The Totem

ONE

Slaughter stood before the glass partition, numbed by what he saw. Cody who had found the boy inside the mansion last night and been bitten was now snarling, writhing to escape the straps that bound him to the bed. His throat was bandaged, and the damage there might help explain the hoarse inhuman sounds he made, but Slaughter didn't think so. No, the virus was at work. The man was like a lunatic, and Slaughter thought again about the medical examiner's remark, about the madness from the moon. "It's just a guess," he told the orderly beside him. "Turn his room lights off, and maybe that will calm him. God, I wish he'd pass out."

Even with the window as a buffer, Slaughter felt the snarling touch him. He was nauseated by the foam that drooled from Cody's mouth. The snarling and writhing became more extreme. Cody tried to twist his head to bite the nearest strap around him.

"I can't watch this."

Swallowing, Slaughter glanced at where Marge waited at the far end of the hallway. She was peering through another window. Slaughter knew that the mother of the dead boy was inside there, and he took one final look at Cody before walking slowly toward Marge.

"I just hit her," Marge said, not turning to him. 'There was nothing else I could do. I didn't mean to hit her so hard. She was-"

"You can't go on like this."

"But she's got a fractured skull."

"You'd rather that she'd killed her husband?"

"No, I…" Marge faced him.

"Then take it easy. You did what you thought was necessary. As it is, she's going to live. That's all that really counts, although I don't know what they're going to do with her. There isn't any way they know to cure her."

He peered through the window at the mother who was strapped unconscious to her bed, bandages around her skull, an intravenous bottle draining toward a needle in her arm.

"We know this much," Slaughter said. "She shouldn't be sedated, so the fact that she's unconscious from the blow you gave her might turn out to be the best thing, all considered. If she were awake, she'd be hysterical like Cody up the hall."

Even here, Slaughter heard the snarling from the other room.

Marge leaned against the wall.

"Hey, why not go home?" Slaughter suggested. "There isn't anything that you can do here. You'll be told whatever happens."

"What about yourself?"

"Oh, don't you know? I'm trying for a record. How long I can go without sleep."

He hoped that would make her smile, but she only stared.

"Marge, I know that what you did was hard."

She studied him.

"I know that if there'd been another way you would have chosen it. I think that you did fine. I wish you wouldn't feel so bad."

"You'd feel the same."

"Of course, I would. But then I'd need a friend like you to say what I just said to you. I mean it. You did fine. I don't want you to worry."

"Thanks." Marge bit her lip. "But it doesn't help."

"All the same, go home. I'll get word to you."

She nodded. Even so, she lingered.

"Come on. Let me walk you down."

He touched her arm, and she responded, walking with him along the hallway. Neither looked at Cody. At the corner, she glanced back at the windows in the wall down there, and then she went downstairs with him, and he was watching by the back door as she walked across the parking lot.

That poor, sad, lonely, tortured woman, he was thinking. When she raised that baseball bat, she must have been in agony. He waved in farewell as she drove away, then thought a moment before heading toward the phone inside the nurses' station.

He'd avoided making this call much too long, reluctantly dialing Parsons' number, and the man answered, sleepy, angry.

"Slaughter? Eight o'clock? On Sunday? Can't this wait until a decent hour?"

"No, we really have to talk."

"Well, Jesus, Slaughter-"

"This is serious. We don't have too much time."

Parsons exhaled. "All right, then. I'll see you in my office in an hour. But this better be important."

"Oh, don't worry," Slaughter told him. "You'll wish that you didn't know."

Slaughter frowned and hung up. He was thinking that in all the years he'd lived here he had never been to Parsons' house, and he wondered why just now he'd thought of that, with everything he had to keep his mind on. Then he guessed it was because of all the power games that Parsons liked to play. The man kept his subordinates away from where he lived because he wanted to dissociate them, keep them from assuming friendship. That way he intimidated them. But Slaughter didn't care much. He had never been afraid of Parsons, although in truth he didn't want to go through this with him, and needing to keep occupied, he went out, driving to the station where already, even early in the morning, there were calls about more prowlers, about mangled cats and dogs and cattle, several missing persons. Well, it's just beginning, he decided. Then he did his best to shut his mind off as he cleaned up, washing in the men's room, changing from his sweaty shirt to one he kept inside his office drawer. No, Parsons wasn't going to like this, and a half hour later, as the two men (Slaughter unshaven) sat facing one another, it was worse than Slaughter had expected. Parsons had been fifteen minutes late, and Slaughter had been forced to wait outside the locked doors of the Potter's Field Gazette. Then Parsons had shown up, freshly showered, wearing a suit and tie. "No, not yet. Wait until we're in my office," the man had told him, and upstairs the man had listened, then quite calmly answered, 'You expect me to believe this?"

"I don't know. I wish I didn't."

"Really, Slaughter, think about it. All you're sure of is that a boy came down with some disease, or maybe he just had a breakdown. Then his mother got hysterical and fought her husband. Cody is in shock. He's got a raging fever. There's your explanation."

"You've forgotten Clifford's body."

"No, I haven't. Clifford was attacked all right and likely by a wild dog as you say. But were there any tests performed?"

"Just to find out what attacked him. At the time, we had no reason to suspect a virus."

"So the only tests were on that sick dog, and the evidence was very close to rabies."

"But the medical examiner-"

"Look, Slaughter, I don't want to disillusion you, but everybody knows that he came back here because no one else would have him. He broke down in Philadelphia, and it wouldn't surprise me if he made a crisis of this just so he'd seem important. As I interpret what you told me, there's been no time to test the dead boy for this so-called virus. Granted that his brain had been infected, if what the medical examiner says is true. But that could be because of many things. To do a proper slide for the electron microscope takes at least a couple of days. I gather that some steps can be eliminated if a person's in a hurry, which explains how Owens had his samples ready, but I know this much-the slides from that dog's brain were made so quickly that we shouldn't put much faith in them. I'll need a lot more to convince me. Think about it as I told you. Which makes more sense? Rabies or a brand-new virus?"

"You weren't there to see the boy."

"But I heard all about it."

Slaughter straightened.

