ears.

Then he began to grow calm, the rush of the preceding minutes drawing back like a scouring tidal wave. In the blandness of his room, every ounce of reason that was left in him rose up to denounce the reality of what he'd just experienced. . . Then all reason deserted him, skittering away like rats from a sinking ship.

The digital clock clicked over in the silence. Peter glanced at its glowing face: 1:00 a.m., Sunday, January 24.

He smiled. He had the whole night ahead of him.

And there was a lot he needed to do.

With a practiced thrust of his chin, he plucked the key striker out of its slot. A technician from Biomed had rewired the power switch to the scroll lock key, and now Peter gave it a tap. When the screen came to life, he began to record his experience and all that it had taught him.

The next day, Monday, Kelly was again distracted at work, unable to apply herself fully. . . but it was a healthy distraction this time, not irresponsible in the least. Her cheeks ached from grinning so much, and all she could think about was getting out of here. She and Marti were going out after work to shop for wedding gowns. Steve had indeed popped the question on Christmas Eve, and the four of them had decided over drinks to make it a double wedding in the spring.

After encountering that peculiar illusion in her bedroom the night before, she and Will had had a hard time getting to sleep, and had ended up talking until three in the morning, speculating on the existence of ghosts. It surprised Kelly to learn that Will believed in them strongly, though he'd never actually seen one before. It was all tied into a strong Baptist upbringing (another surprise for Kelly), and an unswerving belief in the persistence of the soul. Neither could agree on exactly what they had seen or felt in Kelly's room, only that it was strange and, for the time being at least, inexplicable.

Kelly recalled her mother's encounter with the "ghost" of Kelly's grandmother and tried to fit her own experience into the mystic framework of her mother's. But whatever this thing was, it had borne no distinguishable features, and Kelly had picked up no particular emanations from it. In all likelihood, it had been some fluky reflection from the lake. There was a large dome-shaped area of water out there that for some reason never froze—her father's theory was that there was a warm-water spring beneath the surface out there—and maybe the moon had bounced its light off that, and the highlight had struck the ceiling, creating that eerie pocket of illumination. And then a cloud had scrubbed it away. . .

But what about that cold-steel feeling in your heart? What about that?

Kelly didn't know. All she knew was that in the good light of day it all seemed rather hokey, some shared illusion best forgotten. Maybe they'd humped themselves into some sort of pre-epileptic state, and that blue light had been an aura, a warning to cool down or burn down. Kelly smiled at this evil thought.

Will, my man, you bring out the worst in me.

She was in study hall now, her last obligation for the day, and when the bell rang she pushed her way out with her students.

Sam came in that day around four. He'd just completed an organic chemistry midterm, and he was feeling pretty glum. Since his mother's death, and the ensuing changes in his brother, study had become virtually impossible. He felt constantly uptight, driven to distraction. And to make matters worse, the easy channels of communication he and Peter had always shared had been suddenly and mysteriously closed off. The long discussions they'd had about Peter's adventures had ceased, and whenever Sam brought up the topic, Peter changed the subject abruptly. These days, when he wasn't out doing God knew what, leaving his body in that creepy, catatonic state that was so much like death, Peter had his nose stuck in that computer. It was making Sam regret having bought it in the first place. It had nearly broken him. . . and now it sat between him and Peter like a wedge. If he dropped in while Peter was typing—an activity that accounted for the bulk of Peter's waking hours nowadays—Sam was made to feel as if he'd interrupted a meeting of the U.N. General Assembly or something. It was beginning to piss him off.

He found Peter asleep on this frosty afternoon. He was not in a trance—Sam could see his breathing, and there was a hint of color in his face—but he looked exhausted.

Sam paused in the doorway, trying to decide whether to leave or stay. Then he noticed that the computer was still on. Peter must have fallen asleep while using it. His striker was tucked beneath his chin, which rested on the slope of his chest.

An idea struck Sam then, one of such sinful proportions and yet so irresistibly appealing that he felt light-headed and had to lean against the door frame until the feeling passed.

Read it. Go ahead. Find out for yourself what the big secret is.

Was it stuff about him? he wondered for the hundredth time. Bad stuff? Was that why Peter was so secretive?

Common sense told him no. Peter loved him. They were brothers, and Sam should respect his privacy.

Do it, that other voice goaded, its insistence chilling Sam. . . and making him wonder what his dark heart suspected.

Do it.

Sam started into the room, moving on tiptoe, slipping his knapsack off his shoulders and setting it carefully by the bedside. He leaned over his brother, checking to make sure his eyes were still closed, then looked at the flickering screen.

Only two lines of text were visible:

all the fucking assholes, all the jackoffs I went to school with, all the selfish fucksticks in this hospital

The cursor blinked impatiently beside the last word, waiting for the next batch of hate.

Feeling suddenly ill, Sam reached out to scroll the screen back, praying that Peter wouldn't stir. His finger touched the scroll key—

"He's been like that for an hour."

Sam straightened up with a snap, barely suppressing a cry of alarm. Pain flared in his healing ribs. There was a nurse standing at the foot of Peter's bed, a pitcher of water in her hand.

