Coils Page 5

  "Sure. Here."

  I felt my arm taken. She guided me. I blinked my eyes open twice, for quick orientation.

  The interior was filled with leering ghouls and monsters; it was illuminated by a flickering and baleful candlelight. I dared not look at the woman who guided me for fear of seeing the triple goddess and knowing I was gone, passed over, taken.

  I found a place for my bag beneath the seat before me. Everything felt normal. Whatever the situation, it did not seem to apply to tactile sensations. I located the ends of my seat belt and clasped it about my middle without looking. I knew what I would see if I were to look—namely, that it had become a serpent. Knowing this and seeing it were two different things, however. I had known what the interior here would look like before I'd blinked myself a pair of glimpses moments ago. But the knowledge in itself was several degrees less gut-wrenching than the primary experience. I realized that I was far from rational at the moment, and this knowledge in itself was somehow comforting. After all, I had undergone a psychiatric treatment which had stirred the depths of my being. It had produced results on a rational, practical level. What I was undergoing now, I told myself, was doubtless some sort of reaction by all the forces of unreason in my subconscious. Yes, cling to that, I decided; it puts it all onto the plane of mental health as a kind of balancing of the books. When it's all over—Plane? Plane. We were moving. On one level, I knew that we were turning, taxiing. On another, I heard a mighty neighing sound and a clatter of hoofs. The wagon jolted from side to side, the coach wheels creaked and clattered.

  Ticketderick.

  Yes, again. Dive into the smooth flowing operations of the systems all about. Here they were simpler than in the terminal, but a few tiny lights of rational structuring. Yet I held them and flowed with them, entering a kind of trance-like state, circuiting through each functioning level over and over and over again.

  I held with it, moving in my own small world of light through a sea of darkness. I was able completely to ignore everything about me for a timeless span until the address system came on and the captain announced that we were about to land at Miami. I knew that that was what he said, but on that other level I heard the chimes as a brazen gong, followed by the voice of Orson Welles, announcing that Donald BelPatri was about to be dropped into a boiling pit where he would remain until the flesh was flensed from his bones. I almost screamed then, but I bit my lip and clenched my hands till the knuckles cracked.

  We landed and finally came to a stop. The pressure suddenly vanished. Had my id taken a coffee break, given up now that I was safely arrived? I opened my eyes and saw normal people unfastening belts and picking up bags. I did the same quickly. Everyone near me made a point of avoiding my gaze. I thanked the stewardess again on the way out and made my way into the terminal, unflensed.

  Inside, I located my gate, got another boarding pass, visited the Men's Room, found a drink machine and gulped two icy Cokes in rapid succession. I returned to the boarding area then and took the seat nearest to the entrance tunnel. I wanted to have everything possible in my favor in case of a recurrence of my hallucinations. I performed all of these acts on as basic a motor level as possible, keeping my mind from everything but what my body was doing. But once I sat down the thoughts began to ooze again, at a higher level.

  Had what might have been a mere anxiety reaction to my mental readjustments and Cora's disappearance been forced to such graphic, paranoid levels by virtue of the fact that an actual menace had been made apparent? I had not studied that much psychology in college, but it seemed possible, given the extreme stresses to which I had been subjected.

  College? I suddenly realized that I had attended a university. Where? Denver…? That seemed right. I hadn't finished, though, hadn't taken my degree… Why not?

  Blocked again, but left with a feeling that Ann had had something to do with it, with my leaving school. I had known her that long ago.

  Ann… What was her weakness? What was her strength? She had both, in unusual proportions. It seemed important that I should recall what they were, but I was blocked here, also.

