“There’s got to be an electrical connection,” Artie said, unbelieving. “There’s got to be a wire, some mechanical link.”
Mitch shook his head.
“I told you, Artie, we broadcast. And we receive. How many times have you picked up the phone to call somebody and there they are, on the other end of the line? Or when somebody knows exactly what you’re going to say a split second before you say it?”
Artie’s memories of balancing on the porch railing, arms outstretched, the wind tugging at his hair, were suddenly very vivid.
“I’m sorry, Mitch—maybe I just don’t want to think that somebody can make me do something by thinking at me.”
Mitch looked away. “I can’t blame you. I don’t like to think that I did what I did this morning. We like to think the mind is truly private, that it’s even more personal than our bodies. It’s
us,
it’s peculiarly our own, we operate it. But think of the last time you were ‘drunk out of your mind,’ or you were high on pot or had swallowed a tab of acid. Sure, it’s ancient history. But we did it. We own our own minds, Artie, but we abdicate that ownership often enough. And all of us are susceptible to suggestion. With us, it’s verbal. With something else, it’s what we might consider a stray thought. It’s a wild talent—one that we don’t have. But something sure as hell does. Was it your idea to climb up on the porch railing?”
The nurse was back, pulling aside the curtains and looking at both of them suspiciously. Mitch peeled off the hospital gown and started to slip into his street clothes, ignoring the nurse’s objections. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Will they let you go?”
“They won’t like it, but I’ll sign myself out.”
When Mitch had finished dressing, Artie said, “Where to?”
“You pick it.”
It was one of Charlie Allen’s days off, Artie thought. They could talk in his living room while Charlie puttered around with his computers and took on all comers in his Librarians Anonymous chat room.
They’d be in a friend’s house.
And they’d be safe.
Charlie Allen was glad
to see them, greeting them at the door dressed in a ratty bathrobe. “Come on in, guys—Franny’s downtown, she’ll be out most of the afternoon. And it’s the last day of school for the kids; they won’t be home until three so we got the house to ourselves. Want some lunch?” He didn’t wait for an answer but swept into the kitchen and started pulling bread and luncheon meat out of the refrigerator. “There’s some ice cream in the freezer, help yourselves—and I don’t mind if I do.”
He loaded up a cereal bowl with several scoops of strawberry and squirted chocolate sauce over the top. “What’s up? You sounded pretty vague over the phone.”
Artie wasn’t very hungry. He dropped some deli ham on a single slice of unbuttered rye and folded it over. “We wanted to borrow your library for maybe an hour—talk over some business. We needed a place where it would be quiet and we wouldn’t be disturbed.” He took a breath. “So we thought of you.”
Allen looked puzzled, turning from one to the other.
“What’s wrong with your places? Not that I mind—it’s great to see you.”
“You were midway between,” Mitch said, as if the answer made a lot of sense.
Artie watched Charlie turn it over in his mind and thought to himself, Jesus, what a lame idea. Charlie must think they were a little nuts.
“Okay, my casa is your casa—feel free.” Allen led the way to the living room that doubled as a library, separated from the rest of the house by glass French doors. “Make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks,” Artie mumbled, “appreciate it.” He passed a bookcase on his right when he entered, then suddenly paused. He’d been to Charlie’s home dozens of times. He’d also walked past the same bookcase filled with its rows of little black notebooks at least twenty times and never really noticed them before. This time he did. Each notebook carried a neat red plastic label on the spine: SUICIDE CLUB. There was a book for every year since they’d started the Club when they were kids, sometimes two or three books to the year.
He waved at the shelves. “What gives, Charlie?”
Allen shrugged. “You guys elected me secretary way back when and I guess I never stopped.” He looked embarrassed. “Call it a hobby. I probably know things about you guys that you forgot years ago.”
Hero worship, Artie thought. Charlie had had a bad case of it back then and had never gotten over it. He was suddenly as embarrassed as Charlie was. “Have to look at them sometime—bring back memories.”
“For you, any time.” Allen waddled back toward his office, closing the French doors behind him.
“Strange guy,” Artie muttered after he’d left.
Mitch shrugged. “Don’t knock him, Artie. He’s a generous, friendly slob, and we’re charismatic. Neither of us can help it—and please don’t take me seriously.” He leaned back on the couch. Behind his steel-framed lenses his eyes were a bright ice-blue and he seemed a little remote, a little cold—the way Artie remembered him from the times they’d served together in ’Nam. “We haven’t been using our heads. Who knew Larry was coming over to the city?”
Artie thought for a moment. “The people he worked with at Kaiser. The people at the restaurant—they took the reservations, they knew all of us would be there or were planning on being there.”
“Who else?”
“All of us, of course—all the members of the Club.”
“You’re leaving somebody out.”
“Anybody they might have talked to,” Artie said slowly. “And maybe some of the kids.”
“Who knew what he was going to talk about?”
“Probably only Cathy. Larry was writing an article, he wanted to go public with his findings. Maybe Cathy was apprehensive, maybe like Hall she figured that if there were one there had to be others and considering Talbot’s lack of ID, they probably didn’t want anybody to find them.”
“You’re giving her a lot of credit.”
“She’s nobody’s dummy, Mitch. And she would have worried about the family. When the cops called with news of Larry’s murder, it confirmed her fears and she grabbed the kids and ran.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know.” Artie frowned. “Paschelke didn’t know about the meeting, though he must have known Larry was writing an article.”
“You’re not thinking, Artie. Would Cathy have kept Larry’s research to herself or would she have confided in a close friend?”