"Sure, what's the matter, Slaughter? Did you think I didn't know? I run the god-damned paper. I'm the mayor. I have all kinds of people watching for me. If those parents choose to prosecute, the medical examiner is in shit to his eyebrows. He administered a sedative without the proper cautions. Now of course he's going to say a virus killed the boy. He surely won't incriminate himself. His word on this is hardly what you'd call objective. And that's something else I want to talk to you about. We'll leave aside for now the issue of this woman you employ who hit the mother with a baseball bat, although I wonder why you haven't charged her and I'm positive there'll be a lawsuit. Let's just think about the medical examiner. He was the last man I'd have chosen to do tests on that boy. He-"

"It's not important. If you'd seen the boy, you'd know he wasn't acting normally."

"That's exactly what we pay you for. To deal with things like that. To stop trouble, not cause more of it. You've had it fairly easy, Slaughter. Not too much goes on here. Now the first time something unusual happens, you come waking me on Sunday morning with your crazy notions about sealing off the valley and exterminating all the livestock."

Slaughter scowled. He kept his fists gripped tightly by his legs where he was sitting, and he felt his face go warm. He tried to control his breathing. "I said if it came to that. I don't know if it's necessary. I'm just asking your opinion."

"Well, it isn't necessary. Let's relax a minute, Slaughter. Let me talk about my job a little. I was mayor for many years before you came here. I was mayor when all those hippies came to town, to name an instance, and I knew that there'd be trouble, plus I knew that all I had to do was flex my muscles and arrange to move them out of town. I didn't, though, because there would have been complaints about that, people saying that, sure, no one liked those hippies but maybe we should have let them have a chance. And so I waited for the opportunity. Their foul mouths and their dope and garbage got extreme, and still I waited because I knew people shortly would come begging me to move them, which precisely is what happened. Now I got what I intended, but I did it diplomatically. Does all that make some sense to you?"

Slaughter's gaze intensified.

"The truth is that the people always know what's best for them. A proper leader only goes along with what they tell him," Parsons said. "That's why they've kept me as their mayor all these years. Because I understand that. All I want is what they tell me. So you say there's going to be an epidemic. Well, that's fine. Let's wait and see. The evidence is inconclusive, but I'll keep an open mind about it. Even so, the steps that you suggest are inadvisable. Exterminate the livestock, all the animals in town? Now really, Slaughter, what if there's no epidemic, what if this is just a case of poor tests and a biased medical examiner? The people would come for our heads. They'd want someone to pay for all the cattle that were killed, and you sure as hell don't earn enough for that. Even sealing off the valley. Christ, this valley's livelihood is cattle. If a rumor starts that all our cattle are diseased, we might as well destroy them anyhow. There won't be any way to sell them. No, we'll wait and see. If there is an epidemic, we'll hear from the people what to do. They'll tell us, and their choice will be the right one, and we'll all survive this with a conscience, just the way we did with all those hippies."

"But the difference," Slaughter said, "is that nobody died because you waited. On my desk right now, the messages are piling up, and there'll be more until the valley's in a panic. Not just mangled cattle. Not just Clifford and that boy. We're going to wade through corpses before long, and nothing's going to help those people."

"But you haven't listened to me, Slaughter. There's no other choice. Okay, you want to argue. Here's the end of it. You'll go on as if everything is normal. You will quarantine who-ever's been exposed, if indeed there is a virus, which I doubt. You'll pick up any dogs or cats or even chipmunks if they start behaving strangely. But you'll stay calm and tell the people that the situation's in control. And listen to me, Slaughter. If you even hint about an epidemic, your ass won't be worth the nail that stakes it to the courthouse door. Is that clear enough? Is that an order you can understand?"

Slaughter stared. "Can I at least get on the radio and tell the town we've found a case of rabies?"

Parsons thought about it. "Yes, I see no problem. After all, we do have evidence of rabies, and the town should be informed for its protection. But don't dare mention cattle. That's a different issue. Now I have to get back home. I'm late for church, and I have relatives coming home afterward for brunch."

He stood, and clearly Slaughter was expected to go with him. "Oh, yes, what about that magazine reporter from New York? That man named Dunlap?"

"I cooperated as you told me," Slaughter said.

"Well, don't let him find out what you're dealing with. That's all we need is for the rumors to get printed. Have him leave this afternoon."

"But he's not finished with his story yet."

"He's finished, all right. He just doesn't know it. Make sure he leaves town, and while you're at it, get yourself cleaned up before too many people see you. Really, you don't look so good. The job is maybe too much for you."

Slaughter almost laughed. You bastard, he was thinking. You don't miss a chance to stay on top of people, do you? They walked toward the door, and Slaughter waited until Parsons went out before him, thinking this would be the way to handle things: he'd better keep his back protected.

TWO

Slaughter was in a phone booth, but the line was fuzzy, and the noises from the other end distracted him. "Look, Altick, I can't tell you why I need them, but I-"

"Just hold on." To someone in the background, "Put them over there. I'm going with you. I don't want that chopper taking off without me. Good. I'm sorry, Slaughter. Everything is frantic here. I'm listening."

"I need some men," he responded louder. "I can't give you reasons, but I'll maybe have to borrow help."

"There isn't any way." The voice was much too final.

"But- "

"No, listen to me. I need everybody I can muster," Altick said. "I sent five men with dogs to look for Bodine, and there isn't any word from them. They've disappeared."

"But Bodine-"

"It's my men. I mean my men have disappeared. The chopper flew up where they'd camped, but they were gone, and they're not answering the radio. I don't like what I'm feeling. If you'd called five minutes later, I'd have been up in the chopper."

"Maybe they're behind a ridge that's muting signals to the radio."

"The chopper flew up anywhere they could have gone to. No, they're missing, and I can't waste time. I've got to look for them." More noises in the background. "I said wait until I'm ready. Yeah, we'll need that medical kit as well. Just take them to the chopper. Slaughter, there's no way for me to help you. I'll call you back when I have a chance."

"But-"

There were other noises in the background. Then the line was disconnected.

Slaughter put the phone down, staring at it. Sure, another escalation. By now, he'd grown accustomed to the burning in his stomach, but he hadn't yet adjusted to the way his mind was nagging at him. Everything was moving too fast. There was hardly any time to think. His talk with Parsons. Five policemen missing. Things weren't bad enough, he had to worry about Parsons.

He hurried from the phone booth, moving toward the hotel desk. He knew that he had planned this since he'd said good-bye to Parsons, although he wouldn't have admitted it. But why else would he have come directly here? He could have used the phone back at the station.