  I pushed hard. Harder. If my memories of Ann were closed to me, what about Angra? Angra Energy, my erstwhile employer… Computers. Me and computers. I wasn't an ordinary programmer or systems analyst or anything like that, though. I worked with them in a special capacity—very special, very valuable to Angra—using, yes, my unique sensitivity to the machinery itself, to the machinery and its functioning. I was too valuable for them to waste, even when I was no longer of immediate use. There was always the possibility that they might need me again one day. And so—

  The announcement that we would be boarding in five minutes broke through my thoughts, scattered them. I had gained a little more, however. If I could just remember some of the details and some of the people involved…

  Had the announcement served as a cue for the neurosis brigade to make its entrance, stage-left? Nothing had changed, but everything had changed. The pressure was back. A before-the-storm feeling, a feeling of imminent doom, was crowding in around me again. I could feel my grip on rational thought-processes loosening…

  But I'd been through it once and had survived. And this would be the last time. I swore that I would board no matter what. I rehearsed all of my defenses. I coiled into the fluctuating systems which surrounded me, into the flight display unit, working my way to the control tower, passing through its ever-changing batteries of data, weaving flight and weather information as on a great bright loom…

  The boarding announcement came. When I rose and faced the tunnel, displaying my boarding pass to the attendant, there was a wavering, a darkening. I stared into a dank and shadowy cave, serpentine forms writhing upon its walls.

  With my remaining objectivity, I estimated fifty paces to its turning, saw that there was no one before me, closed my eyes, extended my left hand to the side and counted them off, concentrating the while on the counting, the walking…

  Fifty!

  I opened my eyes then, saw that I was almost there and ran. I took the turn, passed into a larger, longer version of the death-wagon, and begged a steward to show me to my seat.

  "Forgot my glasses," I whined. "Can't read the numbers…"

  He was sympathetic, even if he did develop a third eye, orange skin and green hair on the way back to 10A, a window seat

  I strapped in, kicked my bag under the seat before me and huddled, trembling. The murmuring voices all about me seemed part of a sinister conspiracy, directed toward myself. I cursed, I prayed, and finally I coiled again, remaining a part of the plane's systems until we were airborne.

  But distractions would come. It was a long flight.

  I heard the steward ask me whether I wanted a drink. I told him to bring me a double Scotch and passed him the money, intentionally not looking at him. In doing so, however, I glanced toward the window.

  There was no window. It was all open air, as I had somehow known it would be. Stormclouds boiled beneath us. We were riding in a long, wide, open cart, and before us, tossing their curled horns and blowing fire, a thunder-black team of demonic horses dragged us toward a distant mountainpeak—Brocken, I knew—where fires flashed and a giant shadow swayed in the sky, tiny figures dancing below it…

  And my fellow passengers—ugly, malevolent, bats darting about them, black cats in their laps, a prevalence of handmade brooms. We were headed for a witches' sabbath, and of course I knew who was to be the sacrifice…

  My drink arrived—a sickly yellow-green in color, with drops of an oily substance floating on its surface.

  I took it and closed my eyes. I sniffed it. It was Scotch. I took a large swallow and coughed. It was Scotch.

  It warmed my belly like an explosion. I kept my eyes closed. I told myself that I was aboard an airplane headed for Philadelphia. I reached out and touched the cold glass of the window. I felt the back of the seat before me. Silently, I recited what I could remember of the Gettysburg Address. I listened to the flight
computer for a time. I thought of Cora…

  Yes, Cora. I'm coming. They're not going to stop me that easily—just a few demons, ghouls, assorted monsters. I know I'm making them up just to keep the trip interesting, to square my mental and emotional accounts. I'm not going crazy. The next time you see me, I'll be eminently rational as a result. I look upon all of this as cathartic, a beneficial working-out of everything that's been bothering me at the most basic levels. I'm not going crazy. Honestly, Cora, I can't be going crazy at this point, can I? It would be the ultimate in irony to gain so much—you, my own identity—and then to blow it all by going off the deep end. No, I have to believe that all of this is serving a higher end—rationality. It must, it must…

  I took another drink. Better. A little bit better now. Whatever was there hadn't hurt me so far. And wasn't the coven relaxing with drinks of its own now, anyway? Sigh, BelPatri. When did you give up smoking? It seems that you used to…

  And then the hand was tipped, and I knew that I had been had.