Artie shrugged. “I suppose it would have been natural if she’d confided in a friend. Especially if she were scared. But Susan never mentioned it—she would have if Cathy had talked to her.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Susan. If Cathy had talked to her, Susan probably would have talked to you. Which leaves the other members. One of them didn’t want the rest of the Club members knowing about Larry’s research and definitely didn’t want
Science
printing it. Which means the prime suspect is whoever Cathy made the mistake of confiding in. The danger for her is that she might not realize it.”
“That’s just a theory,” Artie objected.
“You got a better one?”
Artie felt like a slow study. “Find Cathy, then, and maybe we’ve found our man. Or woman.”
Mitch shook his head. “You’re never going to find her, Artie. Or the kids. My guess is they’ve been dead for days.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “What did Talbot look like? You saw Larry’s photos of the body.”
“Ordinary. Nobody you’d look at twice.”
“So what we’ve got is a group of people living among us who really aren’t ‘us,’ who will kill to keep their existence a secret. All we know is that they can fuck with our minds and you’d never notice them in a crowd. Short of an autopsy, like Larry did on Talbot, there’s no way of knowing who they are.”
Artie thought about it. “You’re driving at something.”
“The obvious, Artie. The largest group of suspects are the members of the Club, or those related to the members. That means one of us, perhaps more than one, may not be who we’ve always thought he was. That for all the length of time that we’ve known him—or her—for them it’s been a game of Let’s Pretend. Worst of all, they’re not human. Not human the way we’re human. If Larry Shea was right, they’re a different species.”
Artie felt the small hairs stir on the back of his neck.
“So how does it affect us—you and me? Give me an example.”
Mitch smiled. “I told you a cock-and-bull story at the hospital and you believed every word of it. You didn’t doubt me for a moment.”
Artie had the automatic out without even thinking. Jesus Christ, he’d walked right into it.
“You’re my best friend, Mitch,” he said slowly, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t move.” The gun was rock steady in his hand.
Mitch didn’t even look surprised. “What I told you in the ER was true,” he said dryly, “but you asked for an example and I gave you one. This is exactly how it affects us. And I could turn it around. How do I know that you’re really you—somebody I’ve known for half my life? Because you’re my friend? The ones who really screw you are your friends, not your enemies. You can watch out for your enemies.” He smiled bleakly. “You could have lied about the porch railing bit. How do I know it’s true? I wasn’t there. You could have spent the last few days trying to sound me out for what I believe—or don’t believe.”
Artie sat there in silence, staring at him, the automatic never wavering. “Then that’s a problem, isn’t it?”
Mitch looked disgusted. “For Christ’s sake, Artie, put it away. It goes off, you lose a friend and gain a murder rap.”
There was a knock on the French doors and Allen opened them. Artie made the gun disappear before Allen had a chance to see it.
“If you guys are still hungry, there’s some leftover potato salad—it’s Franny’s specialty.” He caught the sudden shock on their faces and looked offended. “Hey, if you don’t like it, that’s fine—don’t blame me for trying to be a good host.”
Artie and Mitch listened to him shuffle back to the kitchen before speaking. Artie was sweating. He had to go to the bathroom, bad. Innocent, innocuous Charlie Allen. Why not?
Mitch shook his head.
“Relax, Artie—he’s okay.”
“Based on what?” Artie jerked a thumb at the notebooks in the bookcase. “He said he probably knows more about us than we do about ourselves. And he certainly knows more about Larry Shea than we ever did. He was close to Larry; if Cathy was going to confide in anybody about what Larry was working on, it could easily have been Charlie.”
Mitch stood up and reached for his coat. “And there’s always the chance that we’re paranoid.”
Outside, Artie shivered—it had turned chilly and gray again. Charlie had been miffed when they’d left so suddenly, but he’d get over it. All they had wanted was to get out of the house as quickly as possible.
Mitch stopped at his car and turned to Artie. “You’re a good friend, Artie—one of my best.”
“Yeah,” Artie said, trying hard to sound convincing, “same here.”
They looked at each other, each a little awkward, and then Mitch said, “Don’t forget, Artie—you’re the only one who saw Larry’s research and is still alive.” Artie nodded. “And I’m the only one you talked to about it, right? And I’m still alive. We’ve both had plenty of opportunity and we’re still around. We both know the other is safe.”
“Right,” Artie said, still dubious.
Mitch blinked nervously behind his granny glasses.
“We’re going to have to trust each other, Artie. We’re the only ones we know for sure who know too much.”
Artie nodded in agreement and got in his car.
Mitch was right: They were going to have to trust each other. But Jesus, right then he wasn’t willing to trust anybody.
And he was sure Mitch wasn’t willing either.
He got home and
called the station, then went through a ritual of locking all the doors and windows and pulling down the shades and turning the lights low, keeping to the center of the rooms so his shadow wouldn’t show on the window blinds. It was only after he finished his TV dinner of macaroni and cheese that he noticed the blinking red light on the answering machine.
“Artie? Susan. It’s noon, Wednesday. Please call me at the following number
—
haven’t heard from you.
”
That wasn’t right. He had tried to get her two days running. He hastily dialed the number.
“Where have you been, Susan? I’ve been calling—”
“I’m at the hospital.” A slight pause. “Dad’s dying … .”
He had expected it but it was still a shock. “I’m sorry, Susan.”
Her voice became sharper. “Where’s Mark? I thought I asked you to send him up here—please try to get him on the next plane.”
His throat suddenly felt very dry. He told her that Mark had disappeared, that he’d filed a missing persons report with the police but with no luck so far, that he’d tried to phone her—