The Devil's Eye Page 9

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  “The people in this town can’t be trusted.”

  “I’m shocked to hear it.”

  In the morning, I couldn’t resist going down to the city hall. Alex tried to talk me out of it, but I was annoyed that they were playing tricks on their visitors. It was a run-down building, situated next to the courthouse and across the street from the police station. They had a human receptionist who looked as if she had more important things to do than talk to strangers. “Who did you want to see, ma’am?”

  “The supervisor, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not available at the moment. How can we help you?”

  “You know,” I said, “somebody’s going to have a heart attack out there.”

  “Out where?”

  It went on like that for a while, but I finally managed to get past her to a staff assistant. He was no help either, and relayed me to an overfed guy in a large office that needed sweeping and dusting. He looked as if he’d been there forever. He had a bristling white mustache and an enormous bald skull. He smiled in a grandfatherly way, told me he was glad I’d come by, and pulled over a chair for me. His nameplate identified him as a Mr. Collander. “Ms. Kolpath,” he said, “I’ll put your comments on the record, and we’ll look into it.”

  We sat there a moment, watching each other. He was giving me a chance to say thank you very much, shake his hand, and leave. “Mr. Collander,” I said, “this doesn’t bother you at all, does it?”

  The smile stayed in place, but it acquired a regretful aspect. “I wish I could say I’m disturbed.” He pressed his fingertips against his forehead. “But I won’t lie to you. No, we’ve known about it for a while.”

  “In fact you put it there.”

  I looked up at a framed picture of him, two young girls, and a puppy. He was presenting them with an award. His eyes followed mine. “It’s our annual Pet Appreciation Day,” he said. “Look, Ms. Kolpath—May I call you Chase?”

  “Ms. Kolpath will do fine.”

  “Ms. Kolpath, may I ask what you intend to do when you leave here?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I can understand you were frightened.”

  “I wasn’t frightened.” Terrified would be closer to the truth. “So what happens now? That thing turns on every time someone goes out there?”

  I’d gotten up, and he asked me to sit again. “I won’t take much of your time,” he said. “I’m sorry for your inconvenience. I truly am.” He nodded toward the window. “Look around you. Boldinai Point is a small town. It has no major industry. We’re isolated, and the only reason we exist at all is our tourist trade. If that were to go away, this town would dry up.”

  The guy was good. In retrospect, thinking about it, I wonder that I could have been put off so easily. But at the time, it was hard to argue with. “There’s no harm done,” he said. “We have monitors. If someone in ill health were to go out there, we’d intervene. But for most people who come here, Ms. Kolpath, it’s just part of the show. It’s what they expect. Look, I’m sorry you took any of it seriously. But nobody really believes there’s an android up there being held in its grave by a rock. We pretend it’s so, for our tourists.” He took a deep breath. “Let me ask you a question: What would you have thought if you’d gone up there and nothing had happened?”

  I was starting to feel like an idiot.

  He smiled and told me I should come back and see him if I had any other problems. Then he was escorting me toward the door. “I hope you’ll try to see our side of things, Ms. Kolpath. And while you’re here at the Point, just relax and enjoy the ride.” He offered me a gift certificate for the souvenir shops. And as I was going out, he smiled. “We’ve been in operation for sixty years. Never lost a tourist.”

  When I got back to the hotel, Alex looked up from a cup of the local brew and, with one of those complacent expressions, asked where I’d been.

  “Just out walking.”

  He examined his cup and studied the notebook that lay on his lap. “Did they agree to dismantle the gear at the grave site?”

  While I was considering my answer, he said I was just in time to go with him to meet with the organizer of a local reading club. His name was Dolf, and he was waiting for us at the Boldinai Point Library.

  It was next door to the city hall. We went in and found him talking with one of the librarians. We did a round of introductions, then he led us to a room that served as a small auditorium.

  He was a former police officer, and he admitted to having served during Bandahriate days. “But we weren’t doing any of the stuff here that was going on in other places,” he said. “We wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  He was one of the tallest people I’ve ever seen, his height accentuated by a pronounced lankiness. He’d been blond at one time, but his hair was going gray. He wore a thick, unkempt mustache, and his eyes possessed the shrewdness of a professional cardplayer. He was well along in years and told us that horror fiction was one of those forbidden delights that made his life a pure pleasure.

  “Did you know in advance Vicki Greene was coming?” Alex asked.

  He was obviously not sure why we were asking the questions. I thought he’d mistaken us for a couple of fans. “No. Not really. We only found out a couple of days before she got here. We were notified, I think, by one of the book dealers in Korimba. He called the Graveyard—”

  “The graveyard?” I asked.

  “Graveyard Books. Our own shop.”

  “Oh.”

  “My understanding,” he continued, “is that Korimba heard it from somebody at Spirit.”

  “The distributor,” said Alex.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you actually connect with her? With Ms. Greene?”

