Strange Eons (22 page)

“But there’s someone there now!” Kay felt herself coming awake again as she stared down. “I can see light—”

“Torches, guiding us in.” He gripped her arm. “Better sit down. We may have a rough landing.”

For a moment she was fully conscious, fully aware, and fully frightened.

“Why are we here? Tell me—”

He forced her down into a seat, held her as she fought him, fought the fear. The numbness returned; from far away she heard the sound of her own screams rising amidst the roar of reversed thrust as she sensed the bumping, shuddering shock of the plane’s touchdown.

As they lurched to a skidding, skittering halt she sank back, welcoming the numb sensation because it insulated her from the fear. Maybe it was a dream after all—it
had
to be a dream.

Kay was quite calm now as the Sanderson-shape guided her from the cabin and helped her down the rope ladder dangling from the exit door in lieu of a landing ramp.

The three members of the plane’s crew were already waiting there below and she was relieved to see their uniformed figures and quite ordinary faces. Perhaps Sanderson had lied to her—surely these young men didn’t appear altered in any way.

The others assembled there, the group of men with torches, were obviously Polynesian and Orientals. They were wearing nondescript seaman’s garb and their speech was unintelligible, but nothing in their demeanor gave cause for alarm. Indeed, their voices hushed as she came into the circle of torchlight and they stared at her in a manner that suggested an exaggerated respect, almost a reverence.

“Come along now,” said Sanderson
—it has to be Sanderson,
she told herself—“He is waiting.”

And then he was guiding her away from the slippery open stretch where the plane had landed, leading her past clusters of tumbled, dripping boulders and great open fissures in the stone surface, which slanted upward to the slopes beyond.

Following them came the others, carrying their torches. Their progress was silent, and as they wound their way along an avenue of rock the plane behind them disappeared from view.

Now there was nothing but the night; darkness and desolation and the faraway sound of wind and waves lashing against the stony shores below.

Suddenly another sound arose; the voices of those behind. Again she could not distinguish words or phrases, but the cadence was unmistakable. They were chanting. Chanting as they clambered upward, torches flaming against the sable sky. An image came to her—the image of a religious procession. That’s what it was: a pagan ritual, a journey to some secret shrine where a secret presence waited—

“Peace and wisdom to you!”

She recognized the voice even as he stepped out from the shelter of the rocks before her.

Reverend Nye gazed down at Kay from the slope ahead, his tall form flickering in the flaming torchlight. He was dressed in black and his face was black. Now, as he raised his hands in greeting, she saw that they were no longer gloved.

As he gestured upward and outward she saw what those gloves had always concealed.

The palms of his hands were black too. Not pink, but solid black.

Kay stared at them, stared at him.

The Black Man.

The Black Man of the witch-covens, the Black Man of the legends. Nyarlathotep, the Mighty Messenger.

It wasn’t a dream.
He was real, and she was here, and Mike—

Did she scream the words or had he read her thoughts?

“Miller is dead,” he said.

Then she did scream, but he went on, giving no heed.

“All those who sought to destroy R’lyeh were themselves destroyed. No matter, for we came here to wait. Now you are here and the time is here to bring chaos out of order.”

This wasn’t street talk, the language of a political assassin, or even the rhetoric of the flamboyant preacherman—not when spoken here in this place of darkness, not when it issued from these black lips—

And his lips
were
black, Kay realized. She’d never noticed them before, never glimpsed the black tongue curling within the black cavern of his mouth.

“This is the hour!” the Black Man cried. “For now the stars are right!”

The black fingers rose, stabbing at the sky, and Kay stared upward, her eyes fixed on the stars—the stars which were not fixed.

Not fixed, but whirling.
Whirling and wheeling and moving and melting, so that the familiar patterns merged in new configurations of cold flame.

The Black Man’s hand stretched forth to still the murmur that arose, and he glanced past Kay, nodding quickly. “Abbott,” he said. “You and Sato will prepare and conduct her—”

Kay turned as the Sanderson-figure moved away. But now two others advanced on either side to grasp her shoulders tightly. One was tall and ruddy-faced; the other, squat and swarthy.

