Strange Eons (13 page)

Or was it?

One thing was very real—her glimpse, last night, of the man who pretended to be Ben Powers. But that wasn’t Max’s concern. This particular bit of information must be passed along to Danton Heisinger.

Perhaps she’d better talk to him first. And meanwhile she could be thinking about what to say to Max. Maybe Heisinger could come up with a suggestion, something she could use to get off the hook.

But right now the first thing to get off the hook was the telephone itself.

Kay picked up the receiver and dialed the bank number, but with no result. The line was silent. She tried again, then realized the phone was dead. But it couldn’t be!
That is not dead which can eternal lie—

She cradled the phone, frowning at the thought, which came unbidden. Here in the sunlight the dream dissolved; panic was not a practical response to reality. The thing to do was go down the hall, see if a neighbor was home and would let her use the phone to call the telephone company for repair service.

It wasn’t the end of the world; lines get out of order every day. The time had come to stop the paranoid
sehtik
and get her act together.

Kay rose and crossed to the living room door, just as the knock sounded.

“Yes?” she called. “Who is it?”

“Pacific Telephone. Your line’s not working.”

“How’d you know?”

“Landlady phoned in a complaint. Mind if I check it out?”

“Right.”

Kay opened the door for the repairman.

And the stranger who called himself Ben Powers moved into the room.

There was no way of getting past him; Kay could only retreat as he closed and locked the door.

“Don’t panic,” he said.

“I just might.” Kay kept her voice steady with an effort, eyeing the canvas repair kit, which the intruder gripped in his left hand. Or was it a repair kit?

Now he advanced to the coffee table and placed the bulging bag on its surface. Kay took another step back, wondering if she could make a break for it, run into the bathroom and lock the door. The stranger glanced up and shook his head.

“Hold it,” he said, unzipping the bag. “I’ve got something for you.”

Now his hand dipped into the bag. Kay took a deep breath, ready to expel it in a scream when the knife came out.

But it wasn’t a knife.

Instead the emergent hand clutched a paperback book. Kay couldn’t read the title; all she glimpsed was the bold lettering across the spine of the book, which revealed the name of its author.

“H.P. Lovecraft?” Kay murmured.

“Here.” The stranger held the volume out to her. “Read this.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s important for you to understand what’s happening.” He thrust the book into her hand. “Read it now.”

Kay shook her head. “The answers I need aren’t in a book. Who are you? What do you want? Did you kill Ben Powers?”

The intruder grinned. “You’ve got the right questions, but in the wrong order. First of all, I had nothing to do with Powers’s death—he had a heart attack and you can check on it if you don’t believe me. I think you’ve already figured the rest out for yourself. I used Powers’s name to get to you, see what you knew about your late husband and his possible involvement in this affair.”

“How’d you know something was wrong with my phone this morning?”

“Because I cut the line.” The stranger raised his hand to silence Kay’s response. “I figured you might do something hasty—like cancelling your modeling appointment or talking to that bank manager.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“We’ll get to that later—after you’ve read the book.”

Kay hesitated. “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“My name is Mike Miller. That’s not important.”

“You could have told me that to begin with. Why all the secrecy?”

“Security measure.”

“You’re some kind of government agent?”

“Not officially.”

Kay met his gaze. “Look, Miller—if that’s really your name. You admit you’ve been lying to me all along. And there’s no proof you’re telling the truth now. Why should I believe you?”

“I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not. Just read the book.”

He picked up the canvas bag, turned, moved to the door. He nodded at Kay as he unlocked it. “Don’t waste time. I’ll be back this afternoon. You’ll get your phone connected again after we talk.”

Then he was gone.

Kay stared at the closed door, forcing herself to wait until he’d had time enough to reach the street outside the building. Then she crossed to the window and glanced down. To her relief she recognized his car as it pulled away from the curb, and caught a glimpse of him behind the wheel. At least he’d told the truth about leaving. And now, if she acted quickly—

Kay turned, tossing the book on the coffee table as she passed it on her way to the front closet. She scooped up her purse from the shelf, then moved to the front door. Opening it, she started across the threshold.

