Bleak History (14 page)

Erlich was stocky, with thin white hair, a jowly, wide face, stubby nose. Sat in a chair to one side of the desk—this was Swanson's office.

Swanson was taller, with stooped shoulders—a bit of osteoporosis—and a thinly carven face, heavy black brows, shaven head. Swanson had been a captain, and a major in Iraq. Had seen every military tragedy, every snafu. And he was usually unflappable.

But the scene on the computer surveillance window had him grinding his teeth. “Erlich—I don't like where this is going. First of all, it was supposed to be about fighting terrorism. But we hear  precious little from these people about that. CCA's not staying on task. This other stuff's not its mandate. Like this experiment now—for Christ's sake—putting pressure like this on...on freakish people of this kind. You don't know
what
the hell you'll get. They're connected to... to
things,
my friend. Things we don't want a relationship with.

“But it's the same old problem. If we don't do something with these ShadowComm types, we have no control over them,” Swanson added, taking a cigar from his desk. “Same goes, Forsythe says, for the...things, the spirits they deal with.” He smelled the cigar wistfully. He wasn't allowed to smoke in here, but he chewed on the cigar's end, without lighting it.

“The human race got by without...recruiting from that pool for centuries,” Erlich pointed out. “They used to burn these guys at the stake.”

“What I heard, they were always burning the wrong people. And things have changed. The signal that suppresses their contact is getting weaker. More of these guys are showing up. Some pretty bad ones. Guy just broke out of jail, probably using those capabilities. Forsythe's looking into that. We

might be able to fix the thing in the north but...I'm not sure the president wants to. He wants the edge. He supports this program. Forsythe's got him in his vest pocket.”

“Exaggeration. Breslin's no surer than we are. I think we ought to explore the possibility of shutting down this program.”

“Forsythe's a fanatic about it, obsessed. I'm not sure what he might pull.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning...I'm not sure he's in his right mind.” Swanson craned his head at the surveillance window on the computer, squinting. He put on a pair of half-glasses. “What's going on in there now? Looks like they're prepping Krasnoff for a projection.”

***

LORAINE WAS STARING UP at the skylight shaft when a brisk knock came at the door of the concrete cell. “Just wait out there!” Helman called. “Just stand ready if I need you! The door is unlocked!” “Yes, sir!” came the muffled response from the hall.

“Go ahead, Orrin,” Helman said. “Your access to the sky is open. The suppressor is off.”

Krasnoff looked up at the shaft of light, clutched the scepterlike rod tighter, and closed his eyes. 99 “Shiny Fella...” Loraine had the distinct impression he was speaking to someone not in the room. “I'm sorry, Shiny Fella, but I am scared to go crazy. That's worse than dying to me.” Krasnoff seemed to be talking to the light coming down the little shaft in the ceiling. “If I go into a crazy place, I'll be in the Wilderness before I'm dead.”

The Wilderness again. Loraine had seen a briefing paper on this ShadowComm notion. Spirits in the afterlife were protected if they were aligned with “spirits of light.” If they weren't protected, they were propelled into “the Wilderness”—something like hell, a place where predatory spirits roamed free.

“And”—Krasnoff paused to swallow hard, before going on—”and tell my ma I'm sorry too, if she's gone on. They won't tell me if she died yet, with the bone cancer, and I can't get word, with the way they keep me shut down, so...sorry.”

Having said an apologetic prayer to the Shiny Fella, whoever that was, Krasnoff opened his eyes, took a deep breath. Clutching the scepter, he looked like an inbred king on a stony throne, at that moment, as he gazed up at the sky, his face awash in the beam of sunlight coming down.

“What is it you want to see, Doctor?” he asked softly. Looking longingly up at the sky.

Loraine watched as Helman hunkered by the briefcase and took out two more items. A piece of paper and a vial of—was that blood? He brought them to Krasnoff. “There's a man named Gabriel Bleak. We have a document he signed, for a bail bonds agency. He touched it and signed it. We want you to show us where he is. And here is blood, taken for a DNA sample from a man named Gulcher, when he was in custody. This man has gone missing too, and we need to know where he is and what he's doing. Both men are Shadow Community, but Gulcher didn't know it until recently. We think he has come into very great power. Can you make the connection for us?”

