THE TULPA

PROLOGUE

A thousand years ago a union of five champions forced T’fang, a being of

almost endless power and equally endless evil, off this plane of existence and
into the void between the worlds to rage in frenzied but futile fury. In the
timelessness of the void T’fang schemed, planned, and waited for his enemies
to grow careless… to look away from him toward other goals… to assume
their victory over him was final. They could not comprehend the endless
depths of his lust for power and his hatred for all lives not controlled by him.
He knew their victory was simply a brief pause in the endless struggle
between his will and theirs.

The question was: how to return? Any attempt to breech the divide between
worlds would alert them to the new danger. But… what if someone on the
other side of the barrier were to open it and allow his return? The champions
might not notice such a breech. He had to find a weak point in their armor…
a defect in their alliance. He searched for one among them who had such a
weakness… if not his own weakness, then a flaw in a person he trusted;
perhaps a follower… or a disciple.

He would not seek someone of great personal power… that could prove
dangerous to himself. No… he needed to find someone weak, someone full
of secrets unsuspected by his teacher. Lusts and hatreds he hid from his
mentor and even from himself; secret desires and raging hatreds pushed so
far down from his conscious mind not even he suspected what his smiling
face concealed. Such secret lusts and hatreds could prove to be a source of
power if they were awakened and controlled by the will of one as evil and
powerful as T’fang. With preparation he could guide the unsuspecting ally to
increase his strength beyond its normal limits… particularly if the disciple
thought it was his own master who was teaching him. Then, when the time
was ripe, he, T’fang, would add his own power to allow the opening of the
Way between the worlds. He must not be impatient, though. Slowly…
slowly… step by step… drop by drop… no one suspecting a thing…
deception… misdirection… that was the way to regain his freedom.
PART I: The Birth

Chapter 1

Cindy was so startled by the voice spitting at her over the phone, she
struggled up-right in the red, velvet covered loveseat nestled in the corner
telephone niche under some of her father's paintings.

A few moments earlier, she had been reclining in her favorite telephone
position… sprawled out on the love seat with legs dangling over the padded
arm… sneakered feet kicking in the air… head cushioned on a few heart
shaped pillows, also covered in red velvet.

The woman who had answered Jefferson Hope's telephone was hardly the
kind of person one would expect someone cultured and educated to have
around him. And Jeff was certainly the most cultured and educated person
Cindy had ever met.
In fact, the possibility of a woman answering Jeff's phone at all, had never
occurred to her.

"But', Cindy lectured her reflection in the mirror above the phone, sternly,
'that's just another example of how naive you are, despite being sixteen years
old… almost. Of course, Jeff is not going to live alone. Someone has to take
care of him while he's studying and writing. Anyway, it could be his
mother… or maybe his maid.'

Cindy giggled at a thought. ‘Did black people have black maids?’ she
wondered. ‘White people often did. Maybe black people had white maids.’
She would have to ask Jeff when she saw him next week. That was one of the
best things about Jefferson Hope… you could talk with him about anything.

But why had the woman been so nasty? Cindy tossed her blond curls in
annoyance as she remembered the woman's tone and language.

"Wha' chu want wif him?" the person had snarled.

"If he's there, please tell him someone is calling about his job at the lake," she
had answered, coolly… proud she had not been too flustered by the woman's
lack of manners to remember her own.

The woman had not made any answer, just had given a sort of grunt, and then
the phone was silent. Cindy hoped that meant she had gone to tell Jeff there
was a call for him.

Another thing that Cindy realized now, as she had time to reflect, was that the
woman had sounded jealous. Although not yet sixteen, Cindy was sure she
knew what jealousy sounded like… in other people anyway, if not in herself.

Why would a strange woman be jealous of her? Because of Jeff? That was a
novel thought and would take some time to mull over. Cindy had thought so
much about Jeff's poems and his comments on other poets, writers, and on
life in general, she hadn't really considered him as a man.

Of course, he was really good looking, and he was, after all, only a few years
older than her… well, six or seven. True, he was worlds above her
intellectually, but she was doing well in school and learning more all the
time.

She studied the image above her that was studying her from one of her
mother's many mirrors. These had been strategically placed so her mother
could see herself virtually every waking hour… no matter where in the house
she happened to be at the moment.

Blond curls framed an oval face that was, well, pretty… in a kind of ordinary
way… blue eyes… clear skin (Thank God)… and body filling in, finally.

Then Jeff's voice was on the line… deep, cultured, sophisticated.

"This is Jefferson Hope," he said. "Who's calling, please?"

"This is Cindy…“ she said breathlessly. "Cindy Feldman."

He responded with a low chuckle.

"You really did not have to append your sur name, dear girl. There’s only one
Cindy in my life, and I know her voice quite well."

He had adopted that teasing, playful tone he always seemed to use with her,
but there was special warmth in it she had never noticed before. Or, perhaps
it had always been there and she had never recognized it. He didn't sound like
another one of her teachers… he sounded like a man! Her heart gave an
unexpected skip in response.

Jeff was continuing, "I'm really looking forward to seeing you, Cindy. I've
been doing some exciting work I want to share with you. And, of course, I
want to see what you’ve been doing this past school year."

He paused a moment.

"And how is your father progressing with his meditations? Is he still going to
his guru… that Tibetan Lama?"
Cindy wrinkled her nose and Jeff could hear the change it made in her voice,
when she said, "I really think Daddy’s gone off the deep end, Jeff. I mean
Master Teshoo is really cosmic and a real Lama and all that, but I think
Daddy’s forgetting all the rest of his life and work just to meditate and it's
bending his brainwaves out of shape."

“‘Bending his brainwaves' "Jeff repeated, delighted. “That’s good, Cindy. I

hope you've been writing down your good ideas as I suggested to you."

"Oh, that's just the problem, Jeff," she said, disingenuously. "I never write
anything down, because I really don't think anything I have to say is clever
enough to write down. I'm not a poet, like you, or even an artist like my
father… "

He could hear the hesitation in her voice and it piqued his curiosity.

"Like your father… what?" he asked.

"Well," she began cautiously, then, glancing down the long carpeted hallway
towards a half open door, and she lowered her voice slightly. "I was going to
say, 'like my father used to be ' because he really hasn't done any work in
months now. He just sits in his room… meditating and smiling… and now
he's started to leave the door open so I can look in and I can see his lips
moving like he's talking to someone only there's no one there and he's not
even really saying anything… out loud, I mean… but when he comes out of
the room, he looks at me as though we're sharing some kind of secret only I
don't know what it is, but sometimes there's a bad smell coming from the
room and it's so much colder than the rest of the house, but when I mention it
to him, he doesn’t seem to notice it…"

"Whoa, whoa, Cindy," Jeff broke in, laughing. "Look, I can hear you're
worried, but in a couple of days you'll be up at the lake and you'll be able to
mention all this to your father’s friend, Dr. Kalin. If I remember correctly,
he's a psychiatrist, is he not?"
She murmured an affirmation and he continued, "So if there’s something to
be concerned about, he'll be able to tell you."

"Well," she said, doubtfully. "Dr. Kalin doesn't like the idea of ‘gurus’ all that
much… he may just laugh the whole thing off."

"Listen, Cindy, "Jeff said, seriously, "when an artist as talented as your father
gives up his work, there's got to be a reason. His paintings are commercial,
are they not? I recall you telling me one sold for $20,000 not long ago."

Her glance strayed over the walls, taking in the many canvases depicting,
mostly, New England farm and village scenes. Her father hardly ever sold a
painting for less than ten or twenty thousand dollars now. They really were
good. She almost missed Jeff's next words in her reverie.

"...and for what it's worth, "he said half-mockingly, "I’ll give you my
professional opinion when I see him."

"Oh," Cindy said, abruptly, "that's what I was calling about. Daddy wants to
know if you'd like a ride up to the lake with us?"

"That'd be great, Cindy," he said with enthusiasm. "It’ll get me there a day
before I actually start working, but it’ll save me a lot of hours on the buses…
particularly that last stretch through the back roads of Maine… that's a real
killer." He added after a moment, "And tell your father I’ll help him with the
driving so he can get some meditation time in the back seat while we discuss
your recent work."

"I'm so glad they decided to rehire you at the lake this summer, Jeff," she
said, breathlessly. "I was afraid that horrible Mr. Flaherty would vote against
you… after the way he treated you last summer."

Jeff's low chuckle resonated from the receiver.

"When you grow up black in a white world, Cindy, you learn to take racists
like Flaherty in stride. As long as I keep talking 'street talk’ in front of him,
he feels I'm in my place and no threat to him. It's only when he hears me
speaking like a 'perfesser', as he so charmingly put it last summer, that he gets
upset and feels he has to assert his superiority."

He paused for a breath. "So I'll be O.K. if I just keep 'shucking and jiving'
like Mr. Rapper."

"But I hate to hear you demean yourself in front of him, "she said with real
anguish, "and anyway, I think he’s terrible. I mean, it’s 1970. People should
be over all that racist business. He's an elected official… he should be more
sensitive than anyone as to how people feel. You’d think he’d be afraid of
losing votes."

Jeff laughed and she heard genuine mirth in his voice. "In his district, Cindy,
he would gain votes by having the papers carry a story describing how he put
some `uppity nigger ' in his place."

"Well, I'm going to talk with Maureen about it. Maybe she and her mother
can do something about her father."

"Ah… Maureen," Jeff said in a thoughtful tone, and Cindy regretted

immediately having mentioned her summer vacation friend. She pictured
Maureen with her long, flaming red hair… as full as Cindy's when she didn't
curl it. And the red-head had a figure that was really something… of course,
Cindy had caught up a lot since last summer… wouldn't the kids be surprised
when they saw her in her new bikinis… if she had enough nerve to wear
them! For a moment she tried to picture Jeff's reaction, then flushed in
embarrassment. After all, he was still on the phone with her!

There was a pregnant silence until Jeff finally asked, “When does your father
want to leave for Maine, Cindy?"

"Daddy wants to start next Tuesday, early," Cindy said in a rush, grateful for
the change of topic. "Of course, he’ll want to stop off at Master Teshoo's
place first for a blessing… he says it's going to be hard on him… not seeing
his guru all summer… although I told him he could commute the way
Dr.Kalin does… he doesn't have to worry about leaving me alone for a few
days… it's not like I'm a kid anymore. Anyway, I'm going to ask him to pick
you up first before he goes to see Master Teshoo. That way we'll be able to
sit in the car and talk while he's inside discussing philosophy, or meditation,
or whatever it is they discuss."

"Master Teshoo," Jeff repeated, thoughtfully. "Did you ever find out from
your father whether the old man took the name from Kipling’s book?"

"Daddy says Master Teshoo's old enough for Kipling to have taken the name
from him… and anyway, what's in a name… "

"Cindy, I hope you're not going to add '… that which we call our toes, by any
other word would still smell like feet…' "

The girl giggled. "I saw that in a book on graffiti. I wondered if I would ever
have the chance to use it and now you went ahead and guessed what I was up
to."

Jeff gave a mock groan. "Is this the repayment of all our hours of discussing
poetry… so you can write graffiti? I’ll have to use the time between now and
next Tuesday to think up an appropriate punishment for you… perhaps an
analysis of the Sonnets from the Portuguese… "

The girl laughed. “You chose the right topic," she chortled. "I did the Sonnets
as an elective in school this year."

"Hmmm," Jeff said. "Perhaps we'll make it the function of rhyme in Robert
Frost's poetry."

He paused for a moment.

"Ah, we must still fix a time, Cindy… do you think eight in the morning is
too early?"

"No," the girl said, with enthusiasm. "That's good since we’ll get to the lake
by the evening. I'll make sure we’re packed up and ready to go the night
before and I'll set the alarm for six o'clock and we'll be at your place at eight,
or maybe before," she finished, out of breath.
"Cindy, Cindy," he sighed. "We are really going to have to do something
about those run-on sentences. Well, we'll have all summer to work on you,
won't we?"