A man blocked her exit.

She couldn’t see his face in the shadowed hall, but it didn’t matter. All her awareness was centered on the little snub-nosed automatic that seemed to suddenly materialize in his right hand.

“Sorry, lady,” he said softly.

Kay stepped back, slamming the door in his face. She locked it, turned, set her purse on the table and picked up the paperback copy of
The Dunwich Horror and Other Stories.
When reading is inevitable, lean back and enjoy it.

Settling down on the sofa, she glanced at her watch. Eleven o’clock.

Then she opened the book.

The next time she looked at her watch was at two
P.M.
and somebody was knocking on the door.

“You’ve read the book?” Mike Miller asked.

Kay nodded. “Every word.”

“And?”

“He was quite a writer, if that’s what you mean. Frankly, I’ve never been much interested in fantasy.”

“Neither have I.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Suppose Lovecraft wasn’t writing fantasy?”

Kay frowned. “You don’t expect me to believe those stories, do you? I can see now why you wanted me to read them; they’re the source of Reverend Nye’s whole crazy cult. He even took its name—the Starry Wisdom—from one of Lovecraft’s yarns.”

“The Haunter of the Dark.”

“Yes. And that’s where he got the idea for that crystal gimmick he rigged up. Lovecraft called it the Shining Trapezehedron, didn’t he? Nye must have copied it from the description in the story.”

“Pretty effective, wasn’t it?” Mike Miller said. “Very. He has that crowd sold, no doubt about that.”

“What about your reaction?”

“Mine?” Kay hesitated.

“I watched you during the faith-healing session. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the crystal.”

Kay shrugged. “Of course it was all mass hypnosis.”

“And just what is mass hypnosis?”

“Why, you know—it’s like the Indian Rope Trick. The magician fools the crowd into seeing something that isn’t there.”

“How?”

Kay gestured impatiently. “Don’t ask me. I’m not a psychologist.”

“Right.” Mike Miller smiled. “Psychologists discarded that nonsense about mass hypnosis long ago. They know a magician can use misdirection and mechanical devices to create illusions. But they also know that no one person can hypnotize an entire group. It’s always a one-to-one transaction. There are people who, for various reasons, are exceptionally susceptible to suggestion. If they’re in the audience when a subject is placed under hypnosis on the stage, they might react themselves in the same way. But such people are the exceptions, and they respond only as individuals. There’s no such thing as mass hypnosis.”

“Then what did happen in the Starry Wisdom Temple last night?”

“Something the psychologists can’t explain.”

“Suppose Reverend Nye was using plants in the audience, fake cripples who pretended to be healed?”

“It’s possible. But what about the phenomenon—the blurring, as though you were caught up in a dream? You felt it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Kay frowned. “But why weren’t you affected too?”

“Because I came prepared for what I’d see. Because I’d read Lovecraft and knew what to expect.”

“You’re telling me the Reverend Nye used the actual Shining Trapezehedron—that what Lovecraft wrote about was true?”

“Not was.
Is.”

“And all that wild stuff about the Great Old Ones—is that supposed to be for real too?” Kay frowned. “I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t—or don’t want to?”

“You’re putting me on.”

“You’re putting yourself on.” Mike Miller rose, pacing as he spoke. “Not that I blame you. Most of us try to avoid any reality that’s unpleasant. We know it’s there, but we don’t want to face it—out of sight, out of mind.

“We’re willing to admit that we eat meat, but we’d rather not carry the thought any further. We don’t want to enter a slaughterhouse and see animals butchered to satisfy our appetite.

“We accept the presence of mental disturbance, terminal illness and death, but we avoid talking or even thinking about such things. We stay clear of asylums and hospitals, and there are millions of people who won’t attend a funeral.

“We’re conditioned to turn off on anything that’s even mildly disturbing. We’d rather not listen to ‘other people’s troubles’ or ‘complaints.’ There’s a whole widely accepted school of thought that rejects so-called ‘negative thinking,’ including criticism of the
status quo.
Panglossian philosophy prevails.”