"You startled me," Sam said in a voice that trembled.

"That's an understatement," the nurse said. "You're white as a ghost." She smiled pleasantly, her gaze lingering briefly on Sam's puffy eye, then set the pitcher on the side table. She was new. Sam had never seen her before. "Are you a relative?"

"I'm his brother," Sam said, shame brewing sourly in the basin of his throat. "I was just going to shut off his computer. . .” He let his voice trail off, realizing that he didn't need to explain himself to this woman. But he was glad of her intrusion. It had prevented him from violating his brother's trust.

"Don't mind me," the nurse said. "I'll be gone in a jiffy." She glanced at Peter with compassion, something Sam didn't see too much of around here anymore, then up at Sam. "Poor guy, he must be beat. The night nurse said he's been at that computer since the wee hours. And he's hardly budged from it all day." The nurse blushed, realizing the blunder of her words. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant."

"Well, bye for now," the nurse said. Then she was gone.

The interruption hadn't disturbed Peter, who was usually a light sleeper. Relieved, Sam reached out to switch off the screen.

(all the selfish fucksticks in this hospital)

What about them?

Loathing himself, Sam scrolled back to the beginning of the file. The first entry was dated December 29, 1989.

Even now it aches where the crucifix punctured her heart. It aches like a battle scar, one that brings pride and trace memories of wars that resonate strangely through time. There is no regret, only a cold sense of justice, and I am glad. I am free of her now, and so is Sam. Too bad she was the first. I'd like a fresh chance at her. This time it would be no accident.

And I would prolong her pain. . .

Sam looked up from the screen, a tense, trapped-animal sweat needling his armpits and groin. That was their mother he was reading about. . . and although he'd scanned only a single paragraph, he felt the same sick lump in his gut that he'd felt when he leafed through a copy of Mein Kampf for a history project in the twelfth grade. He'd read about the same number of words—and had known immediately that they'd been scrawled by a madman.

He looked again at Peter—so close, so loved, sleeping his peaceful sleep—then returned his gaze to the screen. The steady tick-tick-tick of the line-advance key was the only sound. It seemed huge and intrusive to Sam, but he read on.

Jan. 3/90

Locked out. Can't reach her. Can't get back inside. Tried to take him, it was easy before, tried to take him, but I couldn't. They've locked me out. Locked me out of them both.

But she's mine, and soon they are going to see that. I'll make them see. The accident took her away from me before, but I was mere flesh and blood then. Fragile, so fragile. But all that has changed now. Now I'm divine. Yes, that's the word. Divine.

And our union is divine. She felt it in her sleep, our union, felt it when I pushed the right buttons, felt it when I gushed inside her mind, oh the union the glorious union.

Sam broke off. He was breathing hard. Uninvited, he had peeked inside his brother's secret heart—and had found a can of worms there, a rancid sewer of hatred and contempt, of dark lust and loathsome trespass, of madness and megalomania.

Helpless, he read on.

Jan. 16/90

Lowe was scum. He whimpered like a bootlick dog when I cut him. And I think he actually wanted to fuck that corpse. I'd have let him, but it was too disgusting even for me. Jesus, I wish now that I had. Think of what the tabloids could have done with that.

Sam spotted his own name partway down the screen, and he scanned to it, thinking, He believes he killed Dr. Lowe, and he believes he killed our mother, but that's all it is, a fantasy, a twisted angry fantasy.

* * *

. . . poor kid, he was really busted up bad. And that moment I spent in his dream, just before I saw what those bastards did to him, what a wondrous moment that was. I'd often wondered how little Sammy felt, taking the brunt of the bitch's hate, bearing the deepest scars from our dad. He's one tough sombitch, my brother, and I love him. I owe him a lot.

In spite of his creeping dread, Sam felt his heart soar. . . but fear quickly crowded that feeling aside.

He really did see. He really was inside of me.

Right inside—

Peter's head rolled on the pillow, his eyes fluttering open to slits, and Sam nearly screamed. A bubble of naked terror closed over him, and he felt as if his bones had turned to putty, his bowels to runny mud. He sat on the edge of his brother's bed and felt afraid in a way he had never known, a cold unmanning fear, the kind of fear a man must feel in the face of an angered god. If Peter awoke now, Sam would be caught in that most vile of all acts, breaking a loved one's trust.

And what might he do about it?

Sam held his breath and waited. Peter's eyes touched him briefly, glazed and half closed; they rolled. . . then fell shut again.

Sam breathed. And although his heart bade him take his leave, he scrolled to the final entry. It bore yesterday's date, and it was the longest. Sam had a brief thought of how exhausting it must have been to tap all this out, letter by painstaking letter.

Then he read on, the fear mooring itself deeper inside him with each incredible phrase.

On the walk home, Sam's mind kept twitching back and forth between belief and disbelief. His brother's writings were so far out and yet so incredibly persuasive that Sam actually considered marching straight over to Kelly's place to warn her that his brother had turned into some weird kind of killing machine and that Kelly and her boyfriend were in danger.