After a few words more of farewell, they broke the connection.

The girl hugged herself happily, then started dialing another number.

'I'll just call Maureen and let her know Jeff's riding up to the lake with me.
That will pay her back for being so obvious last summer about her crush on
him and for dropping hints that something was going on between them…
trying to make me jealous, I guess,' she thought.

As the phone started ringing, Cindy thought of Maureen’s racist father, and
she reconsidered. Suppose her father overheard them discussing Jeff's name
on the telephone… there was no telling what his reaction might be. Maybe
he could still get Jeff fired from working as the boat manager… that would
be terrible… it would ruin the whole summer!

She hung up even as her friend's phone was picked up. "I won’t tell her," she
decided, out loud, then reflected; 'Hey! Maybe I'm getting more mature after
all.'

She posed for a moment before a full length mirror. Aside from her father's
paintings and some antiques, the house, a long rancher, still showed her
absent mother's influence with its wall to wall carpeting and large mirrors
everywhere.

Cindy looked at herself critically, then thought glumly, ’Maybe I'm more
mature, but I'm still only five-three. And even if I'm bigger on top, I'm also
bigger down below, and I hate that. I'll probably end up just like mother… all
lumpy with the men always looking twice at her… I wonder if she’ll come
out to the lake this summer. It would be her first summer away from us if she
doesn't.'

A horrible thought popped in her head, chilling her.

'Suppose she and Daddy have agreed to send me to live with her for the
summer!!'

'No way,' she told herself. 'I'm not missing the lake for anything or anyone.
Let them work out their problems together, but leave me out of it!'

And anyway, her father hadn't said anything about it, so maybe there was
nothing to worry about. Still, the only reason she had given them for wanting
to stay with her father was not wanting to go to a new school. Maybe not
wanting to hurt her mother’s feelings would backfire now, if they said she
should spend the summer with her… and be hassled all summer about how
she looked and who her friends were and why did she want to read all that
poetry and literature, and was she still talking to that Negro person… the one
from the lake?

Ugh!

And her mother with all those so-called boy-friends. Pure yuck!

By now, Cindy had alarmed herself sufficiently with the image of a summer
languishing in her mother's apartment that she decided to approach her father
somehow to find out if they really could have planned such a thing behind
her back without telling her. 'Wait a minute!' she thought. 'Suppose my
asking him about it puts the idea into his head! Titanic time!' She needed a
different approach. ‘How would Jeff do it?’ she wondered. Maybe she should
just ask her father if he had heard recently from her mother… the 'approach
subtle!' she told herself. 'That was it!'

She passed down the long hall towards the half open door of her father's
meditation room, and peeked in.

In the dim light of a red bulb she could make out her father sitting cross
legged in front of a small alter where incense was burning. A small chair (her
father had said it was a 'genuine Shaker' whatever that meant) was placed
near the altar. It was empty, but sat there as though he was expecting
company.
The aroma of the incense was so thick and cloying it made her want to gag,
even though the air conditioning system was on and filtering the air. There
was an underlying sickening smell… the way her knee had smelt that time it
had gotten so infected, she thought. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Her father sat there, his lips moving periodically as though he were in
conversation with someone. The effect was so real, the girl stuck her head
further into the room to see if perhaps someone had silently entered from the
back door while she was on the phone with Jeff. But apart from her father,
the room was empty.

With her head inside, the underlying stench was even stronger, reminding her
of something she once did in chemistry class that had gone wrong. She
would have to ask her father to buy another package of incense. This one was
definitely spoiled.

Suddenly, her father looked over at her, catching her eye. As before, he
smiled broadly and winked, as though he and she were sharing some private
secret, or joke.

The girl shivered with a sudden chill. The room's air seemed almost frigid.
‘What could cause that?’ she wondered. ‘And why isn't Daddy cold, sitting
there hour after hour, not moving? Can that be healthy? No wonder Mommy
left him… if Cindy were married to someone who meditated all day and night
that would certainly get on her nerves, too.’

Of course, he hadn't really start meditating so much until after mother had left
them. Maybe there was a connection between her leaving, and him going
over-board with this meditation business. ‘Still,’ she thought as she looked at
his beaming face, ‘it makes him happy, and that was supposed to be what it
was all about.’ She went on down the hall to her room. At least one of them
was happy, she concluded, and enclosed herself in the private world of her
bedroom.
.p

Chapter 2

Jefferson Hope sat on his bed staring at the telephone, thoughtfully. His skin
was dark… not just deep brown, but almost coal black… as though some
purer strain of his African forbearers had been preserved within him,
undiluted. His features were delicate; with a thin nose, high cheek bones…
East coast African rather than West coast… a handsome, artistic face.

For a few moments Jeff pondered the implication of the conversation he had
just had with little Cindy Feldman. He pictured the skinny, gawky girl of last
summer and wondered at the shades of innuendo he had heard in her voice.
That girl had been bright and inquisitive, but sexless… hardly a candidate for
his attentions.

But now her voice had a lower, throatier resonance, which suggested the
mature female animal approaching her first heat. Well, he shrugged, her face
was certainly lovely enough to someday place high on his rating scale, but
unless her immature body had developed remarkably well since last summer,
she could hardly rate more than a 'C' minus, never mind the almost not to be
imagined 'A' double plus.

Nowadays, Jeff found he could hardly be tempted by anything less than a 'B'
plus or 'A' minus.
A loud 'thunk!' from the other room made him look up sharply from his
ruminations and frown. He rose fluidly, unfurling a six foot plus muscular
frame that owed nothing to sports or exercise. Jeff's genes had endowed him
with a magnificent physique, but his environment had directed him away
from contact sports and, instead, had inculcated within him a love of poetry
and literature. This in turn had had given rise to his dream. He would pursue
and find that 'Faustian Moment of Beauty and Truth than which there was
nothing greater’, so he would be compelled to cry out, as Faust had, "Stay!
For thou art beautiful!”

It was a poet's dream of finding a moment of transcendent beauty, and

capturing that Moment on paper in words, phases, description… the oils and
acrylics of the intellect.

What he was seeking, he believed, was Perfection; if not in himself, then in

someone or something he could relate to in such a way as to share or partake
in that Perfection.

And so Jeff pursued women, endlessly seeking his Moment of Truth. That he
sought perfection in a woman… well, that was because he was a man. No
doubt, there were women seeking the same dream of fulfillment in a man.

That he assumed a Moment of Truth to be sexual… well' it could hardly be

anything else, could it? What other experience was capable of so wholly
involving the total person… body, mind and spirit. Nor could he accept his
girl-friend Terry's notion that he was just trying to score as much as he could.
That would reduce his search for Truth to a mere reaction against some
neurotic impulse. He was quite certain he had out-grown any such hang-ups.

Terry probably reduced everything to sex because of her background. Being

used by men, and using them in turn, had almost extinguished the higher
spirit within her. Fortunately, Jeff had found her in time and was successfully
weaning her away from such grossness.

Anyway… if he were just trying to score, why would he have rejected almost
a hundred females last year alone? It was because they would not bring him
closer to Beauty or Truth. The mere physical release by itself was
meaningless. He would have to explain all this again to Terry many times
before she understood the meaning of his Search. Perhaps he should have her
read 'Man and Superman'. Shaw treats the whole question of man's pursuit of
perfection thru sexual ecstasy so profoundly.

But it might be beyond Terry's level of understanding right now. Although he

was quite pleased with the effort she was making and the progress she was
showing in her studies in night school, still she did not yet have his
background in literature and poetry. She was learning, but she still had a long
way to go before she could understand either his motivations, or Shaw’s
analysis of them. She would have to rise above her ghetto background with
the beatings, rapes, knifings that led her to prostitution just as he had risen
above the laughter and scorn of his classmates which he had endured,
growing up black in an all-white, wealthy neighborhood.

His mother had been a 'live-in' maid for rich 'white folks ‘and he had gone to
the local school (not the private one the rich man's daughter had gone to, of
course), where he was the butt of every racist impulse that had occurred to his
classmates. But the experience had not scarred him emotionally, no matter
what Terry might think. Instead, he had become more determined to succeed
in his chosen profession… poetry.

The thousands of hours he had spent thru all his childhood, pouring thru the
myriad of volumes in the mansion's great library, had determined his field of
endeavor… he would become a great writer. But it was the girls that had
determined his field of specialization.

Even before he had reached his full growth, they had pursued him… hot and
eager for a new experience. Beginning with the woman his mother worked
for, then her daughters, their friends from the private school, even two of his
teachers… Jefferson had poured out his creative energies into an army of
willing and eager females.

Of course, they had no idea he was rating them… and rating them very
strictly. He was convinced that somewhere in that forest of clinging arms and
entwining legs, he would find his Moment of Ultimate Truth. And he would
immortalize that Moment and the search that had led up to it, with pen and
ink.

If he had not already found that ultimate moment, it was not for want of
willing partners. But he had not found anything sublimely beautiful in the
way they clutched and clawed at him, trying to squeeze one last selfish
tremor from his muscular body. So far, it was anything but 'Ultimate Beauty',
but Jefferson endured, always seeking.

He thought again of Cindy… fresh, innocent (as of last summer anyway).

His relationship with her, so far, was built on Mind and Intellect. Perhaps, he
mused, that was what had been lacking up till now in his search… an
intellectual, even spiritual base, for the physical act.

He began to be excited by the notion. Had he ever had such a relationship

with one of his catalogue entries? He didn’t think so. He wondered how
much Cindy had matured since the previous summer. Perhaps he would
accomplish more in the coming summer months than writing and organizing
his book. Perhaps the little blond girl would prove to be the key to unlocking
the secret of the unification of spirit and flesh.

Another loud 'thunk' from the other room made him scowl.

"Damn that woman anyway," he muttered and hurried from the bedroom.

The only other room in the apartment was a kitchen-sitting room

combination. The furniture was sparse, but the place was neat and clean…
except for a half dozen notebooks and a few pens and pencils lying scattered
around on various tables and chairs. The floors and walls had been scrubbed
clean. Jefferson could not abide anything nasty or dirty.

As he entered, his stomach wrenched at what he saw. His girlfriend and

apartment mate (it was her apartment, after all) was withdrawing a stiletto
from the wooden kitchen wall. Impaled on the blade was a prodigious sized
water bug. He looked away as the woman scraped the insect into a trashcan
and rinsed the blade off in the sink. When he sensed she was through, he
turned to her and said, sternly,
"How many times must I tell you, I cannot stand even the idea of you
spearing those creatures on the walls of the apartment? The very thought of it
is nauseating."

She looked at him sullenly.

"If you're nauseous, go in the bathroom and throw up," she told him. "I hate
having these damn bugs crawling all over the place. The poison doesn't stop
them because there are too many of them." She shook her head mournfully.
"I guess if we're going to live in the slums and have neighbors that live like
pigs, we're going to get the overflow of their roaches," she sighed.

She dried off the knife with a towel and gestured vaguely with the blade at
him.

"Sides, it gives me a chance to keep in practice with Miss Betsy here."

Jefferson shuddered at the image of an army of roaches lurking outside the

apartment walls, waiting their chance to invade his territory.

He put aside his qualms to address a more urgent matter.

"I didn't say I was nauseous," he told her severely. "I said I was nauseated.
There's an important difference in usage."

The woman sighed, like a student who heard she will have to stay after
school.

"It sounds the same to me," she said softly, and closed the blade of her knife,
slipping it into the pocket of her slacks.

"One 'feels' nauseous," Jefferson lectured. "One 'is ‘nauseated. And roaches
impaled on the kitchen wall are 'nauseating'."

"Well, what nauseates me is having some young, white girl calling on the
telephone for you," she said, sharply, and slammed newly washed pots into
the cupboard.