"Gordon Dunlap," he told the desk clerk.

"What about him?"

"Damn it, tell me where to find him."

The clerk was fumbling through cards to find the number.

Slaughter started up the stairs as he heard the number. He ran to the balcony and scanned the arrows showing which rooms were on which side, darting to the left and down a hallway, studying the arrows once again. The halls were twisting, turning. He came around a corner, and he saw the door along a dead-end corridor and raced past the pictures on the wall. He knocked, but no one answered.

"Dunlap. Wake up. This is Slaughter."

No answer.

"Dunlap." Slaughter knocked again. He tried the doorknob. It wouldn't move. But as he leaned against the door, the catch gave way. The door swung open.

Dunlap hadn't even shut the door completely. He was sprawled across the bed, his clothes wrinkled, soaked with something. On the floor there was an empty whisky bottle, papers, cigarette butts, a broken ashtray, a toppled chair.

What the hell had happened here? He smelled the sickness, stepping back, then going forward. Dunlap didn't seem to breathe. He wasn't moving. Slaughter grabbed him. "Dunlap, wake up. It's important."

Dunlap didn't move, though. Slaughter shook him. "Come on, you bastard. Wake up." Slaughter felt to find a heartbeat. Then he had it, and at least he didn't have to worry about that. "For Christ sake, Dunlap." He shook him again. Dunlap groaned and tried to turn, but Slaughter wouldn't let him. 'This is Slaughter! Wake up! We've got problems!"

Dunlap moaned. His breath was putrid. Too rushed to mind that, Slaughter hefted him across his shoulder and stumbled down the hallway toward the bathroom. When he set him on the toilet, he started to unbutton Dunlap's shirt, but that was taking too much time, so he just ripped the shirt off. Dunlap tilted, almost falling, and Slaughter eased him onto the floor, then got his pants off, his shoes and socks and underwear. The underwear was soiled. Nostrils flaring, Slaughter threw it into a corner. He slid Dunlap into the bathtub and turned the shower on to cold. Dunlap woke up, screaming.

"Take it easy."

Dunlap wouldn't stop screaming.

Slaughter slapped his cheeks. "Hey, it's me. It's Slaughter."

Dunlap blinked at him. His eyes were red. The vomit that had caked around his lips and chin was rinsing off, and he was frowning, his head to one side. He looked as if he might begin to cry, and then his body heaved.

"It's all right. I'm with you," Slaughter told him. "Get it out of you."

He studied Dunlap, water spraying onto the both of them, as spasm followed spasm, and then Dunlap sighed and leaned back, coughing in the bathtub. He was crying.

"What's the matter? Nightmares?"

Dunlap nodded.

"Well, I've got work for you. I need you sober. While you're stunned like this, I need some answers. And I think right now that you won't lie to me. I need to know if I can trust you."

Dunlap closed his eyes and shivered as the cold water sprayed at him. "You know already what you want to hear. You don't need me to answer."

"Listen, buddy." Slaughter dug his fingers into Dunlap's shoulder. "You're not quite so drunk as you pretend. I want to hear the answer."

"Sure, all right, I'll say that you can trust me."

"If you screw up, you'll wish you'd never met me."

"You can trust me. Hey. My shoulder."

Slaughter noticed the way the skin was turning purple and eased his fingers off. He leaned back, sitting on the toilet seat. "I need a man to cover me," he said at last. "A man from outside who has no involvement in this. I want you to watch me every second, check out everything I do and keep a record. There'll soon be trouble, major trouble, and I want to know that I'm protected."

Dunlap had his eyes shut as he shivered in the cold spray of water.

"Do you hear me?" Slaughter asked.

"Is it that bad?"

"It's that bad."

"Hell, I'd be crazy not to go along with you."

"You'll be crazy if you do. There's just one stipulation. All I ask is that you wait until I say that you can publish the story."

"Now I-"

"I don't want to have to worry about you. I have lots to watch for without that."

The water kept spraying. Slaughter felt his wet shirt clinging to his skin.

"All right, so long as no one else is in on this," Dunlap said.

"It's you and me."

"A deal then."

Slaughter sat back on the toilet seat. He didn't know exactly where to start. "You said you wanted a story. Here's the damnedest thing you ever heard."

THREE

Altick scanned the trees and ridges as the helicopter swooped over them. He watched for some flash of movement, some odd color, anything, but there was nothing to attract him, just an endless sweep of forest rising sharply, boulders, deadfalls, streams and canyons, farther ridges, everything but what he wanted, and he rubbed his eyes to clear them, staring harder. There were three of them in the chopper, the pilot, Altick, and a state policeman wedged in back. They had rifles, binoculars, a portable two-way radio, and several knapsacks filled with food, water, and medical supplies. The helicopter was outmoded, small, ideal for two persons, suitable for three if absolutely necessary. With the added weight of their gear, it was unsteady, slow, and hard to keep above the trees. It burned fuel too rapidly. As they swung up the contour of these rising ridges, there were moments when they held their breath, and Altick wished that there had been another way to get up here as soon as he required.

On the ground the other team would have already started, five men as before but this time primed for trouble, clutching their rifles, watching all around them as they used their maps to find the best way to the lake up in the mountains. There were no dogs, no way to get any soon enough, but this search team had a specific destination, and it didn't need any dogs for guidance. Altick thought about them somewhere down below him, thought about the hard job they would have to push up through the forest toward the rendezvous up here. But he had made several phone calls, and there hadn't been any other helicopters he could commandeer. He was thinking that he might wish he had more than just two men with him. There was no predicting what he might find when the helicopter touched down.

He kept staring. Then he saw some movement, but as he pointed at it, he realized that what he'd seen were elk below him among the trees. He saw one bound across an open space, and normally he would have taken pleasure, but he had to keep his mind on his objective. More than that, he now was bothered that he hadn't seen more elk before this, deer, other signs of life down there. He should have, this high in the mountains, but the forest seemed deserted, and he wished the helicopter could go faster.