“Might could do it, one thing at a time. Put the paper in my left hand.”

Krasnoff kept staring up at that patch of blue sky, his mouth slightly open, as Helman put the folded piece of paper in his left hand. In his right he clasped the rod of wood and copper, and he ran his fingers up and down it, over and over, rubbing each part of it with his thumb. 100

Helman glanced toward the camera lenses set flush with the concrete walls, one per wall near the ceiling, and Loraine, noticing an iris flicker inside the lenses, realized all this was being recorded—and perhaps witnessed by someone else.

“Shiny Fella,” Krasnoff muttered. “And you who call yourselves...” He spoke a series of names. Loraine would try to remember the names later, discovering that not a single one remained in her memory. And she had a near photographic memory.

She felt a weight in the room then, as if the air pressure had doubled. It made her eyes hurt, her head throb. Then a red and green-blue swarm of tiny lights spiraled down the small shaft over Krasnoff. They moved like a swarm of insects, but she could see they had no wings, no bodies, they were just minute lights swirling around Krasnoff's head. So many they almost hid his features.

He jerked his head back down so he was staring straight ahead...his mouth open wide, slightly drooling.

And the glittering swarm entered his ears and eyes and mouth, vanishing into him.

Strong beams of colored light suddenly projected from his mouth and eyes. Red light from his left eye, green-blue from his right, yellow from his mouth. The lights seemed to converge on the wall in front of him, as if his head were a movie projector. A circle of the tiny lights churned on the wall, then began to converge. Loraine's mouth dropped open, in awe; she could hear her heart thumping in her ears as an image, almost three-dimensional, formed in the wall: a man walking down the street. The man pausing to glance around. Walking on.

“Gabriel Bleak!” she blurted.

“Yes, I believe that is our Mr. Bleak,” Helman said, nodding, pleased.

The circle of light on the wall, its edges restless with glimmering specks, showed Gabriel Bleak wearing a white business shirt, unbuttoned and untucked to hang over the back pockets of his jeans. Loraine suspected he had a gun back there, under the shirt. Under the open shirt he wore a new-looking tee that said BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB across it. He looked focused, in a hurry, intense.

Loraine suddenly became aware that Dr. Helman was watching her. She turned, saw him looking at her—then looking at Bleak, on the wall. Then back at her. The light from the overheads seemed to collect in the lenses of Helman's glasses, washing them out, masking his eyes.

“Was there something, Doctor, that...?” she asked, not sure herself what she was asking.

Dr. Helman shook his head. He pursed his lips, as if suppressing a chuckle, and took a small cell phone from his inside coat pocket, fingered it, and spoke into it as he looked back at the projected

vision of Gabriel Bleak. “Andrew? The moment you see identifying indicators, get a drone over it—I believe that's a street sign behind him, and I believe that street is in New Jersey. Collate with satellite imagery.”

But suddenly, on the wall, Gabriel Bleak stopped walking—and looked pensively around.

“He senses Krasnoff, even at this remove,” Helman said, with the cell phone still pressed against his ear. “Very impressive!”

A small voice muttered from the air. After a moment Loraine realized it wasn't a supernatural voice. It was from Helman's cell phone.

“Ah,” Helman said. “Good. He may not sense the drone too.”

Loraine, watching Bleak, who looked both powerful and vulnerable at once, had an impulse to shout out a warning to him.

She shook her head wonderingly. Whose side was she on? She had better get a grip and soon. Or she'd be in deep shit.

“Now, let the contact with Bleak go, Orrin,” Helman said, taking the folded paper from Krasnoff's hand. “And take this blood...and show us what
this
man is doing.”

The light ceased to beam from Krasnoff's mouth and eyes, as if a plug had been pulled. Clasping the vial, Krasnoff panted for a moment, blinking—then looked dazedly at Loraine. “Doctor-does she know about her and Bleak? I seen it and I think somebody should know, if...if they're—”

“That will be enough digression, Orrin,” Helman said quickly. “Now focus on the blood. Where is the source of that blood?”

Krasnoff looked again up the shaft at the sky. Again he spoke, and summoned.