Jefferson walked over to her and put his arms around her waist, pressing his
full length against her back. She was tall enough that he had to bend only
slightly to bury his face in her nicely shaped 'afro'. She smelled clean, despite
the heat of the apartment and the heat of her anger. Jeff liked his women
clean and neat. He'd passed up quite few chances with otherwise highly rated
women because, when he’d gotten close enough to take a good whiff, he’d
found their body odors offensive. A woman's smell after sex- something like
raw oysters- always made him slightly sick. He usually hurried immediately
from their embraces to the shower stall. It was a problem, when one was
seeking Perfection thru the unification of Spirit and Flesh, to be reminded of
the rankness of most flesh.

"Cool down, Terry," he murmured, soothingly. "That was only little Cindy
Feldman, calling to tell me her dad had offered to drive me up to Maine with
them."

She was tall enough to be looking him on the eye when she turned around in
the circle of his arms. "Feldman?" she said vaguely.

"You remember him," Jeff urged. "The artist… "

"Oh, yeah," she reflected,” …little fellow, always smiling." She laughed and
hugged him close in relief. “Little, smiley artist man," she almost sang out in
happiness. "Preaching love and brotherhood here for two solid hours last
year… never heard a cross or nasty word come out of his mouth… wanted
you to go with him to some Chinese mystic to be saved from the Wheel of
Rebirth. You told him the problem of the world wasn't 'rebirth' it was 'after-
birth'"

Jefferson chuckled. "I think I called it, 'The Placental Submersion of modern
man'… we're so over nourished with material things, we're virtually
suffocating on our sustenance. The placenta of materialism has grown so
huge, it’s smothering the baby, stunting its spiritual growth and preventing its
maturation."
She smiled at him. "I just love it when you use those big words in… uh, such
complex… uh, constructions," she said shyly.

"Well, listen to you," he teased her. "All that night school is starting to show.
Next, you'll be filling your own notebooks… writing your own book."

She frowned at his words and pulled away from him. "You reminded me of
what we were arguing about… your research project, as you like to call it."
She stared at him wide-eyed in sudden fear. "Jeff, you got to stop screwing
them white girls. I'm scared for you."

He laughed uneasily, ignoring her lapses of proper grammar.

"Those girls are our ticket out of 'Roach Haven' and into ‘Wonderland’,
Terry. Harry Tobias, my agent, said the publishers loved the first chapters of
my epic. They feel the sexual pilgrimage of an educated black man is just the
thing for today's market. He gave me that five hundred dollar advance out of
his own pocket, didn't he? He wouldn’t have done that if he didn't believe in
my work, and if he didn’t smell some real money on the horizon. If the book's
a success, he says we'll follow up with a sex manual and maybe a syndicated
column of advice on sexual hang-ups. The sky will be the basement of how
high up we'll be."

"But, Jeff," she said, thickly, her fear still resonating in her voice. "Why do
they have to be white girls? Can't you use black girls and call them white in
your book? Who will know the difference?"

"Terry, you don't understand," he said, patiently. "In my book I'm a black
Don Juan… searching for Perfection in its female manifestation. I do have
black girls too, but that’s not enough. White girls react differently to sex.
They have more inhibitions, for one thing. And even the most liberal whites
have some latent racism. So when a white girl has sex with a black man she's
not just opening her legs, she's opening her soul. In overcoming her
inhibitions about race, she also drops her other inhibitions. She gets turned on
beyond anything she may have experienced before. White girls do things
with me they would never dream of doing with a white boy."
He became moved by his vision of his literary efforts and started off across
the room, talking passionately to the ceiling and waving his arms,

"I'm talking about the spiritual pilgrimage of a black poet thru a soulless,
uncaring world. If he has to descend into Hell as Don Juan does, so be it. The
important thing is his search for Truth thru Ecstasy. I’m talking about the
energy of race hatred… one of man’s strongest emotions… being put into the
service of his sexual passions. The union of those two forces lifts the sexual
act to a new height and brings total release."

"Total release from being alive," she said, bitterly.

"Now what's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"Jeff," she said, looking at him with a haunted look, "you’re the smartest man
I ever met; but you don't know what the dumbest nigger knows… if those
white folks find out you’re getting into their daughters, they're going to rip
you apart."

"That's absurd Terry," he laughed, nervously. "The last thing any white
family would want is exposure of their daughter’s affair with a black hired
man. They might get me fired, or send the girl away, but I have careful
records of who and when, and where, and how many times. I would only
have to threaten to print that information and they would pay me to keep
things quiet."

She shook her head, gloomily. "People do things when they’re angry they'd
never do when they’re cool, and if that red-headed Irish racist KKK man up
there in Maine finds out you been doin' his daughter, he won't worry about
being a big-shot politician. He and his wife will come after you with fire and
death."

"Not both of them," he said mockingly as he picked up a notebook from the

table. "His wife's in here, too."

Terry shook her head and tears started in her eyes. “You’re digging your
grave with your cock, my man," she whispered, hollowly. "All I want is you
and me together. I don't care about the money. I just don't want to see you
dead. I’d kill myself, too."

"Terry, Terry," he soothed, "I want us together, too. Believe me, the next
book I write is not going to be written in a third floor walk-up. I'll be on the
Riviera, dictating my words to a secretary… and you'll be there too," he
added hastily.

She searched his face as though their future might be written there, then
asked, shyly, "You're still going to want me when you’re rich and famous?"

"Of course, Terry," he assured her, smiling. "Who was it who first believed in
me and supported me while I was writing?"

She smiled grimly. "You can add a few more things to that list," she said.
"Who goes to night school three times a week? Who gave up talking 'street
talk' and tries to talk 'propah English' though it breaks her head? And who
took a job in a crazy house for a lousy two hundred dollars a week, never
knowing when one of the crazies is going to go off his nut and start biting or
choking on me? One of the girls the other day had all her teeth knocked out
by a wild-man. He decided she was the Virgin Mary and that she'd been
screwing around on God. So help me, that's what he said," she insisted, as he
burst out laughing.

"Terry, you're precious," he told her. "I won't even chastise you for your
lapses in grammar and syntax, if you promise not to ruin our last week
together before the summer vacation with your prophecies of doom and
gloom."

"They're not my prophecies," she said quickly, then bit her lip nervously.

His face clouded in anger. "So, you're seeing that old charlatan again," he
challenged "…that Sister Laylah fraud… "

"She's got the power," Terry broke in on his tirade. "She cured old Mrs.
Wilkes when the Doctors gave up on her. And she told Mary Wilson not to
go on that vacation and the plane crashed killing everyone except Mary
because she had listened to her. Sister Laylah's good, Jeff," she hurried along,
"and she says there's a cloud hanging over you, full of blood and evil. You
shouldn't take trips or renew old acquaintances… not until after the
summer… by then the danger will be past."

His eyes were filled with scorn. "I refuse to discuss the mumblings of a
toothless old crone who has found herself a way of supplementing her
welfare checks by exploiting the superstitious fears of her gullible
neighbors."

Terry's eyes were wide and white. "But she says she saw your future and you
were screaming but no one heard you. Don't go up there, Jeff. Teach summer
school or something."

“I can make five times as much in tips alone at that country club than by
trying to educate a bunch of illiterates who prefer their ignorance. And the
solitude at night is just what I need to finish my book."

"But Sister Laylah says…“ she began.

"My mind's made up," he said, angrily. "Don't try to spook me with your
voodoo hoodoo." He stopped abruptly. "Wait a second… there's something
there," he muttered. "Spook me… don't spook me… don't spook the spook!
That's good! I might be able to use it someday." He snatched up a pencil and
notebook and began jotting down words, as Terry glared at him in frustration.

Her anger boiled up suddenly and she flared out at him, "You don’t even care
do you? I tell you your future is full of blood and you just start scribbling
some kind of 'Mr. Rap ‘crap."

Jeff stopped writing and slowly looked up at her, his eyes frosty and hard.
"'Mr. Rap' crap," he repeated softly, his voice ice cold. "You compare my
sincere efforts at literary creativity with the foul mouthings of some loose-
lipped word merchant?"

Terry grew alarmed at the chill in his voice and ran to him, dropping to her
knees and clutching his hands. "Don't be angry with me, Jeff," she begged.
"It's just that I'm so scared for you honey, I don't know what I'm saying.
You’re everything to me. If I lost you I wouldn't want to go on living."

"Does your concern give you the license to disparage my literary efforts?" he
demanded, but his tone was less icy now and more petulant.

"I'm sorry, Jeff. I wasn't really criticizing your work… I was only trying to
get your attention so you would listen to the warnings from Sister Laylah.
That's all."

"Hmmm," he said looking down at her. "Now that you've seen how that
creature has sown discord between us," Jeff pronounced, solemnly, "I trust
we've heard the last of her rantings and ravings in this residence."

"Sure, honey," Terry agreed. "Just forget I ever mentioned her." She was
relieved to see him relenting a little. Sometimes his tempers meant a week or
more of coldness that made Terry frantic to placate him and gain some
demonstration of affection.

Usually, his piques ended when he had written something that pleased him
enough, he had to read it to her. If she was enthusiastic enough in her praise
of his work, there was a good chance he would become warm and friendly
again.

If anyone had ever told her… a former hooker… as hard and street-wise as
they come… that she would one day dote on every word and gesture of a
college boy for her emotional wellbeing, she would have whipped out Miss
Betsy and taught the idiot all the ways a knife can be used by an expert to
persuade a fool out of his foolishness.

And yet, here she was… living in a two room walk-up… surrounded by a sea
of roaches… with furnishings that would make the Salvation Army blush.
Such was the power of love.

She watched Jeff slump into the sofa to resume his writing, and she thought
back to the start of their relationship, two years earlier. She had been working
a fairly busy district and for lunch liked to get away from her clients who
wouldn’t let her eat a burger in peace. It was mostly by accident she began
eating in a pub frequented by a college crowd. She liked it because no one
hassled her. The college boys were getting all the sex they needed from the
college girls… and without payment. So, what did they need from her?

It was while eating lunch one day that she overheard Jeff reading some of his
poetry. At first, it was so alien… so far removed from her work-a-day jargon,
she couldn’t understand what he was saying. But it piqued her curiosity when
the students would applaud and cheer his recitations.

One day when he sitting alone, she approached him. She was normally afraid
of no man. Her skill with a knife… her size and good looks… her knowledge
of what turned men on and reduced them to quivering satiation, gave her all
the confidence she had ever needed in dealing with men. But this college boy
now, tall and good-looking in a way Terry’s world scorned as being
feminine, un-nerved her to the extent she felt ashamed of her ghettoese and
her inability to mimic the polished English she heard from the college kids…
kids her own age, but a world apart.

She told herself, as she approached him, 'Remember… he’s only a man, and
any man can be led around like a child if you have a good enough grip on his
cock.'

Without preliminary greeting Terry had slipped into the seat opposite Jeff and
had demanded, "How you make up all dat trash you always rappin' at?"

Jeff was startled as much by her poor language skills as by her appearance.
She was dressed in leather (Terry's size and aura of strength made her a
natural for the role of dominatrix. The leather clothing was her uniform) and
was good looking in an obvious, trashy way. But there was an honesty in her
ignorance that appealed to him.

"Images," Jeff had said, loftily, "are everywhere. One has only to take note of
them and commit them to paper. Then the hard work starts… developing the
images into themes and the themes into coherent structures…" he looked
thoughtfully at her blank and uncomprehending face. "It's just like a painter,"
he explained, patiently. "He sees something that appeals to his artistic sense
and he puts it down on canvas in colors, adding his feelings and impressions.
I paint with words. I see things, or feel them, and use words to convey…
uh… to express the feelings I get from them."

Terry stared dreamily into his face. She loved to hear him speak and was
fascinated by the way his lips moved to form the different words. Were
everyone's lips as beautiful as his when he spoke? She had never paid
attention to lips, before. She wanted to keep him speaking if only to watch his
lips… and anyway, she didn't understand half of what he had already said.