It was roaring, straining. Even with the plexiglass, the noise came rushing at him, and he kept peering down, and the whole scene was like everything he'd been through back in Nam in 1969. While the radicals had looted campus buildings, while the marchers had converged on Washington, he had been going on patrols, his team in a chopper, staring at the wilderness below them, and the trees of course were different now, the weather, and whatever waited for him down there, but he felt the tightness in his stomach, felt the cramps around his heart as he fought to restrain his nervousness. He remembered all the shit that he had gone through, all the friends that he'd seen killed, the blood, the disease, the suffocating jungle, believing that he served his country while the demonstrators back home had weakened the country's resolve. He had come back from his tour of duty and had signed on with the state police. The valley at least had responded to him with some pride, and with his military bearing, he'd done well. Indeed he sometimes acted as if he were still in the service, and he talked about the people in the valley as civilians, building pride and character among his men, reminding them that they were different. And they all were loyal to him, as he was to them, afraid now for the officers he'd sent up and were missing. He was staring at the forest, reaching absently to touch his mustache and the scar across his lip that it disguised. He grabbed the microphone and spoke abruptly, "Chopper to patrol. Report."

The hiss of static.

"Chopper to patrol."

"Yeah, Captain, everything's fine. We're moving fast. We should be up there before noon."

"They might have headed back already. Let's hope we didn't have to do this."

"We'll just call it exercise."

"Some exercise," Altick answered, smiling. "Ten-four. Out."

His smile dissolved, though, as he stared down from the helicopter. He was more and more reminded of those choppers back in Nam, the tension solid in him as the helicopter rose up past another ridge, and suddenly he saw it.

"There's the lake," the pilot said.

Altick nodded, studying the landscape. It was formed a basin, ridges sloping all around, then forest spreading inward, then the clearing that went all around the lake. There were few trees beside the lake itself, but Altick knew his men would have gone toward them. He pointed toward one tree by the lake, and they swept closer.

"This was where they camped," the pilot told him. "When I couldn't find them, I went back to get some help."

The knapsacks were in sight now and the black pit where their campfire had been. Nothing else, and Altick tapped the pilot's shoulder. "Swing around the lake. I want to check those trees beside it on the other shore. I want to check the edge of the forest as well."

"I did that when I first was up here."

"Yeah, well, just for me, let's do it once again."

Altick continued staring downward. They moved around the lake, the wind whipped by the rotors causing patterns on the water. But the other trees had nothing there of interest, and the clearing all around the lake was quiet, and he saw no sign of anything around the forest's edge.

"Okay, then, take her back and set her down."

"I told you we wouldn't see anything."

Altick only looked at him. He spoke into the microphone. "Chopper to patrol one. Charlie, do you hear me?"

Static. He waited. "Chopper to patrol one."

"I already did that, too," the pilot told him. "But I never got an answer."

They set down, the long grass bending from the wind created by the helicopter's rotors, and back in Nam, Altick would have been in motion by now, jumping out before the chopper hit the ground or more often hovered and then swooped away, and he'd be scrambling with his men to find some cover. Abandoned. At least this way the helicopter would stay with him, and he waited for the rotors to stop before he unhitched his harness, shoved at the hatch, and stepped out, holding his rifle.

He hurried toward the trees beside the lake, then straightened as he stared at what he'd been afraid of. Never mind the scattered remnants of the fire. Kicking at it would be one way to put it out, sloppy granted, but there was no dismissing what he found beside the charred wood. Blood. A lot of it. Huge patches of it, dry now on the mountain grass and earth. He glanced around and saw the leashes on the tree, more blood where once the dogs must have huddled. He noticed the glint of an empty rifle cartridge. In the grass, he found a flashlight, and the knapsacks had been torn, their contents missing, and a rifle butt was smashed beside a tree-the little signs he couldn't see from the air, but now he knew that there had been a fight all right, and no dog, no wolf, no bear ever smashed a rifle. At once, he saw the barrel in the shallows of the lake.

"My God, what happened here?" his deputy blurted.

Altick swung toward the pilot. "Can you use that rifle we brought for you?"

"Sure, but-" The pilot looked pale.

"Five men and five dogs, and this is all that's left of them. I don't think we can wait for help. We've got to spread out, searching," Altick said.

"Not me. I'm not going anywhere alone," the pilot told him.

From the right, a wind rushed toward them, tugging at their clothing, bending grass, and scraping branches in the tree. The deputy looked up at the scraping branches and pointed. Altick looked.

"Another rifle."

It was wedged up in the branches where it must have been thrown.

"We'll do this together," Altick said. "These tracks in the grass. I thought they might be from our men. Now I'm not so sure. Let's follow them."

They soon found a state policeman's shirtsleeve in the grass, the edges bloody. No one said a word or even touched it.

They kept walking. Farther on, they found the other sleeve and then the shirt itself. The forest loomed. They studied the grass, then the forest. The wind kept tugging at them, scraping branches. All the trees were moving.

"I'm not going in there. We have no idea what we're up against," the pilot said "It could be anything."

But Altick continued walking.

"Hey, I said I won't go with you. "

"I heard you. Stay back then."

"But you can't just leave me."

"If there's trouble, you can use the chopper."

"I don't like this."

Altick kept walking. When he looked back, he saw the pilot running toward the helicopter.

"Just as well," the deputy said. "I don't like nervous civilians near me with a rifle."

Altick nodded. "He was sure excited at the start. But once there's danger, he's a weekend cowboy. He was right, though. We don't know what we'll find in there."

They followed the tracks in the grass, noticing more dried blood, and when Altick parted some branches, he saw four piles of guts among the fir trees. Altick swallowed something bitter, the taste of fear, and scanned the forest. He thought of corpses he had seen in Nam, their ears and balls cut off, and he knew he had only one choice now. "We're going back."

The deputy beside him was ashen. He shook and made a retching sound.

"Don't be ashamed if you get sick," Altick said.

The man clutched his stomach. "I'll be fine. It's just that-"

"Take deep breaths. I saw a lot of things like this in Nam. I never did get used to them.

"My God, they disemboweled them."

"Who or what? For sure, no wolf or dog did this. Come on. We'd better head back toward the chopper. I don't know what's out here, but it's more than we can handle." Altick kept thinking, four. There were five men, so why only four fly-speckled mounds of viscera, and then he reached the helicopter, fighting for his breath, and he found out. The pilot wasn't looking at them. Instead he faced the lake, his mouth open, his finger pointing, and when Altick got there, he saw the headless body floating in the water. His deputy moaned. The wind kept blowing fiercely. On the ripples of the lake, the head bobbed to the surface.