  "Would you care for a snack, sir?"

  Automatically, I opened my eyes as I replied in the negative. The steward was still monstrous, but my gaze went past him, out, down, into the open temple of columns, blocks, statuary above which we were passing, where youths played flutes and maidens danced. And there, in its midst, upon a kind of altar between flaming braziers, two gray old women were dismembering a child with their bare hands, tearing at it, crushing the bones in their jaws, blood streaming from their mouths. They became aware of my gaze. They turned and shook their fists. It was horrible, yet it was also familiar. It was—"'Snow'," I said aloud. "'Snow'! God damn you! I remember!" It was Hans Castorp's dream in the chapter titled "Snow" in Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain—which I had read in a Lit. course back in college, which I had mentioned to Ann, discovering that she, too, had read the book. We had spent an entire evening discussing the significance of that scene, of the merging of the Apollonian and Dionysiac, the Classical and the formless, intellect and emotion-She knew what an impression it had made upon me once. I took a deep breath. I smelled lilies of the valley. The aroma had been with me all along, subliminal, overwhelmed by the sensory assaults.

  My dear Ann, I said silently, if you are capable of hearing what I am thinking right now—screw you! You slipped up on that one. I know what you're doing. I know where you're coming from. It's not good enough.

  The view below me wavered, grew insubstantial. I was sitting in an airplane, with normal people. I was not going crazy, my psyche was not turning itself inside-out. She was somehow projecting hallucinations at me. But that was all that they were—all shadow and no substance.

  Minutes later, they returned. We were being attacked by super-fast pterodactyls which tore pieces out of the wings. I regarded them coldly for a time and then closed my eyes again. They were still distracting, and I wanted to think about important matters, like what I was going to say to my former employers when I reached their headquarters.

  Chapter 6

  ...And came down, as the man said.

  The sea-green Ouroboros serpent which had wrapped itself around the plane faded as we entered the landing pattern. We swept in, touched down perfectly and taxied to our gate with no delays.

  As I emerged from the tunnel, this one uncluttered with horrors, an airline agent—a short, dark-haired stock character in a crisp uniform—approached me.

  "Mr. BelPatri?"

  "Yes."

  "Donald BelPatri?"

  "Right."

  "Would you come this way, please?"

  I took a couple of steps with him, out of the traffic. Then, "Where are you taking me?" I asked.

  "The VIP lounge, sir."

  "Now why would you want to do that?"

  "There is a gentleman there, waiting to see you."

  "And who might that be?"

  "I don't know his name, sir."

  "Well…" I said. "Let's go and find out."

  I walked with him for a time. We finally turned up a short corridor. He opened the door and showed me in.

  There were four people in the lounge, three men and a woman. Two of the men were flunkies, I could see that right away—large, young and athletic-looking, with open-necked shirts under light jackets; clean-cut; bodyguard types. They were standing behind the older, jovial-seeming, white-haired man who sat at a table, facing me. He wore a dark, well-tailored jacket, white shirt, somber necktie. There was a bottle of mineral water on the table, and the three of them held glasses of clear, sparkling liquid. Not so the woman. She held a big, wicked-looking drink in an old-fashioned glass. She was seated at the man's right. Arresting features and complexion—quadroon, I'd say—with very bleached hair. Somewhere around forty. Had on a pretty yellow blouse with ruffles, a strand of dark beads about her neck. Stouter now than I remembered her, I saw, as she rose along with the man, to greet me. Her name was Marie—Marie Melstrand—I knew, as suddenly as I could recall having known her before. I couldn't remember much else about her, though. Both of them smiled at me.

  "Don, how is everything?" The Boss inquired.

  The Boss… We almost always called him just that. His name, however, was Creighton Barbeau, chairman of the board of Angra Energy.

  We…? I wasn't certain exactly who all the pronoun covered, as I possessed only a partial memory here. But there were images of myself as a member of some sort of group of special people who worked for him. And Marie, Marie was one of us.