"Can anyone do dat? Or you got to be born wif de knack?" she prompted.

Jeff studied her a moment, an inspiration forming in his mind.

"Perhaps some people have a greater facility… uh… knack than others for
the creative aspect, but everyone can learn to enjoy poetry," he explained.

Jeff studied her face for a moment. She looked healthy enough and well-
fed… better fed than Jeff, who was becoming tired of priding himself on
slowly starving to death for poetry. The money in his mother's will was
almost gone and the fees he got from his poetry readings were beginning to
feel more like hand-outs. An inspiration popped into his mind, and out of his
mouth. "Listen, how would you like to learn to appreciate poetry?"

She reacted with the wary suspicion instinctive in her profession.

"I 'preciates it already," she said, cautiously. Then, as his face fell, hastily
added, " 'Cos I would like to unnerstand it, so I could 'preciate it some more,"
(wondering how much the extra 'appreciating' was going to cost her).

They eventually settled on home-cooked meals as the price for lessons in

both English and poetry. When their curiosity about each other's bodies
became strong enough, they went to bed together and found that while each
had more than sufficient outlets for their sexual energies, their physical
strengths were compatible in stamina and they were able to satisfy each
other's needs. But their love-making often lacked real passion.
Terry was not able to forget all her 'tricks' and was too conscious of
physiological changes to really enjoy them, while Jeff seldom had sexual
interest in the same partner more than once or twice. His imagination needed
constant refiring for his body to respond; and one partner, however
imaginative she was, was not able to arouse him more than a few times a
month.

Of course, his pursuit of novel partners was unceasing. The first time he had
explained his search to Terry, she had nodded sagely and told him, "You just
one of those men needs a lot of pussy, only from different women, thas all."
When he became indignant over her lack of understanding, she had just
shrugged infuriatingly and dropped the subject. "Ain't no big thing," she had
philosophized, “been doin it since I was eight and my brothers and mother’s
boy-friends began climbin’ all over me.

Yet as the exchange of lessons for meals went on, they began to develop a
kind of dependency and affection for each other. Jeff was the teacher, Terry,
the eager student; or sometimes, Jeff was the performer, Terry, the rapt
audience.

When Jeff's money ran out, Terry suggested he move in with her. He had
acceded on the condition she give up hooking.

"It's stunting your spiritual growth," he had argued. “You’ll never be able to
understand the heart of another person if at the back of your mind you're
thinking of him as so many thrusts before you can bounce him off and on his
way."

Incredibly, Terry had astonished herself and her friends by giving up her
clientele and her freedom and setting up housekeeping with Jeff. They had
moved into a small flat in a poor section of town and Terry had begun
working as an aide in a mental hospital while attending night school. Jeff
continued auditing a few classes, and filled reams of note-books with his
ideas, finishing few of them but dropping hints of a major work which had
already attracted attention of literary agent.

It was only when Jeff announced last summer he was going to take a job in
Maine as a boat man (whatever that was) that Terry realized how much she
had grown dependent on him. He had an opinion on everything and everyone,
but always encouraged her to express her ideas in writing as well as in
speech. She had made up a major part of her lack of education their first year
together (she still couldn't do fractions, but then neither could Jeff), spent
much of her spare time reading and was top of her class in all subjects
(excepting math, of course).

By now Jeff could have been writing on toilet paper and Terry wouldn’t have
cared. The ex-hooker was hooked on him… on education… and on proper
English. She could go anywhere with Jeff and not embarrass him by the way
she spoke. Only when she was angry did she revert back to street talk… and
then it was more than half deliberate.

Like with that little white girl this morning. Terry had been sure she was one
of the students who were always after Jeff for some non-literary tutoring.
That was why she had turned on her so viciously. And now Jeff was insisting
he was going up to that lake in Maine, even though she had given him Sister
Laylah’s warning. Terry didn't begrudge him getting all the nooky he could,
but why couldn't the fool see the danger of what he was doing?

She finished the dishes quietly as Jeff continued his work, then she pulled out
her books to study, still brooding over Jeff’s impending departure next week.
He was too set in his path to change his mind, she reflected. But maybe she
could speak somehow to the girl's father. If he was a believer in mystics and
seers, maybe he could persuade Jeff the lake would be dangerous for him this
summer. She would try to call him. What did Jeff say his name was?
Feldman? Something like that. She would call him the next day if she could
find his number in the book.
 Chapter 3

Sitting cross-legged on a thin bamboo mat, a white robe draped loosely

around him, Harold Feldman maintained a classic meditation pose. Although
he was sitting, it was clear from the shortness of his torso that standing, he
would hardly be taller than his daughter. He had the same oval shaped face,
blue eyes and delicate features he had bequeathed to her.

Although only in his early forties, the scant remains of his baby blonde hair
made him look ten years older. His arms and legs were thin. At one time they
could have been said to be wiry, but now they had a flaccid, toneless look
that suggested a long period of inactivity and sloth.

Harold had seen his daughter look into the room and he wondered if she
finally had been able to see the image of Master Teshoo sitting in the chair
next to the altar, opposite him.

Until now, whenever there had been an intrusion of any sort which disturbed
his concentration, the image would flicker like a T.V. picture and then wink
out. But this time the image had continued to sit there, smiling its calm
Master Teshoo smile. Still, Cindy hadn't appeared to notice it, even though
she had looked directly at it.

Well, no matter, he thought contentedly. Soon she would be able to see it,
hear it, talk with it, and laugh with it… if not today, then tomorrow, next
week, next month, next year. It really didn't matter, he thought, distantly.
When the fruit was ripe, it dropped from the tree. Worrying about such
things would only detract from the amount of energy he could channel into
the meditation sessions.

Did he just think those thoughts, he wondered, or had the image spoken to
him again? How could he be sure when it was speaking to him, or when he
was only thinking it was speaking? Especially if he was alone and no one else
could hear it.

Harold resisted the impulse to chuckle. "Concentrate!" he told himself

sternly. "You mustn't let your concentration waver; not now, when you're so
close to success. You've made such progress in the last few months, it would
be criminal to lose any of it now."

‘Now that Beatrice is out of my life, there's no telling what I can accomplish.
It was probably she who held me back all these years. Only in the year since
she walked out, have I made such rapid spiritual progress.
He had Master Teshoo to thank for everything. The old Lama had helped him
gain so much in energy and concentration. He now got higher on meditation
then he ever had with drugs. 'Religion!' he thought, happily. 'Nirvana without
needles!'

He was well rid of his wife. A wife would only keep harping about money
and bills. She had driven him crazy because he had stopped painting and
working in her advertising business. “Even if you don’t want to work for my
agency, Harold,” she had yelled at him, “free-lance! There are plenty of other
agencies that are looking for talent likes yours. Sitting at home, meditating all
day is juvenile!” But it was that pursuit of money… the prostituting of his
creative talents… that was what been draining away his creative energies.
She couldn’t see it was stupid and mind dulling. He had plenty of savings
left. And when they ran out he could sell this place, or the summer place up
in Maine. Why should he waste his creative energies chasing dollars, when
the Infinite was beckoning?

The image of Master Teshoo smiled at him, and bobbed its head as though
nodding his approval of his thoughts.

Of course, it can read my thoughts, Harold told himself. It’s mine, after all! I
created it out of my own mental energies. How could it not know what is
going on in my mind, when it still is in my mind.

"But not for long," the image assured him. "Soon I will be real and you will
be free… free of the Wheel of Rebirth… free of mere mortality!"

Harold smiled smugly and returned to his work of molding the image’s form
under its orange robes. Visualizing the Master’s face had been easy from the
start, he mused. Probably because I'm an artist, it was easy for me to perfect
this form of meditation which requires the disciple to concentrate on, and
visualize, his Master's face.

In fact, after seeing Master Teshoo for the first time at one of the old Lama's
public talks, Harold had returned home and drawn dozens of 'memory'
pictures of the kindly old man. He knew then that he had found his Master.
That reminds me, he chided himself. I must remember to drop-off some
money this week for the Master's expenses. I’ll just slip it to K'fahn, his
servant, so the Master won't be embarrassed by accepting charity.

He returned his wandering attention to the image opposite him and visualized
the thin arms within the flowing orange sleeves. He had the image reach
upwards, as though in supplication, so the sleeves slid down, revealing the
wrinkled, parchment yellow skin. He pictured blood throbbing in the veins
and arteries that meandered like blue worms down the ancient arms. He could
sense the heart within the frail chest beating ponderously, sending the blood
impulsively along.

Drawing on memories from art school anatomy classes, he pictured the

interwoven muscle fibers in his creation's limbs as they contracted and
lengthened with its movements.

Once again his mind went wandering, returning now to the first few weeks of
practice, when it had been so easy to call the likeness of his Master to mind,
just by closing his eyes.

Undistracted by noise or activity going on around him, Harold had been able
to shut out the world and 'see' the kindly, ethereal face of the old Tibetan. He
found such comfort and reassurance of his self-worth in those deep eyes, he
had been only slightly worried when the image of his Master's face had begun
to come, unbidden, into his consciousness, intruding at all hours of the day
and night. Eventually, as his desire to work began to wane and more canvases
lay half finished, or only just begun, he tried to limit its encroachment on his
daily activities.

But his resistance was never more than half-hearted. It was as though he
could feel it calling to him from somewhere in his mind, urging him to close
his eyes and call it back into existence, if only for a moment. Who could
resist such a plaintive cry?

He became so fascinated by the life-like quality of the image that his brain
became like a microscope, fine tuning the focus of his mental picture. He
sharpened the details of the yellow face, framed by wisps of thin, white hair,
imagined tears glistening on the slanting, onyx-black eyes, saw the delicate
hairs in his nostrils stirred by the ebb and flow of shallow breathing.

But the turning point in Harold's meditations, indeed in his life, came one day
when he, impulsively, opened his eyes and the image of the Master had hung
there before him for one breathless moment before flickering out!

Almost shaking with excitement, he had once again closed his eyes and
called up the image. This time when he opened his eyes, it stayed a few
heartbeats before vanishing.

Dizzy with the possibilities, Harold spent almost every waking moment
meditating, persevering for months until, finally, the image was able to resist
its banishment. In dark or light, the face of the Master never left him unless
he dismissed it. For hours on end it hung before him, the wordless appeal in
its eyes, stronger, more insistent… more demanding.

It came back to Harold that he had read somewhere the only once in every
generation was someone born who could meditate on a mental image with his
eyes open. Thrilled with his own achievement, he had labored to develop the
image, making it more three dimensional and softening the colors into
pigments that matched his Master's own wizened flesh tones.

Eventually, the visage had become so lifelike, floating incorporeally above

him, he had begun addressing comments to it. He was not at all that surprised
when it answered him back in the high, sing-song voice of Master Teshoo.

It was during the first conversation he had with it that the visage had
convinced him that he, Harold Feldman, artist and physical runt, had the
ability to do what only the most adept of the Tibetan Masters was able to
accomplish… the creation of artificial life… a Tulpa… a mental being with a
life of its own, independent of its creator.

The power needed to create such a being was enormous. The mental picture
would have to be converted to physical reality. Harold trembled at the
implications of the effort involved, even if he had such power.
Nonsense! The image had replied. Only proceed step by step… hair by hair…
wrinkle by wrinkle… and the way will be easy. Do not think of the final
being; only of each detail as it comes to you.

First, the picture must be complete in every detail… arms, legs, torso, blood,
hair… all had to be visualized until they, too, would continue to exist when
his eyes were open and his attention elsewhere. Then, the traditional orange
robes of his Master would have to be draped over the form so the body,
hidden by the robes and unseen, would maintain its shape.

The mental strain of such concentration had been enormous and Harold was
often left weeping with exhaustion after meditating hours without rest.