"Jesus, won't those reinforcements ever get here?"

FOUR

It was twenty-three years since Lucas had left. Now he was coming home. He peered out from the window of the car he'd thumbed a ride from, seeing new homes on the outskirts, then a shopping center, and the street here hadn't been paved back then, but he recognized more buildings than he didn't, and he thought that he might recognize some of the people, but he couldn't. Over there, a house that had been blue was now painted white, and up ahead, trees that had been saplings now were tall. He saw front yards he once had played in, but their spaces now seemed smaller, as indeed the houses did, and everywhere he looked he had the sense of things diminished. Well, what else had he expected? Did he think that twenty-three years would leave the town and him unchanged? Or had the town been really this small all along and he too young to put it in perspective? Well, he'd seen how big the world could be. Now Potter's Field was welcome.

The driver looked at him. "If you're hungry, you'll have to wait. I don't plan to stop here. I have half a day to drive yet."

"No, this town is good enough."

"You want me to pull over?"

"In a while. The road goes straight through to the other mountains. When we reach downtown is where I'll leave."

"You know this place?"

"I used to. I was raised here."

"Been away long?"

Lucas nodded, his cheek muscles tense. "Yes. I'm coming back to see my father."

He stared toward the courthouse up ahead and pointed. "There is fine. If you don't mind, I'll get out on that corner."

"No problem. It was good to pass the time with you."

The car veered toward the curb and stopped. Lucas got out. "Thank you."

"I thank you. You know, I don't pick up many hitchhikers. Mostly they look, well, I guess, a bit too rough to handle. But a nice, clean-looking, young man like yourself. It's rare. I've got a lot of driving yet to do, and you helped break the time for me. Thanks again. I know your father will be glad to see you."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be surprised, all right." Lucas reached for his suitcase and shut the door.

"Take care now."

"Yeah. The same to you." He watched the car pull away from the curb. He watched until he couldn't see it anymore. Then he turned to face the courthouse. In the distance, he heard church bells. He saw people in their best clothes standing, talking in small groups along the street. Except for what seemed lots of traffic heading out of town, the scene was just as he remembered it when he and his mother would come into town to go to church. Another peaceful Sunday morning. But the last few years before he left had gradually stopped being peaceful, his father angry, his parents shouting. He had asked the man just now to let him off before there were too many questions. Then he'd understood that stopping here was maybe for the best. He hadn't seen this courthouse since those late October days in 1970, and he could still recall the way his father sat beside the lawyer, staring at him in the witness chair. Lucas shook his head and wondered where the cars and trucks were going. Some big fair out in the valley? Then he picked up his suitcase, crossed toward the building beside the courthouse, walked up past the trees on either side, and climbed the front steps, going in.

The place was cool and shadowy, and the first things that he noticed were the tall plants in their big pots all around the edges of the hall. They hadn't been here back in 1970, and more than any other detail he had seen, they signaled to him how much everything had changed since then. He faced the office to his right and saw the sign on top-police chief, nathan slaughter-and that sign was different too, the old chief wasn't here now. People might not understand what he wanted to tell them. He almost didn't go in, but he was too committed now to change his mind, and he stepped through the doorway.

There were half a dozen people. Phones were ringing. To his right, a policeman he didn't recognize was talking to a microphone. Beyond him, men were answering the phones and writing notes. In a glassed-in office at the back, a tall man in a uniform was talking to a gray, wasted man in a wrinkled suit, and everyone was loud, and none of them looked happy.

"Yes, sir, may I help you?" The man who'd been talking to the radio looked tensely at him.

"I'm not certain. My name's Lucas Wheeler. Someone here might know me."

"Just a second." The policeman spoke into the microphone again. "That's right. A woman and a dog. It's a hell of a mess. The animal control van should be hooked up to our frequency. It's probably waiting for you. Get over there."

A staticky voice that Lucas couldn't understand responded.

"Roger." The policeman glanced up, his expression stark. "I'm sorry. Things are crazy here. You'll have to tell me that again."

"I said my name is Lucas Wheeler, and I need protection from my father."

The policeman's eyes narrowed. "Has he threatened you? He isn't acting strangely, is he?"

"No. I haven't seen him since the fall of nineteen seventy."

"But I don't…Just a second." The policeman spoke to the microphone again. "That's right. For God's sake, don't go near it. Keep it locked in the basement. If it breaks out, use your shotgun."

Lucas squinted around and heard other bizarre conversations. He didn't understand it. What was going on? At first he'd thought that he had looked suspicious to this man. But he had made a point of cutting off his beard and trimming back his hair, of buying clothes as conventional as he could tolerate. Hell, he was even wearing cowboy boots, but the reaction he'd received was due apparently to what was going on, whatever that was, and he waited, and the policeman stared at him again.

"What's all-?"

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to see the chief."

"What's going on?"

"I said, you'll have to see the chief." The policeman gestured toward the glassed-in office.

"Can I leave my suitcase by the door?"

The policeman waved him impatiently away and spoke again to a staticky voice on the radio. "If he's been bitten, get him to the hospital. Keep him in the back seat of the cruiser. Don't go near him."

Lucas set the suitcase by the door and crossed the room, hearing the urgent voices around him, staring at the troubled policemen, then reaching the entrance to the glassed-in section of the office.

"Quarantine won't work now. I don't care what Parsons says. We've got-" The big man stopped and looked at him. "What is it?"

"Well, I guess I picked the wrong time, but the man out there said I should see you. I've been out of town for quite a while. I've come to see my father, but I think he might make trouble for me."

"Trouble?"

"Yes, my name is Lucas Wheeler."

The big man only shook his head, puzzled, as if the name meant nothing to him.

In contrast, the wasted man in the wrinkled suit snapped to attention. "Wheeler? You're the rancher's boy?"

"Thank God. I was afraid no one remembered or would help me."

"Rancher's boy?" the big man asked.

"The murder back in nineteen seventy," the wasted man said. "He's the kid who testified against his father."

"And my father said that if he got the chance he'd kill me," Lucas said. "I need protection."

But the big man only leaned back in his chair and wiped his face. "Look, can't it wait a few days? We've got trouble here."

"My father wasn't kidding," Lucas said.

"But I don't have the men. Just wait a while, and I'll go out with you myself."