  "Everything is very interesting lately," I said. "How'd you know I was on that plane?"

  He squinted his left eye and smiled, which I knew meant that he considered that a foolish question. Of course, I ought to know that he knew everything…

  "I'm concerned about you, Don," he said, moving around the table, coming up to me, squeezing my shoulder. "You don't look real well. I thought we were taking better care of you. Getting tired of Florida?"

  "I'm getting tired of a lot of things," I said.

  "Surely," he agreed, taking my arm. "Completely understandable. Not everybody likes an early retirement." Automatically, I let him guide me to the table. "Care for a drink?"

  "Not now, thanks."

  "… But you know how it was," he went on, raising his glass for a sip. "A lot of trouble there, getting you out of the way in time."

  He set it down and gave me a full, direct, open-seeming gaze.

  "Not that you weren't worth it, of course, God knows. But things were a bit ticklish for a while. Couldn't take any chances. Always worth going out of your way for a good man, though."

  "Donald," Marie said, in her precise way, before I could get off a reply. She extended her hand and I took it, again automatically.

  "Marie," I said. "How've you been?"

  "Not hurting," she answered, "and getting better at what I do. What more can a person ask?"

  "Indeed," I said, feeling something a trifle hostile behind her smiling mask.

  "I've thought of you a lot, Don," The Boss was going on. "You've been missed, you know. Considerably."

  "Where's Cora?" I said, turning toward him.

  "Cora?" He furrowed his brows. "Oh, Cora. Of course. Someone did mention her to me—a lady you've been seeing recently. You know—you know, Don—I'd be willing to bet that she never left the state at all. I'll bet she's still down in the Keys, looking for you right now. Had a little pout and left, changed her mind. You should really have left her a message."

  I felt slightly uncomfortable at that, because of the bare possibility that there might be some truth in it. He pressed on then, before I could voice any doubts:

  "You know, I don't think you really came here looking for her," he said, conspiratorially. "Maybe that's what you told yourself, but I think it was something different. I think maybe you're feeling better now than you were a few years ago. I think you came up here, whether you realize it or not, looking for some action. I think you really want your old job back."

  He studied my features at this last—almost hopefully,
I'd say.

  "I don't remember my old job all that well," I answered him. "Is Cora here?"

  "We could use you, if you're up to it again," he continued quickly. "Of course you could expect a sizable raise. Hate to see my people suffering from inflation. The competition's getting pretty fierce, you know? That big lead we had in solar energy's just been melting away. Too damn much government interference—and the other guys have been spying on us like something """but of James Bond. Got to hand it to them, though. They've come up with some clever tricks for that sort of thing—and it's costing plenty just to keep them at arms' distance. Not that they could ever hold a candle to one of my top people, if you catch my meaning. Bet you could really throw them the shaft."

  "Look," I said. "Maybe so and maybe not But it's Cora I want to hear about right now. Do you know where she is?"

  "Don, Don, Don…" he sighed. "You don't seem to understand what I'm saying. We really can use you again. I'm offering you your old job back on even better terms. We want you to rejoin the family. People look at me sometimes when I talk that way, but I really do think of all my personal aides as a family. I can't think of anything I wouldn't do for them to make their lives a little brighter."

  "Cora," I said through clenched teeth.

  "Might even help you look for your lady friend," he said then.

  "You're saying you don't know where she is?"

  "Don't know," he said. "We'll help you, though, if you'll help us."

  "I think you're lying."

  "Now that hurts, Don," he answered. "I try to be square with my people."

  "Okay," I said. "I know you keep records on everything—clandestine as well as above-board. Let me look, if that's the case. Let me check the Double Z files on current quiet stuff."

  "And you said your memory was bad. But that's right, you did work in Double Z a lot. Guess that would be hard to forget. All right. It grieves me that you don't trust my word, but if you want to check the records, you can. Anything you want. We can go and look at them right now."