Yet, slowly, atom by atom, cell by cell, hair by hair, the figure of his Master
had taken shape. It took months until the day finally arrived when Harold
opened his eyes and there sat the full form of his Master before him. The
effect had been so real and powerful that for one confused moment, Harold
thought Master Teshoo had silently entered and seated himself while his
student had been meditating.

Almost without breathing, Harold had given a mental command and, when it
rose in response and walked toward him, he had stared at it wild-eyed, unsure
whether to rejoice or flee. But the image had smiled a reassuring Master
Teshoo smile and had leaned close to him to whisper loving words in his ear.

Was it only Harold's imagination that he felt a slight touch of breath from the
image's lips as it spoke to him?

Then he did weep, and sobbed aloud, "I'm going mad. I must be."

But the duplicate of Master Teshoo would not let him harbor such negative
thoughts. Instead, it made a fantastic suggestion.

"Who but one of the Seven Mighty Ones of legend could accomplish what
you have done? Can there any longer be doubt that in you one of the Ancients
is reincarnate."
"But I remember nothing of being a Mighty One,” Harold had protested.

"That does not signify," the copy of Master Teshoo had retorted. "Did not the
old one teach you that rebirth wipes clean the memories of even a Mighty
One? Therefore they are unwilling to reincarnate… for who would willingly
surrender such great power as they have gained over a million lives and
deaths and rebirths, if they could avoid the loss?"

The little artist thought a moment, then asked, innocently, "Then why have I
been reincarnated, if by doing so I risked losing all the power I have gained
over a million incarnations?"

The image of Master Teshoo answered quickly.

"Only a being of great compassion would risk losing everything he had

gained thru the millennia by reentering the Wheel of Rebirth to offer succor
to those still trapped in the endless cycle of birth and death. Such a
compassionate one are you, O Mighty One."

The idea intrigued Harold.

"It is true," he reflected, "that when Master Teshoo spoke of the Seven
Mighty Ones of Legend, he did say rebirth could deprive even one of them of
all memory… although there would be a propensity towards spiritual power."

He smiled to himself and his heart began to beat faster as he considered the
idea that he, little Harold Feldman, the butt of all his classmates jokes, from
grade school thru college, might actually be the reincarnation of one of those
who had reached the highest level of spiritual evolution.

Imagine the looks of surprise and astonishment on the faces of the other
disciples, and even on Master Teshoo's face when he announced publicly that
one of the Seven had been reborn in him.

But, wait a moment! Is that how a true Master would reveal himself?
Wouldn't he rather simply produce the Tulpa he had created and let the fact
of its existence speak for itself?

Harold had burst into laughter visualizing the shock and astonishment that
slowly gave way to awe and reverence as his Tulpa, the very likeness and
form of Master Teshoo, strode into the assembly room. Why, Master Teshoo
himself might get up and give Harold his cushion! Even the image of Master
Teshoo had laughed with the low gentle laugh of the Tibetan Lama.

"It will be a fine joke,” it had murmured to Harold, "but one which must not
be spoiled by allowing them to guess the 'punched line' as you say. It must
be our secret until the last moment of revelation, lest the old one, thru
jealousy, seek to prevent your success."

Harold had been scandalized. "Master Teshoo would never be jealous of my

spiritual progress," he had protested. "I forbid you to have such a thought."

The image of Master Teshoo had hung its head in shame and wept, bitterly.

"I am sorry, O Mighty One! Please forgive my error and my foolishness."

Harold enjoyed the moment. There was an exhilaration in the exercise of

absolute power over another being that was known only to the gods. With a
wave of his hand, he dismissed the image.

"You may not return until you have done full penance," he had commanded.

Meekly, the image had faded obediently from view.

Dimly, as it vanished, he could hear the murmur of its voice begging
forgiveness.

But that was months before. Now the image was with him almost
continuously. As often not, Harold would discuss matters with it endlessly,
arguing back and forth as equals.

He no longer sought to order it around, because he knew it would not obey

him. Occasionally, he wondered if he may not be going mad after all, but the
image would argue him out of such negative thoughts.
"Think you are great, and you will be great," it would tell him. "How did the
Mighty Ones rise to be so high?" it would ask, rhetorically. "Only by putting
aside all thoughts of limiting their power. Strive for the most you can achieve
and you will achieve the most you can."

Now, hours every day, Harold would strengthen the image, feeding it his life
energies like a savage desperately striking his flint and feeding the shreds of
kindling with the tiny sparks; watching the first bit of smoke slowly grow and
brighten into flame.

And, like flame, as it grew stronger, the image became greedier for more fuel.
Harold poured himself into fanning the flames of his creation until he felt he
had no more left to give. Still it was not satisfied.

"Free your emotions," it urged him. "You have depths of feeling you have not
yet begun to plumb. Release your anger, your hatred, and your lusts! Let
those energies pour forth and I shall surely live!"

Harold was horrified. "Those are negative emotions which destroy

spirituality," he protested. "Master Teshoo says…"

"Master Teshoo!" the image said in contempt. "He seeks only to assure none
of his disciples will rise higher than he. Does he share with you the Ways of
Power? No! He tells you are not ready for such knowledge… that it is not
necessary for your spiritual development.

"I tell you, the strongest feelings are those which are hidden from other men.
And why are they hidden? Because all but a few are afraid for others to see
their true selves. And who are those that are not afraid what others think? The
strong!

"So the way to power is to free all those forces which men fear and call
dangerous… negative… evil."

The gentle features of the old Lama had sharpened with his passionate words,
and his eyes flashed fire. Harold recoiled before the force of these words, his
face twisted with fear and confusion, and he struggled to his feet.

"STOP!" he cried wildly. "I won't listen to any more of this. You are my
creation. What can you say except what I put into your mouth? You are a
projection of my unconscious. You’re not really there. How come no one else
ever sees you? Or hears us talking together?"

He clamped his hands against his head in despair.

"We can't really be talking at all. I'm only imagining we’re talking. I'm going
mad, I know it."

He glared at the image of Master Teshoo. "This time I'm not only going to
send you away until you repent. This time I must dissolve you all together."

A look of panic flashed over the kindly face of the Tibetan Lama.

"Don't do that, Master," it gasped, harshly. "Don't send me back to the cold
and the dark. I'll be good," it promised. “I’ll only say what you want to hear
and do only what you tell me. Only don't send me away."

Its tone was so contrite and its despair so great, Harold was mollified and
relented, at last, of his anger.

"Well, just don't tell me anymore nonsense about negative emotions being
positive ones, or Master Teshoo being jealous of me and you can stay."

Harold reseated himself on his bamboo mat and assumed the posture of
contemplation.

"Anyway, I still want to surprise Master Teshoo with you. So behave

yourself, or, I’ll get rid of you and create another Tulpa."

The image of Master Teshoo rose and bowed low in abject submission… so
low Harold could not see the grin that twisted its features for a moment.

"All will be as you desire, O Mighty One," the image assured him. "The old
one will indeed be surprised by your creation… most surprised, indeed."

Harold ignored the thing standing before him as he mused to himself,

"Anyway, I no longer have those negative emotions of anger, hate or lust. I
love all of God's creation and His creatures… without regard to race or
religion. And as for sexual feelings, I gave them up."

His glance strayed to the slightly open door.

"Last year when my wife left me, I asked Master Teshoo's permission to
remain celibate and he agreed. I haven’t looked at a woman with desire in all
that time."

He looked back at the image of Master Teshoo standing contritely before

him. "All my energy is turned toward the Infinite," he declared, proudly.
"With Master Teshoo's help, I’m going to be a Saint, someday."

The image of Master Teshoo fell at his feet, fawning and reverent.

"And I will help too, O Mighty One. I will be with you at the lake all summer
long. I will be the voice of Master Teshoo while you are separated from him,
speaking words of loving wisdom to you. Thus, you will advance more
quickly towards sainthood."

"Yes," said Harold, firmly. "After all, that was my intention in creating you…
to remind me of the wisdom of Master Teshoo. His teachings are enough for
me. And when he has seen I have created a Tulpa… why, he will open the
doors for me to even more advanced, esoteric wisdom."

"Until that blessed day comes, I will be Master Teshoo for you," the image
promised. "You will grow from strength to strength and you will give me a
real life of my own. And if your strength of will falters, you will receive help,
Mighty One. Trust me!" it said with conviction.

And bowing and scraping, the Tulpa backed slowly away until it reached its
chair and settled itself in place. A more alert observer would have wondered
why the chair gave no sound of protest if a weight had suddenly descended
on it. But Harold's attention was elsewhere. He was staring in rapt fascination
at the swirling patterns in the dust on the floor. Had they been there earlier?
Or had they just been caused by the flowing orange robes of the image of
Master Teshoo, as they dragged along behind him?

The chill in the room made him shiver. He looked at the clock. If he hurried,
he would just have time to catch Master Teshoo's evening lecture for the
public. He would slip K'fahn the money he had drawn from his savings. The
image of Master Teshoo nodded its approval of his intentions from its chair
by the smoking incense.

As Harold left the room, he turned to flip off the red light. By its dim glow he
could see the Tulpa raise a finger to its lips, warning him to remain silent
about his new creation. The thought come into his head, "It must be our
secret a little longer. Speak no word to him of it." And Harold knew he
wouldn't.

.p
 Chapter 4

Master Teshoo looked around at the members of the small group of inquirers
sitting before him on bamboo matting spread out on the floor. For many
years since he came out of his native mountains of Tibet, countless faces of
every color had peered at him in this way.

Some came seeking power; some came seeking 'truth’. Others were just
'seeking'. It was these whom the Lama could welcome with a glad heart. He
knew it was they who were waiting for his words. The others were only
hoping to have their own ideas reflected back to them by a 'recognized
authority'.

He sighed deep within himself at the suffering ahead for such souls, and
began to speak.

"The Truth cannot be formulated into words… therefore all questioning is

pointless since answers from another can teach you nothing."

"Then how can we learn from you?" asked a bearded youth.

"You cannot," the Lama told them firmly. "For what I have to say is not
worth hearing. To the starving man, what benefit is it to him to read a menu?
The word 'hot' gives no heat, but fire does."

"Then what are we doing here?" a bleary-eyed, unkempt youth demanded.

"Yes," the Master replied, amiably.

In disgust the young man stood up. "I'm splitting," he announced. "This old
fart is boring and crazy. The crazy part… that's cool and I can deal with it.
But being bored is like being dead."

A few people got up and followed him out, but the old Lama was unperturbed
and did not even glance their way.
A young girl asked plaintively from behind a waterfall of dirty-blond hair,
"But can't you point out the way for us to follow?"

Master Teshoo shook his head. "The way is so great the strongest are not able
to cross it, yet the goal is close at hand."

"Oh, I get it," the bearded youth said. "I read it once in a book on Zen. 'Your
everyday mind is your Buddha-mind.'" he quoted and sat back with a
satisfied grin.

The Lama looked at him sadly. "If I say you are wrong, I will do a great
injury to the Truth," he said, calmly. "But if I say you are right, you will think
you know what you are talking about, and I will have done a great injury to
you."

The youth's face clouded in anger, and he jumped up. "That other guy was
right," he muttered. "You are nuts." He stormed out in a huff.

The old man smiled at those who remained sitting before him. "They are not
far from correct," he said with a twinkle in his dark eyes, "The Master and the
Madman are quite alike, outwardly, and yet they live worlds apart. Often they
both appear to do the same bizarre things… actions which appear strange to
others. But, while each has his reasons for his strange actions, the Master's
reasons are not those of the Madman, nor can the madman comprehend the
Master."

He drew a large coiled spring out of one of his sleeve pouches and held it up
for them to see. Trailing a finger around the loops, he explained, "You see,
my finger begins here at this point and moves in a circle until it comes back
to same point… but it isn't the same point, is it? For now there is a distance
between where I started and where I am now."