She struggled, but their grip was firm and their hands stripped away her clothing until she stood naked in the circle of torchlight.

The Black Man lifted his arms.

“Behold the bride!” he chanted.

And from behind her the voices rose in response. “Behold the bride!”

Then, somewhere in the darkness, a drum sounded. Sounded and boomed as the stars blazed down and Mike was dead and she was shivering with shame and cold but they held her fast as the Black Man beckoned, turning to lead the way.

Now they were forcing her forward, dragging her up the slope of Rano Roraku past rows of toppled statuary—the great stone heads with pegged bases, guardians of the crater above. Kay fought and twisted, but could not free herself. They half-carried her toward the rim as the carven faces loomed on every side—strange faces with upturned noses, scornful lips, and no eyes.
What was it that even stones were not meant to see?

The drums thundered and the voices chanted, and past the crater ahead she could see the jagged outlines of the Poire promontory beyond, looming through a veil of mist.

Was it mist or miasma? Now the odor welled forth, nauseating and overpowering, a sea-stench swirling over her bare body, enveloping it in a reek of corruption, which suffused her senses. Behind her the drums boomed, the torch-bearers echoed their endless litany.

“Behold the bride!”

Kay reeled and stumbled, dazed by the mingled waves of sound and stench. Frantically she closed her eyes, striving to shut out sight and sensation, but the echo of the chanting remained.
Behold the bride.

And another echo now—the voice of the Sanderson-shape as it had whispered to her on the plane.
Someone had to be chosen . . . you were ideal, he said . . . risk . . . not dealing with a Lavinia . . .

Lavinia?

Suddenly she remembered the name and its source. Lovecraft’s story,
The Dunwich Horror.
The half-witted albino girl, Lavinia—who became the bride of Yot-Sothoth.

Kay opened her eyes, and as she did so, the foggy curtain ahead began to part.

Something was moving in the mist.

It rose—huge, black, oozing and bubbling forth from the great volcanic crater where it had watched and waited—its squamous shape silhouetted against the stars as it wriggled up and out, flowing toward her.

A single glimpse caused her to scream so loudly that she did not hear the drums, the chanting, or even the sound of the approaching planes overhead.

They flung her forward.

Then the writhing appendages extended to embrace her, and she knew no more.

P A R T   III

S O O N

Mark Dixon was in the hotel lobby phonebooth talking to his city editor when the shooting started.

“Hold it,” he said.

Turning, he glanced through the plexiglass door, then ducked involuntarily as another shot sounded.

Heller’s face scowled out at him from the two-way. “What’s going on?”

“The Mayor,” Mark said. “He just arrived—” Raising his head cautiously, he peered through the glass as a fusillade erupted from the lobby beyond. “Someone’s shooting at him—up on the balcony—security people moving in to cover—can’t see—”

“Get down and let me look!” Heller shouted. “You’re blocking the screen!”

Mark ducked again, leaving the two-way clear. Heller squinted through it just as the final round of shots echoed. Since the public phonebooth was only equipped with a standard transmitter he had neither depth-focus nor wide-angle, and all he saw was the crowd near the lobby entrance, milling and screaming. Somewhere in the center was the Mayor and his bodyguards.

But now, when the final shot burst from the group, everyone glanced up, screaming. Heller’s range of vision didn’t include the mezzanine above, but he did see the body toppling over the balcony railing and hurtling to the floor of the lobby below.

Then, as the crowd closed in and the tumult rose, Heller’s voice rasped full-volume through the audio.

“Never mind taping, I’m sending a team for full coverage. Just get what you can and get over here—fast!—”

“Will do,” said Mark.

And he did.

In just short of half an hour he hurried into Heller’s office atop the Times News Center in downtown Los Angeles. The wiry little man behind the desk was already pressing buttons as Mark entered. Everything went off—the two-ways, the intercoms, the TV units, even the screen facing the desk where direct-wire reports snaked unceasingly from the computer readouts.