"A few days? I don't have enough money to stay in a hotel that long."

And the big man sighed as he glanced toward the ceiling.

"Never mind. I'll handle this," the wasted man said.

"No. I want you with me."

"Nothing's going to threaten you while you're here. I just need to talk with him. You like some coffee, Lucas? Have you got a little time to talk with me?" "I want to see my father."

"And you'll see him. But I have a couple of questions." "About what?" 'The commune." And the horror of it all returned to him.

FIVE

The thing came struggling down the street. It crawled on its hands and knees and tried to shield its eyes from the sunlight, but the pain was too intense, and all it did was crawl on blindly. It was snarling, foaming at the mouth, although it didn't do that willingly. The broken white line stretched before it, and it wavered to one side and then the other as in agony it tried to move directly down the center. Objects angled past it, beeping. It heard voices, sensed the people crowding near it, and it snarled at them and bared its foamy teeth and kept on crawling. How it reached here, it could not remember. Trees and grassland it remembered. But this hot black surface and this white line, it could not recall or understand. It just kept struggling down the white line. Someone screamed. More objects inched past, beeping. And the pain. The awful pain. It fell, face cracking on the hot black surface. It squirmed forward on its stomach, the white line stretching forward from its nose. It pawed at its skull. It jerked its head from side to side. As the murmurs gathered closer, it snarled to defend itself.

SIX

Rettig stopped the cruiser, puzzled by the crowd that filled the main street. He saw cars and trucks stopped, drivers getting out, people on the sidewalk pointing, others coming from the side streets, from Sunday brunch in restaurants. He was stepping from the cruiser, putting on his hat, and with his hand near his revolver, he moved forward. What the hell was this about? He'd seen so many bad things in the last few days that he had no idea what worse could happen. And this morning. Word had gotten around so fast that even for a small town it was startling. People in a panic, leaving town or gathered in small groups and talking wildly. He had seen three traffic jams this morning, forced to waste time clearing them. He'd shot a frenzied dog, had helped its bleeding owner to a doctor. He had found a mangled woman by a laundromat. But now a mob that filled the street. He didn't like where this was heading.

Weak from lack of sleep and scared because the town would shortly be in chaos, worried for his family, he had phoned his sister down in Denver to make arrangements for his wife and daughter to go there. They were packing right now, and he knew that many others had made plans to leave the town as well.

But all the same, he thought he knew what to expect- more of this but surely nothing worse. Yet even as he walked up to the crowd to part it, he was sensing something that was far beyond his knowledge, something that when he reached out to shift the crowd would show him some dark final truth that ever after would change everything.

He heard the words but didn't understand them, couldn't make them out, a snarled fog-throated muttering. He pushed on through the crowd and stopped and stared, and it must once have been a person, but its trunk was cloaked with furs. Its arms and legs were bloody. It was snarling, drooling, jerking, its hair down to its waist and falling all around it, a beard down to its stomach, its face dark from dirt and scabs, and bugs were crawling on it as it leered up, blinking. "Own oom," it was choking. Rettig didn't understand the sounds. He stumbled back against the crowd, his heart beating faster. Then he understood the choking, rasping, barking. "Throne room," it repeated. "Throne room, throne room, throne room."

SEVEN

They were standing in the hallway, staring through the window at the figure on the bed in there. The figure wore a gown now, the collar of it showing just above the sheet that covered him. His beard was trimmed, his hair was cut, an intravenous bottle hung beside him, leading to the needle in his arm. Although he was unconscious, straps restrained him.

"Do you recognize him?" Slaughter asked.

Lucas Wheeler concentrated. "I'm not certain. It's been lots of years. I mean, I doubt many people could identify me after so long. How can I be certain about him?"

"But is there anything at all familiar?"

"Oh, a little. That thin nose and mouth. The thing is, I knew several people like that, but the commune had a couple hundred members, and I wasn't up there long enough to meet them all. Plus, no one was as gaunt as he is. Let's say he was twenty back then. Now he'd be forty-three. A man can change a lot in that time.

Slaughter glanced at Dunlap. Then he scratched his wrinkled brow and turned to Lucas once again. "Well, would it help if you were closer to him?"

"I don't think I want that."

"He's unconscious. Those straps are secure. He isn't any threat to you."

"I know that. But you have to understand how much that commune scared me."

Slaughter narrowed his gaze. "What do you mean?"

"Look, I never said this back in nineteen-seventy, but when my father came to get me, I'd been praying all along for something like that. I was scared I'd never get away from there. When that policeman found me in the ditch for the latrine, I wasn't hiding from him. It was Quiller I was hiding from."

"You know about this?" Slaughter said to Dunlap.

"Yes, he told me when we went to get some coffee at your office. They were evidently-"

"Let me tell it," Lucas said. "I should have told it long ago. You've got to understand how young I was. Eighteen, and I thought I'd figured everything. The way my father acted toward my mother and me. Hell, he was actually convinced that she was cheating on him. He was certain that I wasn't even his. I mean I couldn't stand it anymore. I felt there had to be a better life, and when those hippies came through town, I knew they'd found it. So I hung around with them. Can you imagine? No guilt. Freedom to do anything that you're inclined toward without fear of what somebody else will say. I'd never had that, and I loved it. But the trouble started then, and soon the town turned on the hippies, and the ranchers forced them from the valley. I was worse off than before because I thought I knew then what I wanted, so I struggled through the summer, but my father and I kept arguing, and I snuck out late one night to join the commune. But I didn't know that they were crazy, see. I figured they'd be like the hippies in the town. But these were different. Quiller had selected them. That's why he wanted several thousand at the start. To pick and choose the special types he wanted. Every freak who'd tripped out once too many times. Every nut who was almost psychotic. Every radical whose idea of protest was to plant a bomb or set fire to a building. Hell, they didn't need the drugs. A lot of them were scrambled to begin with. And they took one look at me and said that I would be their first new member. Well, I should have known. The hippies in the town had warned me. 'Very bad,' they told me, but they never explained what they meant. I suspect they only sensed what was the matter. All the same, I should have known. Because the summer had been time enough for Quiller to control the commune, to make it even more extreme. You want to talk about hypnotic people? Quiller had a way of looking in your eyes and making you agree to anything, and he had crazies working with him who would make you go along with him. I'd grown a half-assed beard. I'd let my hair grow long, but if I stood out from the people in the town, I stood out equally from Quiller and the commune. They had let their hair and beards keep growing longer. They had started dressing even weirder than the hippies who had been in town. Quiller used to sit in his Corvette-"

"The red Corvette? He kept it?" Dunlap asked abruptly.