He moved his finger further up the spiral. "So it is here, at the final point.
Here again the madman and the Master are in the same place… yet an infinity
separates them." His eyes reached out to touch individuals.

"Do you understand?" he asked, and many of them nodded. The young girl
who asked to be shown the way bowed her head behind the curtain of her hair
and murmured, “I don't think I’ll live long enough to move the length of
infinity that separates me from Masterhood."

The Lama smiled compassionately at her. "Infinity is not a matter of length,"

he said, "but of depth. You must not go outwards and upwards… you must go
inwards and deeper to find Truth."

Standing at the back of the room, unobtrusively, Harold smiled to himself,

knowingly. He understood the Master’s words. Since creating his Tulpa,
everything seemed so much clearer to him now.

The Lama put the spring back into his sleeve. "The difference between the
Master and the madman is that one knows what he is, and the other doesn't."
He smiled enigmatically. "But which is which?" he asked, softly, and waited
for their questions.

Hours later when the last inquirer had left, Harold made his obeisance to the
Lama and received a blessing. K’fahn, Teshoo’s servant, saw the artist to the
street door and Feldman drew him outside to press on him a thick wad of
bills. Resisting an impulse to look at the money, K'fahn thrust it hastily into
his sleeve pouch and gravely thanked the smaller man.

"Your generosity to the Master's needs will earn you much merit in your next
existence," he intoned as a blessing.

"I don't want merit, K'fahn," Feldman said, happily. "It’s enough to know the
Master's cares are lessened by my help,” then he skipped like a child to his
car as the gaunt K'fahn waved a benediction after him. Waiting politely until
the car had pulled away, the man turned and reentered the house to prepare
his Master's customary evening cup of tea.

Treading quietly on silken slippers, the tall Tibetan knelt before the Lama and
served him his tea on a simple bamboo tray, conscious that his old knees
were beginning to creak at the effort. Still it was a service he gladly
performed for his old master. Although K'fahn was now in his eighties, he
knew the Lama to be far, far older. ‘Just how old?’ K'fahn wondered, not for
the first time. Surely no one was still alive who could tell him. After all,
when the six year old orphan K'fahn had first entered the Lamasery in the
high mountains of Tibet, the oldest men there had told him Lama Teshoo had
already been an old man when they had entered the Lamasery as children.
"Older than the stone wall of the great Hall of Learning in Dalai," they had
whispered.

Teshoo had offered no explanation when he announced he was leaving to go

to the strange land of America, nor had any asked him what his business was
there. Such an intrusion on the affairs of a holy being such as he was
unthinkable. They gave him what money he thought he would need from the
Temple treasury and gave him the young K'fahn to guide his steps through
the mountain passes.

K'fahn would never forget that trip. Inching their way down the frozen trails,
with the old Lama murmuring as they progressed, 'It has changed much since
I last passed this way'. As though rock and crevices could alter their form
with the passing of years! Such were the naive thoughts of the young novice.
Now, after years of service, he no longer questioned the number of years his
Master had, nor how deep his wisdom ran.

That winter, wandering through the mountain passes had taught him that
miracles were not as uncommon as men thought. Many times he had seen
mountain leopards crouched to spring upon them come fawning like little
kittens to the Lama’s hand. Or, when the snows had become so heavy and the
winds so fierce they could no longer move and were in danger of freezing,
the old Lama showed the power he had over his old body. The seemingly
frail flesh began radiating heat until the snow for yards about them was
melted.

And there were other miracles he hardly dared remember. The mountain pass
that had been blocked by and earth-quake… the master meditating in the
snow until a huge creature appeared. ‘Yeti’ thought a terrified K’fahn. But
the creature, whatever it was, had started tossing boulders taller than he was
aside until a path was cleared for the two humans to walk through. With a
wave of his hand Master Teshoo had dismissed the creature and it had
vanished. Later the Master had explained it was a ‘Tulpa’, a mental being that
could live and act until the task it was created to do was accomplished.

They had walked out of the mountains and into America and K'fahn still had
no idea why the Master had come here. He knew only that now he had
become an old man and no successor had been found to fill his place after he
had gone. Unless…?

"What is it, my son?" the Lama asked, breaking in on K'fahn's thoughts.

K'fahn hesitated. He didn't know if suggesting a name as his eventual
replacement would be an affront to his Master. Perhaps if he approached the
matter indirectly…?

"Surely, this Mr. Feldman is a fine man with a high spirit, Master?"

"Why do you say that disciple?" the old Lama asked, frowning slightly.

"Because he is so friendly and open. He radiates love for all… both the clean
and the dirty. It is also said he does many works of charity for the sick and
distressed."

K'fahn hesitated a moment before suggesting, "I believe he desires to devote

all his life to being your disciple… even as I did."

The Lama looked at him sharply.

"Yet you do not mention the one thing that makes the deepest impression on
you, my disciple… he secretly gives you many new hundred dollar bills to
pay for our rent and expenses."

K'fahn flushed red under his pale yellow skin and drew out of his sleeve the
thick wad of bills Feldman had forced on him.

"Do I do wrong, then, in accepting his gifts, Master?" he asked, in confusion.

"No, K'fahn," the old man sighed. "It is not wrong to accept such gifts by
which the giver may obtain merit and so lessen the negative Karma of his
past sins. What is wrong however, is to be blinded by the wealth of another,
you cannot see the giver clearly as a soul also bound on the Wheel of Rebirth.
Nor do you see your own heart, lusting for his money, my son… and that is
wrong," he added gently.

His disciple hung his head. "I am ashamed," he whispered, hoarsely.

"I do not desire your shame, K'fahn. I desire your improvement. But, to
improve, you must be free of the past…" he said kindly, "both the Past which
is the Now you are living through every moment and the Past which is the
totality of your previous lives, which shapes and limits your future."

The disciple nodded mutely. "On what shall I meditate, Master?"

"Meditate on wealth,” he said, then closed his eyes a moment, then added in a
soft and somehow distant voice, "Do you not recall, disciple, you were once a
great Rajah in India? Untold wealth was yours." The Lama opened his eyes,
still gazing off into immeasurable distance.

"You said of one man, 'Let him be trampled by elephants!', and it was done.
Of another, 'Let him be raised up to high position', and it was so. You gave
him your daughter in marriage… and then they slew you, treacherously."

He looked at K'fahn. The younger man's wrinkled face was confused and a
little frightened. "I do not remember," he murmured.

"And yet the memories are close to the surface," the Lama said. "Perhaps, it
is time." And, leaning forward, he tapped his disciple once, lightly, on his
forehead.

A look of great pain washed over K'fahn's face.

"I do remember," he gasped in a choked voice, and then doubled over,

clutching at his stomach and groaning in agony. “They poisoned me!" he
shrieked, and collapsed to the floor.

The old Lama was immediately at his side and pressed his hand firmly
against his forehead. "Be at peace, K'fahn," he intoned. "It is only as a
dream."

At once his servant relaxed, opening his eyes in wonder. "I have had a vision,
Master," he whispered in awe. "It was so real! I saw myself sitting once more
at the great table in my Hall of Pleasures with hundreds of my retainers and
my concubines… and they were laughing at me… at me! I was dying before
them, poisoned… and they were laughing!"

K'fahn jumped to his feet in sudden agitation, wild hatred burning in his eyes.
"I shall destroy them all," he shrieked. "My guards! To me!" Then looking
about the simple room in sudden confusion, he suddenly sagged. "No," he
whispered, passing a trembling hand over his eyes. "That was a long time
ago, wasn't it?" he asked, sadly.

The old Lama nodded. "Far in the past," he said, gently, "they are all as the
dust of the earth now… yet still part of the present. For you cling still to your
pain, your hate, your lust for wealth and pleasure and power… and your
desire for revenge on those that wronged you. And so you envy all who are
above you… who enjoy in this life the things you still cling to from your
previous existences. It is on this clinging to the things that cause pain that you
must meditate, K'fahn, for you are bound to the Wheel of Rebirth by their
power over you."

The disciple nodded mutely. He shivered slightly. Drawing his long sleeved
robe about him as though a sudden chill had reminded him of his mortality
and of the question of his successor, he asked again, "What of this Mr.
Feldman, Master? Is he not a good and charitable man; one worthy of
discipleship?"

The Lama hesitated a moment and then answered, pensively, "Frankly, he

puzzles me somewhat, disciple. There are places within him into which I
cannot see… and yet I sense no great power in him. He conceals hatreds and
secret lusts, as do all who are on the Wheel, but these are clear in him. Yet
something remains hidden and he laughs to himself at the surprise he will one
day present to me."

“Perhaps he intends to build you a great Lamasery here in this country," his
disciple suggested. "This one is surely too mean and poor for one as
illustrious as you, my Master."

The Lama looked at his disciple with pity, seeing again the look of avarice
which gleamed for a moment in his eyes at the thought of a magnificent
structure raised for Master Teshoo by his grateful followers.

"I desire no great building, K'fahn. Besides…" he became thoughtful again.

"It is not that, I am certain. While I sense nothing sinister in this secret of Mr.
Feldman’s, neither do I sense anything good… and therefore I am surprised.
Not only does he succeed in hiding from something which I now greatly
desire to know, but there seems to be no reason for him to hide something
that radiates neither good nor evil."

"Perhaps the neutrality of that which he hides is a result of his shielding it

from your view?" K'fahn suggested.

The old Lama laughed lightly.

"Disciple," he declared, "if you had any idea of the power such an effort
would take, you would not ask this question. Harold would have to be one of
the Seven Mighty Ones of legend to accomplish this 'hiding and shielding' of
which you speak.

"Yet, of the Seven," he mused, "only one is now incarnate. Four of the
remaining six have interests and cares other than fooling old Teshoo Lama."

He rubbed a thin hand over his chin, reflectively.

"The remaining two are evil beyond any words to describe them. But such
evilness as theirs cannot remain hidden. It manifests itself on this plane of
existence by an overwhelming stench of death and decay… and by eyes that
burn with the fire of their hatred for all other living beings. For they would
have all life and power reserved unto themselves alone, grudging other
beings even the tiny sparks of their existence."

K'fahn looked at him with horror. "Who can protect us poor mortals from the
likes of such evil ones, Master?"

The old Lama laughed lightly. "It is their very lust for power that protects the
world, disciple. For these two evil ones would not willingly reincarnate,
since, to do so, would mean to surrender most of their memories and much of
their power. They would remain evil; for, though nothing was evil in its
beginning, these two have chosen evil over so many incarnations, it is their
present nature and all but unchangeable.

"Yet, in power, they would be as children against any of the other Mighty
Ones, so weakening is the trauma of rebirth. Thus it is, that they reject the
lure of the flesh and remain unincarnate… unable to indulge the lust for pain
and death which so delights them, and only occasionally able to create a
'window' in Time and Space thru which to 'look' into our plane of existence
and cause such mischief as they are able."

Distractedly, Master Teshoo settled onto a meditation cushion and mused,

"No… Mr. Feldman has not the power of a Mighty One, and yet he has
hidden his secret from me. It is most strange… I wonder…" The Lama fell
silent, and after waiting a respectful time, his disciple left him and sought out
his own meditation cushions to consider desire in all its pleasant and
frightening forms.

.p
 Chapter 5

Terry stared from the window at the large, new station wagon as it
disappeared around the corner, carrying Jeff away for the summer. She hated
it, and the smiling little man who had laughed off her frantic telephone calls
with a suggestion that she visit his guru, and his beautiful, young daughter
with her blond curls that had quivered in the early morning breeze as though
she were already trembling in Jeff’s embrace. Oh, he had his eye set for her
all right. Terry could see that in the way he held her hand for just a brief
moment too long when he had greeted her. The fool!

She felt her resentment of the father and daughter slowly being transmuted
into a resentment of Jeff. Maybe he did think he was writing the great
American novel… and maybe he was. But Terry knew a case of the hots
when she saw one… and her man had the hots for that young girl… that was
for sure. And knowing Jeff, if he wanted her, he'd get her too.