“Whatever that is,” Kay murmured.

“Sorry.” Miller halted, smiling self-consciously. “I know I’m hung up on all this. But I get so damned tired of the way we turn our backs on anything that might upset us. Drown out our inner voices with stereophonic sound, deaden them with drugs and—” He took a deep breath. “No point making speeches. Maybe that’s
my
way of avoiding reality.”

“Seems to me that your idea of reality is pretty weird,” Kay said. “You’re saying that somebody who wrote for the pulp magazines fifty years ago was actually revealing the secrets of creation for a penny a word. That a phony cult-leader is using those secrets to fill his collection plate.”

“You think that’s all he’s doing?”

“What else could it be?”

“That’s what you’ve got to find out.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who has a chance to take a look at what’s going on behind the scenes.”

Kay shook her head. “I thought you security people had agents for that sort of thing.”

“We do. Twice within recent months we’ve managed to plant operatives with Nye’s group—one black, one Chicano—as converts to his sect.”

“What happened?”

“I wish we knew. They’ve disappeared.”

Kay stared at Mike Miller. “And you expect me to take the same risk?”

“For you it wouldn’t be the same. You’ve got a legitimate
entree.
And you didn’t approach Nye—he came to you.”

“Just what makes you think I could come up with anything if I did go through with this?”

“I’m not saying you can. But at least there’s a chance. For one thing, we want to find out where Nye bases his headquarters.”

“Doesn’t he live upstairs from the Temple?”

“That’s only a front. Our people did manage to give us a few reports before they dropped out of sight. Nye was giving them indoctrination—said they’d be taken to a special place for initiation into the higher orders of the cult when they became worthy. Since they vanished, we’ve kept a stake-out on the Temple, waiting for Nye to leave. He did go out once, last week, and he was followed.”

“Where?”

“To an office building downtown, with underground parking. Either he switched cars there or managed to sneak out through the building itself. Anyway, we lost him.”

“You never thought of just going in and raiding the Temple?”

“Damned right we have,” Miller’s voice was harsh. “When our people disappeared I had a hell of a fight on my hands to keep the team from doing just that. But it’s a last resort. Once we made the move, we’d be blowing our cover. And unless we managed to break Nye or some of his followers, we’d be right back where we started. It’s my hunch that there’s no way to make anyone talk.”

“But I’ve read about these new brainwashing techniques. If you grabbed a couple of young people from his group and deprogrammed them—”

“Look, we’re not dealing with some ordinary religious fanatic here. The man we’re up against has his own ways and means of controlling converts. He has to, because he’s playing for higher stakes.”

Kay glanced up. “If you’re so sure of that, then you must have some idea of what’s really going on.”

Mike Miller nodded. “That’s why I wanted you to read those stories. Do you remember some of the things Lovecraft wrote about the messenger of the gods? How he’d appear amidst earthquakes and disasters to predict the end of the world? He would be a black man wearing a red robe, speaking of science, inventing strange instruments, giving demonstrations of power. Doesn’t that remind you of someone?”

“Reverend Nye—”

“Nyarlathotep.”

“Now wait a minute. I’m not going too buy that!”

Miller shook his head. “Of course not. But others do. Obviously this man took the name of Nye deliberately—and my guess is that he tells the inner circle, the most devoted of his followers, that he really is Nyarlathotep.”

“All this nonsense, just to con a bunch of street freaks out of their money?”

“I wish it was that simple.” Mike Miller resumed his pacing. “But as far as we know, the people in the inner circle have no money. They’re mostly just youngsters from the
barrio
and the black ghetto, hooked on drugs.”

“But if he’s not after their money, what does he want?”

“Power.” Miller’s eyes narrowed. “You ever hear of the Sheikh al-Jebal?”

“Who?”

“The Old Man of the Mountains. He built a fortress called Alamut back in the days of the Crusades. Nobody dared touch him—not even the armies of the Crusaders or the Saracens. They paid him tribute and obeyed his commands because he had the power. The power of life and death. You may not have heard of him, but the name of his followers has come down through history. They were called Assassins.