Again the sparkles spiraled down. He looked at the wall—and once more light shot from his eyes and mouth. The image formed on the wall. A point of view looking down a street in...

The street looked familiar to Loraine. Was it Atlantic City? She'd only been there once. Was that a casino, a few blocks down?

Then a black spot appeared in the midst of the image—and grew. It was like petroleum gushing  from a hole in the bottom of the sea, spreading out in a blackening cloud. The black cloud widened, boiled, bubbled...and blotted the entire image.

The colored light still beamed from Krasnoff's eyes, his mouth—but the blackness seemed to boil up from the wall, into the projected beams, as if working its way toward him.

“You...” Krasnoff sounded distant, and almost drunk. “You got to untie my left arm here, maybe I can get a picture past this blackout mess.”

Helman hesitated—then turned toward Loraine, nodded toward the restraints.

Why we? horaine
wondered. But she circled behind Krasnoff, undid the buckle of the strap that was holding his left arm.

He lifted up the vial, so that it caught the light...the blackness receded for a moment, then resurged. And suddenly, as if in angry response, something was on the wall besides murky cloud.
Faces—angry faces.
Some of them appeared to be multiple images of the same face as if seen in a kaleidoscope, the face mirroring itself and folding and unfolding within the bubbling blackness...and then a face that seemed to sum up the others, a face with a sharply drawn, three-dimensional, leathery exposition of mute fury, formed in the center of the cloud and burst out toward them—coming right at them, its gaping jaws stretching impossibly, opening too wide.

Krasnoff screamed and shut his mouth and eyes, stopping the image—though a little colored light leaked from his lids and lips—and he threw the vial of blood from him so that it smashed on the wall, its contents dripping down, dripping red. Small shards of glass from the vial clung to the wall, pasted by blood, and slowly slipped down, the bits of glass forming into the rough shape of a face.

The face from the boiling black cloud.

***

NOT LONG AFTER THE session with Krasnoff, Loraine found herself the only one in the cafeteria. She sat alone at a stainless-steel table, in the center of the low-ceilinged room.

The coffee had gone cold in the carafes, but Loraine had poured some into a plastic cup anyway, and now she held it clasped between her hands. She sat listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the ticking of a big brushed-steel refrigerator in the kitchen behind the tray counter. The windowless walls held paintings of autumn woods, with a great deal of brown and dull gold in them;
tw
her eye they looked like paintings of paintings, bereft of feeling.

“Doctor—does she know about her and Bleak? I seen it and I think somebody should know, if... “

From the way he'd been looking at her, Krasnoff had meant Loraine. Not some other
her.
What had he meant by that? And why had Helman cut him off so hastily?

Looking at a painting of a stream running through a boulder-strewn wood, it seemed to her that the shadows under the trees and rocks grew darker, thickened, and stretched out to meet one another; to form a deeper, interconnected blackness that blotted the painting like a big spill of ink, and in the dark spill was a face—

“Loraine?”

She jumped in her seat, sloshing coffee on her blouse. “Dammit!”

“Seems you've startled Agent Sarikosca, Doctor,” said General Forsythe, chuckling. “We should have made more noise, coming up.”

It was Helman and Forsythe; the general—the chief of the CCA—was wearing his USAF uniform.

She put the cup down. Helman picked up her napkin—and started to dab at her blouse. She could feel his fingers press her breasts, and she stepped back, deftly took the napkin from his hand, muttered, “Thanks,” and finished on her own.

“Sorry about the coffee, young lady,” said Forsythe, in his Florida accent, “but, Lord, you startle easily.”

“No apology necessary, sir. I'm a bit shaken, I guess.” She glanced at General Forsythe. “We had our session broken up by an unexpected UBE.”

Forsythe was short, with broad shoulders, a tanned face shaped—it seemed to Loraine—like a shovel. He had once been almost movie-star handsome, but his face was sagging now, in middle age, as if the wax on a Madame Tussauds sculpture of some golden-era actor had just begun to melt. His gray eyes looked almost painted on; the lines under his fixed smile were like the incisions on a puppet's mouth.

She looked away, shuddering internally.

Maybe,
she thought,
he looks so unpleasant to me because of what I've seen today; what I've been through. Everything looks kind of off to me. Even cheap decorator paintings.