Her anger was melting now into a sense of foreboding. ‘The big dummy!’ she
thought. ‘He just doesn't know white folks. Messing with them was fine as
long as it never became public. In the dark all colors became black. But in the
cold light of day, the differences were clearly defined.’

She could understand a man wanting to get all the pussy he could, or a
woman getting all the cock she wanted. But why did it have to be white? I
mean, it was all pink inside, wasn’t it? And after the first few ruttings the
novelty must have worn off. Yet Jeff, to her knowledge had had dozens of
white girls, and still, he wanted more.

She shook her head and wondered if she could discuss this with one of the
psychiatrists at the hospital… without him taking it as an invitation to share
her bed.

Her sense of foreboding grew more acute and oppressive. Was she just
depressed… blue… because Jeff had left? Or was there something else?
Something about the car? Or maybe, something near the car? Yes, there had
been something there… something sinister. But… what? She couldn’t put her
finger on it.

With sudden resolve, she drew on slacks and a tee shirt and stepped into
some sandals. Before she locked the door, she made sure her knife was in her
pocket. Her knife, her looks, and her quick mind had gotten her thru her first
twenty-one years. If there were to be another twenty one, she couldn’t afford
to be without any of them.

When she emerged onto the pavement, she felt the tension in the street and
eased Miz Betsy quietly out of her pocket and into her palm. Something was
going down. There were little knots of young toughs hanging around. That in
itself was not unusual, but something in the way they stood drew her
attention. A certain alertness… like young tigers readying themselves for the
pounce onto an unsuspecting victim.

Oh, yes, Terry realized. It was the first of the month… check day in the
ghetto. Welfare checks, Social Security checks, unemployment checks…
they'd all be arriving in the mail today. And the meat eaters were on the
prowl… sniffing for a scent of some of the money that would be circulating
for the next week or two until it was all gone and the ghetto returned to its
usual state of non-liquidity. Can’t rob on credit, now, can you? It was now, or
wait until next month, for the meat eaters.

Even if they themselves didn't rip off a check casher, they might try to rip off
the guy who did… sharks trying to pry loose some meat from the jaws of one
of their fellows before he could bolt it down. Terry swaggered towards her
car with her most casual moves. Sharks attacked not just when they smelled
blood, but also when they saw even the slightest variation in the swimming
pattern of their prey suggesting injury… illness… some sort of weakness.

Well, Terry had lived her life among sharks like them. She was a shark
herself, when she had to be. It was no big deal.

One knot of youths had detached itself from a larger group and moved
towards her on an intercept pattern. They would reach her before she could
get into her car. The dumb door would probably stick closed anyway like it
usually did.

Well, they had seen Jeff leave with his suitcase, so she’d better settle this
now, or she'd have shit from them all summer.

The leader blocked her path, cupped himself in crotch and announced, "Why
you walkin' right on by, baby, when I seen your man take off and I got what
you gonna be missin' right here?"

Terry shifted as though to slip by him and try for her car, but he grabbed for
her, as she expected. Pivoting quickly so she was now facing the youths,
Terry flicked open the blade and swept it in a long arc that sliced thru the
youth's cheap shirt, grazing the skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood
to the surface.

The boy yelped, leaping backwards. "She cut me," he shrieked. "The bitch
cut me!"

He started forward again, murder on his face, but Terry stood poised, knife
ready for another sweep.

"Listen good, turkey brain," she hissed. “‘n I wanted to, seven inches higher,
yo' throat's open and wouldn’t be 'nuff blood left in you for yo' friends to
raise the price of bottle of wine from the blood bank to toast yo' mem'ry
with."

The youth hesitated… his aggression fading fast in the face of someone more
aggressive than him. "Wha’ 'chu wanna go 'n cut me fo'?" he demanded.

"You put hands on me, my man, 'n no one does that lest I wants his hands to
be on me. Can you dig it?" she scowled at him, taking in his friends as well.
They were hanging on the edge of violence, only waiting to see which way
their leader went. Terry pushed harder.

"You put hands on me again, I'm gonna cut you a new mouth… like one of
them circus clowns… the kind that goes from ear to ear."

He backed down. The bitch was crazy! "We was just havin' a little fun," he
complained. "Ain't no need to be cuttin' no one."

"You havin' fun 'n me havin' fun ain't the same thing, my man," Terry hissed
at him, knowing she had won, but not daring to let the pressure on him ease
off.

"I come walkin' past you again, you pretend I'm invisible, or I’m gonna be
wearin' yo' dick for an earring."

She swept them all with her glance and then abruptly turned away, leaving
them wide eyed with fear. They had grown up with violence and knew it
intimately. They had no trouble recognizing the genuine article when they
saw it. From now on she was invisible as far as they were concerned.

The danger past, Terry sauntered to her car, a small green V.W. whose
license plate read 'ROACH'. Terry didn't even mind when the door stuck as
expected. She felt better for the energy that had crackled in the air and was
now dissipated. It had taken some of her depression with it, but left her more
aware than before of the sense of foreboding that had begun when Feldman's
car had first come into view.
There was something going on… something beyond the violence of the
street, or her anger at Jeff… something spooky… something… Voodoo.
Whatever was going on, Sister Laylah was the only one she knew who could
handle Voodoo.

.p

Chapter 6

She drove several miles into an older but better neighborhood of brownstones
with massive oak doors and leaded glass windows. She stopped in front of
one old house whose stairs were of reddish sandstone, deep grooves in them
where a century and a half of shoes had worn a path into the soft stone.

She hesitated slightly before entering, then steeled herself and opened the
door. Terry walked up two flights of stairs, slowing as she neared the top
floor. One did not approach Sister Laylah's too casually. As usual, her door
stood ajar, inviting visitors. No one in their right mind would ever think to
come here to rip off Sister Laylah.

Once, a long time ago, some one new in the neighborhood came prowling
around, lured by legends of jewels and money hidden under floorboards. The
police had found him in the street, naked and gibbering like a monkey. He
was still a patient in the hospital where Terry worked, his condition
unchanged after fifty years. Occasionally, Sister Laylah would ask her how
her little monkey was doing, and would chuckle when she heard the words
‘No change’. Terry never looked at him without shuddering.

She pushed the door open, slowly, and peered about cautiously before
entering. A body just didn't hurry into the domicile of someone who had the
Power.

The place looked empty in the light of the two floor lamps with beads
hanging from their shades. Their light was dim since their bulbs were small
and weak, like Christmas lights.

Terry looked towards the corner where a large over-stuffed chair with ball
and claw feet stood. There was a huddled mass of rags or clothing on it, but
that corner was so shrouded in darkness, she couldn't make out if something
else was there.

Gradually, as though an obscuring cloud had passed from before the sun, a
light grew in the corner where the chair was situated, slowly spreading
towards her. A glint in the shadows gradually brightened and widened to be
revealed as one large eye, open and peering at Terry.

The young woman took an involuntary step back in fear, but a chuckle came
from the heap of clothing on the chair and a sudden movement seemed to
rearrange everything so that an old woman now sat there, staring at her with a
grim smile on her withered lips.

"Scair't was't tha?" the woman chuckled. "First, tha' ought to look close to
make certain there’s naught to be feared."

The old woman fixed Terry with an eye as sharp as a nail.

"Gone is he, then?" Terry nodded mutely. The old woman stared at her own
palms as though Terry's future was written there.

Her skin was tan, not brown. If she had Negro origins, it did not reveal itself
in her features, nor her speech, which had almost a Scottish lilt to it; but
rather in her surroundings. The walls were covered with masks, shrunken
heads, bows and arrows, blow guns, shields and spears… an anthropologist’s
dream collection.

No one knew where it all came from, since Sister Laylah had lived in that
room longer than anyone else had lived in the neighborhood. And besides,
she wasn't the kind of person one asked too many questions about.

"Why hast tha come, then? Surely not for help for one who would not be
warned. I told thee I could do nothing for such an one," the old woman
croaked.

Terry came closer and squatted down Indian-style in front of her. Her black
hair was thick, brushed back on one side, leaving the beady eye exposed.
The other eye was covered by a heavy lock of hair that was arranged for that
purpose. No one Terry knew of had seen that other eye. One woman claimed
she had been watching one day when the hair had fallen away for a moment
and an empty eye socket had been revealed. As she had watched in horror, a
small lizard had poked its head out of the eye hole and looked at her.

Shrieking she had fainted and awakened in her own bed, with no idea as to
how she had gotten there. Terry skeptically suspected she had dreamt the
whole thing. She had great respect for Sister Laylah, but lizards living in a
person’s empty eye socket was too much!

Terry glanced away from Sister Laylah's gaze, unsure where to begin. When
she looked back she almost choked. The hair over the covered eye had
twitched, as though something looking out had suddenly ducked away from
her view.

Sister Laylah chuckled, peering closer at her. "What wast tha wantin' then, if
naught for him?"

Terry shuddered and gathered her nerve. The sooner she spoke her piece and
got out of here, the better. "Since Jeff went away, I've been feelin' somethin'
bad… as though it's pressin' in on me," she said haltingly, exploring her
feelings even as she described them; "as though I'd seen somethin' I wasn’t
supposed to and made somethin', or someone, angry with me."

Sister Laylah drew in her breath sharply and her eye grew brighter. "It could
be, child," she muttered. "Tha hast something of the Sight. I'd hoped to teach
you the use of it. Well, we'd best learn what tha hast seen." She leaned
forward and struck Terry lightly with her knuckles in the center of her
forehead, and the girl felt an electric charge run through her, as though her
hair would stand on end. "Speak it," Sister Laylah commanded.

As though in a dream state Terry spoke hesitantly. "I remember now. There
was a cloud over the car as it came around the corner. I started to call to Jeff
from the window to look at it… to see if he saw it too. It was sick looking…
grey with streaks of yellow, like some sort of nasty fog or smoke of some
kind. I could feel there was something in the cloud. It spoke to me, as though
it could feel me looking at it. It was angry with me. I… I wasn't supposed to
see it. It told me to forget that I had seen it… it pressed me, hard. I didn't hear
a voice. It spoke into my mind. But it was powerful… and evil."

Sister Laylah drew back sharply at her words, her eye wide and frightened.
"So! That one has returned and tha hast seen him, hast tha?" she muttered.
"And were spelled to remember naught, but I have drawn it forth from you
and now I share your danger. It may seek us out if we interfere further. I must
consider a defense, lest we both be destroyed."

The old woman retreated within herself, and Terry, released from her power,
slumped to the floor, exhausted. She realized now she had felt malice
emanating from the street below as she had watched Jeff leave. She had
thought at first the malice was her own anger at Jeff’s stupidity and the ones
taking him from her… but now her mind's eye recalled what she had been
forbidden to remember. Something of power and evil had gone off with them
in that car. What she had seen had been blocked from conscious awareness
until Sister Laylah had opened the pathway into the deep recesses of her
unconscious.

She looked up again and saw the old witch-woman was holding something
cupped in her hands. She held it as though it were precious, or, perhaps, as
though it were alive. Terry hoped it was not the lizard, and gave a shudder.

Slowly, the old woman opened her hands, and, as though all light in the room
was drawn to it, a small grotesque figure glowed in her palms. Terry
shuddered again as she looked at the gruesome thing… part bird it seemed
with a huge beak above, but with a swollen phallus below.

"Ku'tufu,” the old woman breathed. ”Very powerful demon… but maybe not
strong enough if it comes looking for you again."

Terry could feel power, and malice, in the thing cupped in the old hands. But
even as the young woman looked at it, it seemed to shrink until it was only
like a golden charm.

"Ah," the old woman sighed. "He accepts you, Ku'tufu does. He will ward."
The old woman offered the charm to her, but Terry flinched away from the
power hidden in it.