"Oh, hell, yes. He rigged up a grotto for it off in the woods. He parked it there beneath a shelter made from tree boughs, and he used to sit in it to hold his meetings. But the funny thing is that, while all the others let their hair and beards grow, Quiller shaved and kept his hair short. When he didn't wear his robe, he walked around in patent leather shoes and expensive slacks and custom-made shirts that he'd brought with him. In the context of the commune, he looked twice as weird as anyone, just sitting in that car and staring toward the forest. You'd have thought he was on the freeway. God knows where his mind was taking him. And there I stood before him in my jeans and workshirt and the stubby beard I'd tried to grow, and he was saying that he'd let me be their first new member. He was smiling, and I didn't understand till later that if I'd refused, I wouldn't have had a choice. I didn't understand that I was a prisoner."

"It's like Jim Jones," Dunlap said. "Or David Koresh.'

"Or Charles Manson," Slaughter added, and they frowned at one another.

"I need a smoke," Lucas said. "Has anybody got one?" His hand was shaking as he took the cigarette that Dunlap offered. A nurse going by frowned at them. She slowed as if about to tell them that smoking wasn't allowed in the corridor. Then she saw the look in their eyes and kept moving.

Lucas drew the smoke in. "Anyway, they had these barracks like in the military, and they put me in one, watching me. By then, I understood enough to be afraid, but there was no way I could run, and they were talking about my initiation. I don't know what I thought would happen. I saw that many of them had a scar across their chests, two wavy lines that intersected. When they brought me food, I wouldn't eat it, and I wouldn't drink the water. They kept smiling, though, as if that's what they wanted. 'That's right. Stay pure,' they told me. I don't know. They had this thing about a state of nature. Quiller's notion was to purify them, to free them from the outside world. He made them pledge their loyalty, then put them through this secret ritual. Their goal was to escape the bonds of society and act upon their instincts. But the place was set up like the military, and I didn't understand how Quiller's dictatorial attitude was compatible with freedom, or how drugs had anything to do with purity. The scheme was crazy, schizophrenic, and I sometimes wonder if he didn't get some kind of voyeuristic thrill from watching them behave like animals. The second day at sundown, they were going to have the ceremony, but my father showed up that day, shooting. When they ran to find out what had happened, I escaped the men who watched me. The policeman found me."

"But you never mentioned anything about this," Slaughter told him.

"That's right. I was too afraid. I felt that Quiller would come after me. You said yourself that Quiller seemed a lot like Manson. He terrified me. I didn't want to go against him. If I told the town, the town would turn against the commune, and I knew who the commune would blame. Besides, you have to realize how much I hated my father. If I justified what he had done, he might have been released. I didn't want that. Hell, I knew that he'd come looking for me, too. As far as I could see, a guilty verdict was the best chance for my mother and me. Don't bother saying I was wrong. At eighteen, that's the way I saw things."

"But you're back now."

Lucas nodded. "And the whole damned thing is starting again. I don't mind telling you I'm scared. I figured that the commune would have scattered by now, that my father might be different. Last month I was with my mother when she died. She'd been staying in New Mexico. The last thing she said was 'Make sure your father doesn't cheat you. Half that ranch is mine, and now it's yours. But he'll try to keep it from you.'" Lucas straightened. "I'm finished running."

"Well, I guarantee you'll be protected."

"Don't underestimate my father."

"That isn't what I meant. I mean in there. I want you to look closely at the man in the bed. Tell me if he's really from the commune. We still have no proof of that. If the commune still exists, we don't know where it is. They moved it."

Lucas shuddered. "Oh, that's fine. That's fucking great."

The medical examiner stepped from the room where he'd been attending to the bearded figure.

"Well?" Slaughter asked.

The medical examiner looked troubled. "He's very sick. Apart from showing symptoms of the virus, he's undernourished and dehydrated. If he hadn't wandered into town, he'd have died by sunset. As it is, I still don't know how long he'll live. I'm feeding him intravenously."

"Can we have a look at him?"

The medical examiner debated. "I don't think that's a problem, but that cigarette will have to go."

He pointed toward what Lucas held, and Lucas nodded, dropping the cigarette, stepping on it.

"Pick it up now."

Lucas stared at him, then picked it up. He glanced at Slaughter. "Fine. Let's get this finished."

The medical examiner opened the door, and they went in. They peered toward the figure, then at Lucas.

"I don't know," Lucas told them.

"Make a guess," Slaughter said.

"I can't."

"You've got to try."

"But what if I identify him and he comes for me?"

"Does he look as if he's going to live? For Christ sake, be responsible for once."

Lucas scowled at him. The veins in his temples throbbed. Then slowly they subsided, and he studied the figure. "Maybe… Maybe I once knew him."

"Have you got a name for him?"

"I'll tell you when I'm ready. Did you notice if he had a scar?" he asked the medical examiner.

"Two wavy lines that intersect across his chest. They remind me of a swastika."

"And what about a-?"

"Tattoo on his shoulder. It's an eagle."

"Let me see it." Lucas watched the medical examiner tug at the sheet and gown. They looked at a purple eagle.

"Yes, I knew him." Lucas exhaled. "Pollock. All I ever heard him called was Pollock. He was Quiller's second in command. That eagle's like some kind of military symbol, like a captain or a major. If he wakes up, don't go near him. He's insane. If you could see his eyes, you'd understand what I mean."

Slaughter sighed. "Then the commune still exists."

"But where the hell did they go?" Dunlap wondered.

Now the figure squirmed beneath the straps. He shook his head, unconscious, flaring his nostrils, moaning, "Throne room."

"What?" The medical examiner shook his head.

"He said 'throne room'," Slaughter told him. "I don't understand it either. He was moaning that when Rettig found him." Slaughter didn't like the smell in here. Although the figure had been bathed while he was strapped down in the bed, he stank of rancid meat and sweat and mildew, and the pungent smell of medicine mixed with those other odors nauseated him.

"Where has he been living anyhow?"

"The throne room," Dunlap told him.

"Very funny."