Mark had never seen that screen blanked before. Not that he’d had much opportunity. As a junior researcher—“cub reporter”, wasn’t that what they used to be called in the old days?—he’d only entered this office twice during his year here. For that matter he scarcely ever spoke to Heller himself on the two-way; usually he reported to one of the senior researchers on an outer office desk-slot, and he doubted if Heller remembered him by name.

But all that was changed now.

“Sit down, Dixon,” said the city editor. He pressed the recorder button and nodded curtly. “From the top.”

“I got to the hotel early,” Mark said. “The banquet was scheduled for noon but at 12:30 the Mayor still hadn’t showed, so they opened the doors anyway. That was in the Gold Room, on the second floor—the guests were in the foyer, having cocktails. Most of City Hall was there—drinks were free, I guess—I talked to Stanley, one of the press secretaries, and he said His Honor had been delayed—”

Heller gestured quickly. “Stuff it. You came down to the lobby phone and called me. Why?”

“I was coming to that. Stanley said the Mayor might not show. It seems there was another death threat this morning.”

“He told you that?” Heller frowned. “How come?”

“I guess he was unwound—he’d made a few trips to the bar. Nobody else had spoken to him and when I started pressing it just sort of slipped out. It sounded important enough to put in a call to you.”

“Details?”

“The threat came at nine, when City Hall opened. Some secretary took the call—they asked for the Mayor, but he wasn’t in yet.”

“They?” Heller leaned forward. “Who were these people?”

“Only one. Somebody wearing a ski mask.”

“Did he identify himself in any way?”

Mark shook his head. “He was monitored, of course, and they did a voice scan on the filmstrip. It could be someone who’d called before, but they’re not positive. Anyhow, the message was the same. Resign or die.”

“But the Mayor showed for the banquet anyway.” Heller frowned. “Reason?”

“I gather the threat wasn’t specific as to time or place. And since it was a political thing, all the party bigwigs there to kick off the campaign, I suppose he thought he had to appear. It wouldn’t do to look like a coward when he was going to announce his candidacy for reelection—”

“Stuff that, too.” Heller jabbed a finger at Mark. “You go down to the lobby and phone me. You’re in the booth—His Honor comes through the front entrance with his security—”

“Six of them, all plainclothes detail. Officer in charge, Lieutenant Eduardo J. Morales. I have the other names written down here.”

Heller waved impatiently. “Later. Keep rolling.”

“They’re halfway across the lobby when the shooting starts. No warning. At first they don’t know where it’s coming from. Morales pulls the Mayor down and shields him with his own body. Another officer, Sergeant Perez, spots the man on the mezzanine balcony and opens fire. Then the others see the target and join in. The assassin doesn’t try to take cover—just gets off two more shots at the Mayor and Morales, missing them both. Then he’s hit.

“He falls forward over the railing and lands on the lobby floor, minus his face. Perez was the man who got him—he was using spreader ammo. It’s a miracle nobody in the lobby got hurt.”

“Let’s stay with the assassin.”

“I ran out of the booth and shoved through the mob. Two security men took the Mayor out by a side exit and the rest were clearing the lobby. All I got was a fast look.”

“Scan it through.”

“White male, brown hair, height around six feet, little on the thin side, dressed in work clothes. He must have sneaked past security with a painting crew—there were paint stains on his coveralls.” Mark Dixon grimaced. “And a lot of blood. The whole front of his face, blown away—”

“Skip the local color,” Heller said. “Let’s get to the weapon.”

“I couldn’t. Somebody picked it up on the mezzanine and yelled down that it was an automatic.”

“No ID on the assassin?”

“If there was, they hadn’t found it yet. Like I said, all I got was a quick look before they shoved me out. Officer doing the shoving was a Philip Kaufman. He’s the one who gave me the names of the other security people.”

“What else did he give you?”

“Nothing. Except that he’s positive the assassin was one of the Black Brotherhood.”

Judson Moybridge switched off the television and the wallscreen faded as Mark entered.

“Just catching the evening news,” Moybridge said. “Shocking business. Shocking. No wonder you sounded so upset.” The portly attorney gestured towards the wet bar. “Can I get you something?”

Mark shook his head. “All I want is information.”

“In that case, let’s go out to the patio. Shame to waste such a lovely evening.”