  “We had no code and couldn’t find a listing for her. But we knew when she was coming so we staked out the hotels. And Amelia, Louie Black’s wife, spotted her walking into the lobby of the Hamel.” He sat back and looked immensely pleased with himself. “She let us take her to lunch. Right over there.” He pointed across the street to a modest café. The Tomb. “They put a couple of tables together.” He corrected himself. “I don’t mean she let us buy.”

  “Of course.”

  “We wanted to. But she insisted on paying her own.”

  “How’d she seem?”

  “She’s a funny lady. Doesn’t take herself seriously. And, man, she sure likes her dessert.” He apparently hadn’t heard the news yet.

  “Dolf, do you know how long she stayed at the Point?”

  “Three or four days. Why do you ask?”

  Alex hesitated, then told him what had happened. He listened, shook his head, seemed genuinely saddened.

  “Did she tell you where she intended to go when she left here?”

  He shook his head. “No. I can check with the others. See if she might have mentioned it to any of them.”

  “Okay. Yes, I’d appreciate it if you did that. Did you see her at all after the lunch?”

  “No.” He didn’t need to think about it. “No. Next we heard, she was gone.”

  “Did she tell you why she’d come here?”

  “Sure.” The smile came back. “She said she wanted to meet Barryman.”

  Dolf called back that night. He’d talked with the others. “When she left here,” he said, “she told a couple of our people she was going to Bessarlik.”

  “Bessarlik? What’s that?”

  He laughed. We didn’t know? “It’s the Haunted Forest.”

  TEN

  My advice to you, Grimly, is to do the sensible thing: Hide.

  —Etude in Black

  Living in a different world always takes some adjustment. Your weight is usually different. Not by a lot, but it’s amazing what the sudden acquisition or loss of a few pounds can do. Time is inevitably a problem. It’s never been possible, despite some
effort, to standardize the measurements. Hours on Salud Afar are longer than at home, and minutes are shorter. I won’t try to explain that. Suffice it to say that a day in Boldinai Point, defined as a complete turn on the planetary axis, is almost two standard hours longer than the one we were accustomed to. The result was that our sleeping patterns quickly went berserk.

  The biggest adjustment, though, was the food. Most of it was unfamiliar and tended to be flat. We stuck as closely as we could to items that were at least reasonable facsimiles of what we got on Rimway. Nobody cares about the details of any of this, but the reader should be aware that when I refer, say, to bacon or eggs, I’m not really talking about the home-grown stuff so much as an approximation. And the coffee, by the way, never really got close.

  We were finishing a pseudobreakfast next morning when Alex got a call. “Mr. Benedict?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Benedict, I’m calling for Dr. Wexler.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Mikel Wexler. He’s with the history department at Marikoba University. He’d like very much to have a few moments of your time. Will you be available later this morning?”

  “What does Dr. Wexler want to talk about?”

  “I believe it has to do with Vicki Greene.”

  “I’m available now.”

  “He’s in conference at the moment, sir. Would ten o’clock be satisfactory?”

  We did a quick search on Wexler.

  He was one of the heroes of the Resistance, the underground movement that had fought Cleev’s government for years. He’d been captured, tortured, and eventually broken out by his comrades in a celebrated escape. When the Coalition came to power, he took up a teaching career, and was now chairman of the history department at Marikoba.

  He was the author of Rebel on the Shore, an account of those turbulent years. And served as an occasional advisor to Administrator Kilgore. Alex took an hour to read sections of the book. “I’ll say one thing for him,” he said. “He gives most of the credit to other people.”

  We took the call in one of the hotel’s conference rooms. Alex introduced me as his associate, and Wexler commented gallantly that he wished he had so lovely a partner. Usually that kind of comment puts me on guard, but he seemed sincere.

  He was a congenial guy, almost leisurely, but there was something in his eyes that suggested you wouldn’t want him angry. And his manner implied that he understood his likeness would one day join the statues of the heroes in Marinopolis. He spoke with the assurance of someone accustomed to making decisions. And I could see that he worked out. He had thick gray hair and the kind of chiseled features that suggest an inner strength. He was, I thought, the kind of guy I’d want at my back if I got in trouble. “If you don’t mind my saying so,” he continued, “I think this young lady has played a major part in your success.”

  I probably blushed.

  “You’re absolutely correct,” said Alex. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  There was another minute or so of social fencing. Then Wexler came to the point: “I just found out the other day about Vicki Greene. It’s a pity. What on earth would possess her to do such a thing?”

  Alex gave the standard reply: “It was what we hoped to find out.”

  “Yes. I wish you luck.” His brow furrowed. “Did you expect to find the answer on Salud Afar?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking—”

  “Go right ahead, Dr. Wexler.”

  “Mikel, if you please. You might consider me something of a fan. I’m curious how this became of interest to you.”

  Alex told him about the message.

  They’re all dead.