"No, the place clearly has some importance to him. Maybe if we asked him."

"He's unconscious. You can see that."

"I don't care. Let's try it."

Slaughter looked at the medical examiner.

"It might work. I don't think that it could hurt him."

"But it's pointless," Slaughter said.

"What difference does it make? Let's try it." Dunlap bent down by the figure. "Pollock."

"Careful," Slaughter told him.

Dunlap nodded, moving slightly away from the figure. "Pollock, can you hear me?

There was no response. Dunlap waited. Then he said again but softer, "Pollock, can you hear me?"

The figure squirmed. He hissed once. Then he settled.

"Pollock, you're with friends now. Can you hear me? Talk about the throne room."

"Throne room." That was croaked, but they could hear it.

Dunlap glanced at his companions, then spoke more softly to the figure. "That's right. Talk about the throne room."

"Red room."

Dunlap frowned toward the others.

"It could be blood," the medical examiner suggested.

"Maybe," Slaughter told him. "Or it could be something he remembers from when he was just a kid. There isn't any way to know."

Abruptly the figure on the bed started screaming. They flinched as the scream swept louder around them. It rose higher, strident, the figure twisting, agonized, and then as suddenly as it began, the scream diminished. The figure settled, moaning, on the bed. They continued staring.

"Is there nothing you can give him?" Slaughter asked the medical examiner.

"I'm not about to risk a sedative. The only thing that we can do is watch to see what happens."

"What about these lights, though? Can't we dim them?'

"He's unconscious, so they shouldn't bother him. But why not? I don't see a need for them." The medical examiner walked to the door and switched off the lights. The room became shadowy.

But the figure didn't stop its moaning. It jerked its head from side to side. Then gradually it seemed calmer.

"What about the red room, Pollock? Tell us about it," Dunlap said.

There wasn't any answer.

"Red room," Dunlap said again.

And then in answer, "Red room, red room, antelope."

"I told you this is useless. He's just babbling," Slaughter said.

"Or else he's saying what's important to him," Dunlap answered.

"Then you tell me what it means."

"You know I can't."

"Of course you can't. We have to find out where they've gone. If there's some kind of red room, I sure want to know what's in it." Slaughter turned to Lucas. "Can you tell us where they might be living?"

Lucas shook his head. He studied Slaughter and then everyone, their faces in shadow. "No, they never told me much. But now that I think back, I can understand why Quiller would have moved. My father and the state police were proof the compound wasn't safe for him. He'd want to find a better place."

"But where?" Slaughter asked. "Those hills are used for camping, fishing, hunting. Someone would have found them."

"Could be someone did," Dunlap said. "You'd better check your missing-persons file and any inquiries you might have gotten from other sections of the country. You never know how far back this might take you."

"Slaughter, would you mind explaining what this means?"

The new voice thundered through the room. They stiffened, turning toward the doorway, Parsons braced there, looming over them, and then they turned toward Slaughter.

"We don't know yet. We were-"

"In the hallway."

"What?"

"I'm waiting, Slaughter."

Parsons stepped back out and let the door swing shut. The room was silent as they looked at Slaughter.

"Well, I guess I knew this would happen."

"What would happen?"

"He objects to the company I keep."

"He what?"

"It's nothing. I'll explain it later." Through the window, he saw Parsons stalking back and forth in the hallway. "Well, I guess I'd better get it settled." Slaughter faced the door and pulled on it.

Parsons waited until Slaughter shut the door behind him. "You were told to keep that reporter away from this, to make sure he was on a bus the hell from town!"

The nurses at the far end stared at them.

"I don't think I can do that."

"If you want to keep your job, you'll-"

"Parsons, look, we really should have gotten to know each other. It's too late now, but I'll try to make you understand. I've been through situations like this many times. Back in Detroit, when there was trouble and pressure was put on our supervisors, they'd look around for someone to blame. We learned early how to come out looking squeaky clean. Now there's about to be a lot of trouble, and you're going to need a fall guy, but I'm damned sure it won't be me. That reporter in there is closer to me right now than my jockey shorts. Except for this conversation, I don't go anywhere, not even to the men's room, without bringing him along. Because I want to guarantee that I'm protected, that he writes down every move I make, so if you have any accusations, any tricks you want to pull to keep your lovely reputation, there'll be someone else's word besides your own."

"I'll have you-"

"Listen to me. I'm not finished. So you want to sit back and let things happen. Well, that's not the way I plan to do this. If I have to, I'll declare martial law. I'm not sure I have the power, but when this is over, there'll be plenty of time for us to argue. In the meanwhile, I'll at least be doing something which is more than I can say for you. It could be I'll make mistakes. Okay then, I'll take blame for them. But there is no way in this life that I'll take blame for your inaction."

Parsons glared. "You'll wish you'd never come here."

"Maybe. But just think about your options. If I'm right, you'll reach out and take the credit. If I'm wrong, you know who to point blame at. But that reporter is my insurance that I've got a witness to protect me. I'm in charge now. Don't forget it."

Parsons looked through the window at the medical examiner and Dunlap and the young man who were watching him. "Oh, I'm not known for my forgetfulness. Years from now I'll still remember you, but you won't be around to realize it." Parsons studied him a moment longer and then stalked along the corridor.

EIGHT

Altick raced up through the bushes. He had waited with the two men by the helicopter until the ground patrol had finally arrived. He told them what had happened, and when he was finished urging them, when he had shown them first the body in the lake and then the piles of viscera in the forest, he had succeeded in his efforts to enrage them. After all, the one thing he had always emphasized was loyalty to one another. The members of the patrol knew all the men who had been killed. They'd been close friends, and the grisly evidence of how the first group had been killed had been enough to change their fear into anger. They weren't certain what had done this, but they all agreed that someone or some thing was going to pay. They edged up past the viscera, and they were cursing as they found a gametrail that led higher, blood along it, which they followed. High above, the helicopter hovered. That way, they would have a lookout who could warn them of a trap he saw ahead, and if they were indeed attacked, the pilot could pick up the wounded. At the least, the pilot would survive to tell what he had seen down here, but no one liked to talk about the chance of their all dying. They were rushing up the gametrail, concentrating to insure that their side didn't do the dying. They found more blood on the gametrail, and they were so angry, and it was so easy to follow this clear a spoor that no one thought until later that the blood had maybe been left for them.