  “Who’s all dead?”

  “We have no idea.”

  “What a strange, cryptic business. So how do you plan to proceed, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “We thought we’d begin by following in her footsteps.”

  “I suppose that’s as good a course as any.”

  I noticed a cane propped against the side of Wexler’s chair. A souvenir, perhaps, of Cleev’s dungeons.

  “Mikel,” said Alex, “what’s your connection with her?”

  “I met her at Samuels. When she was leaving.”

  “You knew her, then?”

  “I knew her from her pictures. I’ve been one of her readers since she started her career. I don’t usually admit that, but—Well, anyhow, I knew she was in the area and that she was about to leave.” He was seated in a dark blue fabric chair. Behind him, two windows opened out onto what was probably the university campus. “I arranged to be on the station.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk with her?”

  “Yes. For a few minutes.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did she seem upset? Depressed?”

  “Not at all. She wasn’t what I expected. I thought someone who wrote horror books would be—Well, you know. But she wasn’t like that. Not at all.” He smiled. “She was a witty woman. I pretended I just happened to be there, of course, and asked if she was really Vicki Greene. You know how that goes. So we got talking, and she let me buy her a drink.”

  “May I ask what you talked about, Mikel?”

  The smile widened. “How much she enjoys writing sequences that’ll scare the daylights out of the reader. She actually giggled when she described how she sits there and reads the really inflammatory passages to herself. Out loud.” He shook his head. “What a loss.” They were both silent for a minute. Then he continued: “I’m glad you’re looking into it. I think there are a lot of us who would like to know why she would do such a thing. But I must admit to being curious. You’ve come so far. Did the family engage you to pursue this?”

  “No,” said Alex. “She asked for help. I felt an obligation.”

  “Of course. Well, I certainly hope you can come up with an answer.”

  Alex leaned forward. “Mikel, are you aware of anything unusual that might have happened to her while she was here?”

  “No,” he said. “Of course we didn’t talk long.” He picked up his cane. Held it across his knees. “Had anything happened while she was here, the media would certainly have picked it up.”

  “We checked the archives. There was nothing.”

  “Then I would say nothing happened. She’s a major celebrity, Alex. Even out here. Her books sell on every continent. People love her. I’m reluctant to say this because you’ve come so far, but I’d be very surprised if, whatever drove her to do what she did, won’t eventually be traced to some family or personal problem back home. A love affair gone wrong, possibly. Something along those lines.”

  “You’re probably right, Mikel.” Alex looked my way. “Did you have anything, Chase?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Mikel, may I ask why you contacted us?”

  “I heard from several sources that you were inquiring about Ms. Greene. I was interested in why she might have done what she did.” He smiled. “Besides, it was an opportunity to meet you and Alex. I enjoy meeting celebrities.”

  “Before we leave for the Haunted Forest”—Alex could not suppress a grin—“I’ve something to show you.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Take a look.”

  He darkened the room, and we were gliding toward a mountain range. It was the middle of the evening, the sun below the horizon, lights just coming on.

  “Towns,” I said. “Is there something special about them?”

  “It’s the Homeworld Security Project,” said Alex.

  “Which is what?”

  “I told you about the Mute incidents.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re taking it pretty seriously.”

  We pulled in closer to some of the lights. Near the base of a mountain, I saw digging equipment. And temporary dwellings.

  “What are they doing?” I asked

  “Digging shelters.”

  “
What? You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. It’s described as a purely precautionary measure.”

  “Things haven’t deteriorated that much, I hope.”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to be sure what’s really going on.”

  It looked like a major project. Cutters and extractors were out in force. Lots of lights, robots everywhere, even a few humans. And, of course, they were working at night.

  “This is only one site. Apparently, this is going on around the world.”

  “I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “We haven’t been paying attention. They’re digging into mountains. Or, more precisely, getting ready to.”

  “They really expect an attack from the Mutes?”

  “Apparently. They’re not making a lot of noise about it. The Administrator was on earlier this morning, talking about how they don’t ever expect to have to use the shelters, but it’s better to be prepared.”

  “If the Mutes were to attack in force, I don’t think a few holes in the ground would be much help.”

  “I agree.”

  “So what’s really going on?”

  “It might be politics.”

  “How do you mean, Alex?”

  “We’re into an election cycle. Administrator Kilgore is running for reelection.”

  “He might want to look as if he’s protecting everybody.”

  “That’s a possibility.” He looked worried.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said.

  “The activity started within the last five months. The incursions. The Homeworld Security Project.”

  I knew where he was going. “It all started right after Vicki left.”

  ELEVEN

  We’re adrift in an ocean of the mind. Our lives consist primarily of navigating through shoals and storms, enjoying the experiences of a thousand ports, putting landing parties ashore on strange islands, taking visitors aboard, and dropping anchor occasionally to bask in the sunlight. The destination is of no consequence.

  —Love You to Death