"Fear him not," Sister Laylah ordered. "In such charms are hid only a bit of
the demon itself. He gives of himself to a proper maker, sealing of himself in
the charm. When a human treasures it, the bit grows in power, drawing
slowly on our devotion. Someday he comes to claim it again, but til then, it
protects the holder who honors it. If another of the demon world would come
to strike at you, Ku'tufu would protect you… both to honor the pact made
with the maker of the charm, and to protect the bit of himself sealed in the
charm. Were it captured by another demon, that one could use it to work
magic against Ku'tufu. Thus, do such charms work to protect the wearer."

The old woman sank back into her chair as Terry stared at the charm now
cupped in her hands. She watched Terry through a narrow eye. "Better if you
do what he ordered anyway," she murmured, "and forget what you saw.
This, and Ku'tufu, may suffice." She began humming a soothing tune,
weaving a spell of forgetfulness, and, magically, Terry felt her mood of
foreboding lifting.

She stared at the little figure in her hand, wondering why Sister Laylah was
giving her such a grotesque present. Although it was kind of cute in a way…

"Hast tha a chain for it, then?" Sister Laylah asked, soothingly. In response,
Terry drew a gold chain over her head, opened it and slipped the idol onto it,
replacing the chain around her neck. The idol disappeared into the deep
cleavage between her breasts. It seemed warm against her skin. After a
moment, she forgot about it.

"When all is over," Sister Laylah was saying, "come back to me for studying.
Tha hast much promise, though your young years of violence have done little
to foster your gifts. Yet who can say what healing powers a lowly weed
might have, and what beauty a bud might reveal before the time of its
blooming has come?" Terry wondered what she was muttering about.

After a few minutes more, she said good-bye and withdrew. Her heart was
light and carefree. When she had driven back to her place, the world seemed
bright and cheerful. She smiled a friendly greeting to the toughs on the street.
They ignored her as though she were invisible.

.p
 Chapter 7

During the ride to Master Teshoo's, Cindy was acutely aware of Jeff's
proximity as they sat next to her father in the front seat of his station wagon.
She could never remember having been so filled with a sense of someone
else's physical presence before. She imagined she could feel the warmth of
his body radiating from his arm flung carelessly across the back of the seat,
behind her.

Despite the cold air being thrown out by the air conditioner, she felt she was
burning up from an inner heat that was almost feverish. She was sure her face
and skin were flushed red. It was mortifying. Surely anyone looking at her
could tell what she was thinking. What am I thinking? Cindy asked herself,
wildly. She didn't know. She was just glad Jeff and her father weren't paying
any attention to her.

For his part, Jeff was astonished at the way Cindy had filled out during the
year. She was spectacular… way up in the ‘A' range. He had forgotten how
some young girls can have a tremendous growth spurt around their fifteenth
year, particularly if they had been immature previously. She had been a cute,
gangly thing at the end of last summer. Now she was a beautiful ripe female.

Jeff's admiration for Cindy's ripeness was not so complete that he was
oblivious to Harold's driving. Several times Feldman had almost precipitated
accidents, avoiding them more by luck, it seemed, at the last moment.

'This silly mother is going to kill us all,' Jeff thought, anxiously. He resolved
that when Feldman came out of the Lama’s place, he would find Jeff at the
steering wheel. Even if he had to drive all the way to Maine, he wasn't letting
go of the wheel. The little guy could sit in the back seat and play with
himself… as long as he left the girl in the front seat with me, he added
mentally. ‘Man… she is ready’, he thought.

He could sense her nervousness as she sat next to him. He deliberately

ignored her in order not to give her a focal point for her feelings. He couldn't
do anything about her until they were alone somewhere, so it was better to
have her upset without knowing why. She might not understand why she was
upset, but Jeff did. Skin against skin… nature's[dh1][dh2] love potion… the
one aphrodisiac that always worked. Put a man and a woman near each other
long enough and their skin would pull them together like magnets.

When Harold finally pulled to a screeching stop in front of a large brick

building that still had a large, faded sign announcing it to be 'Union Hall
108!' even he seemed aware of his erratic driving.

"Sorry," he said with a cheerful grin. "My mind's been on my Master and not
on the road." After he had flung open his door and jumped out, he said, with
puppy dog eagerness, "Are you two sure you don't want to come in for a
blessing?"

Both Cindy and Jeff politely demurred; Harold shrugged, good-naturedly,

"Your loss."

For a moment, he hesitated as he stood on the pavement, and glanced into the
back seat, frowning slightly. It was the first time Jeff could remember seeing
anything but a smile or a smirk on the artist's face all morning. Then, with a
sudden change, he was darting up the stairs and ringing the bell. A few
moments later, the door opened and he disappeared inside.

Cindy had moved slightly when her father had gotten out and Jeff twisted in
the seat, so as to face her. She seemed reluctant to look at him. ‘The skittish
female,’ he thought amused, ‘waiting for the male to make the first move.
Then she’ll either run or 'assume the position'. And she won’t know which
she'll do up to the moment she does it.’

Well, they had all summer. No sense in spooking her with a premature
advance… couldn't do anything out here in the open anyway. Still, it wouldn't
hurt to have her know she was on his mind.

"I think, Cindy," he said, "it would be better if I drove. Your father seems
distracted for some reason this morning."

Then Jeff leaned past her and pulled the keys from the ignition. As he leaned
back, his arm brushed hers, and the girl jumped like she'd been hit with a jolt
of electricity. Her face reddened even more. He ignored her, opening his door
and stepping into the street.

When he got in on the driver's side and seated himself behind the wheel, he
saw she had moved all the way over and was pressed against the door. Still
ignoring her, he adjusted the seat for his long body. But when he began
adjusting the rear view mirror, he frowned.

"That's odd," he murmured, more to himself that to her.

Cindy looked over, hearing the puzzlement in his voice.

"What's odd?" she asked, faintly.

Jeff looked at her, distractedly, his passion momentarily forgotten.

"The rear view mirror," he said, thoughtfully. "Your father had it adjusted all
wrong. From the angle of its trajectory, I would guess he had it aimed for the
back seat. No wonder his driving was so erratic."

Cindy suddenly forgot her shyness.

"It's like I was telling you, Jeff. He's really acting strange lately."
"Strangely," he corrected her automatically, his mind still weighing the
significance of the mirror.

"It's as though he wanted to watch something in the back seat,” he mused,

"although there’s nothing in the back seat to watch." He looked over at the
girl. “He hasn't been having trouble with his eyes, has he, Cindy?" he asked.
"That would explain the curious angle of the mirror, as well as your report
that he's given up his painting. If he were losing his sight, he might not want
to admit it. Some people are prone to ignore unpleasant facts in the hope
they'll go away. Despite almost universal experience that they seldom do," he
added, dryly.

Cindy frowned in concentration, glad for the moment, at least, that she had
something else to think about other than the way she felt when Jeff's arm had
touched her. She reviewed the last few weeks with her father.

"No," she said, finally, "I don't think so. But I really can’t be sure," she
appended, hastily. "I mean, he hasn’t been bumping into furniture, or walking
into walls, or anything like that." Jeff laughed.

"I wasn't expecting anything quite as radical as to require the immediate

acquisition of a seeing-eye dog, Cindy. I was thinking more on the order of…
say… some change in the angle of vision… or direction… but I'm afraid a
rational explanation will have to wait for examination by professionals in the
health field."

He glanced up at the door of the old Union Hall as it opened. Harold

reemerged into the mundane world. He came out smiling, as always, and was
waving to another person who followed him out onto the steps. Jeff could see
it was an oriental, who stood bowing and waving at the retreating artist.

Harold accepted Jeff's position in the driver's seat without question, and
jumped into the back seat. He rolled down the window and called out some
words in a sing-song foreign language… a farewell, Jeff guessed.

As he pulled away, Jeff remarked, "If that was Master Teshoo, he seemed
somewhat different from what I had visualized."

"Not at all, Jefferson," Feldman beamed at him from the back seat. "That was
K'fahn, the Master's disciple and servant. I left Master Teshoo in his inner
sanctum. I believe he was about to meditate. K’fahn sees to all his mundane
needs, leaving the Master free to focus on the needs of his disciples."

Harold seemed to be growing uneasy in the back seat, Jeff noted in the rear
view mirror. He fidgeted and looked about. Once he went so far as to roll
down the side window and stick his head out the open window, craning, it
appeared, so that he could look up at the roof of the car.

Finally, Jeff felt he had to distract the man who seemed to be growing
increasingly agitated.

"Lose something, Mr. Feldman," he asked, curious if the man had an

explanation for his behavior.

"No," the artist frowned, "not something…" He stopped abruptly, leaving his
voice hanging and they expected him to finish by adding, "someone". But he
sat silent and frowning.

It was not until many hours later, after they had left both the city and the
State behind, that Jeff, glancing into the mirror, saw Feldman smiling once
more, and apparently engaged in vigorous, but silent, conversation with
someone at his side.

A chill went down Jeff's spine. The man was sitting there, his lips moving,
his face animated, so that the illusion of speech was perfect. At times he was
still, but intent, as though listening to a response. But there was no sound.

'He's definitely cracking,' Jeff thought to himself. 'Maybe I won’t have all
summer with Cindy after all. If her father flips out, she's liable to be sent to
live with her mother. That would ruin everything.' Perhaps he would have to
move faster than he at first thought. It would be almost criminal to let the girl
get away… she was so ready.
Cindy, having once asked her father a question and getting no answer, looked
back at him. He was sitting there, grinning like a monkey and talking without
words to on one at all. She turned back to the front, inadvertently glancing
over at Jeff. He had seen her look back and, checking in the mirror, saw what
she had seen. They looked at each other, and he put a finger to his lips to
silence the exclamation she seemed about to make. She sat there, stiffly,
miserable and helpless.

When Jeff moved his hand over hers in a comforting gesture, she accepted it
and didn't pull away. At least in him she had a friend who understood what
she was going through.

If her father didn't improve during the vacation, she would have to talk to Dr.
Kalin. For sure, he would call her mother… and that would be the end of her
summer vacation.

She glanced over at Jeff as he concentrated on his driving. He was so

handsome, strong and intelligent. She felt a sudden warmth again flow from
his flesh to hers and she grew embarrassed once more. But when she tried to
withdraw her hand from his grip, he tightened it, holding her firmly. He
turned and smiled reassuringly at her, and she decided not to fight the warmth
and security she felt in his strong grasp. She would have to talk with Dr.
Kalin, yes… but perhaps not too soon.
.p
 Chapter 8

Dr Kalin looked at his son, sprawled in the easy chair, and couldn't keep the
disapproval off of his face. Michael, a young man of twenty three, was broad
shouldered and deep-chested and had long lanky legs that suggested he would
tower over his five and a half foot tall father when he stood up.

What had caused his father to lose his psychiatrist’s clinical detachment was
Michael's mode of dress. His clothes were black and made of heavy cloth
which must have been uncomfortable in the heat of the summer's day. But
the young man seemed cool and unconcerned by the temperature. He had not
even bothered to take off the long black coat he was wearing.

His hair was black and curly and he twirled a long side-lock around his
fingers as he watched his father. He wore a large skull-cap that almost
covered his head and seemed to have been knitted from a cord of some sort of
heavy, white wool. His beard was very long and heavy. A small suitcase sat
near the door, attesting to his recent arrival.

"I don't understand it," the psychiatrist was saying. "From the time you were
bar-mitzvah to the day you left for Israel, I don't think you've ever darkened
the door of a synagogue. All through college and graduate school, you
complained about the harassment you were getting from Hillel House, and
other 'identity intensifiers' as you called them. They wanted you to join them
in being ‘good Jews’ by praying three times a day; you wanted nothing to do
with them, as I recall.

"Then you go off to Israel to do some research project for the government on
battle trauma, and now look at you! Instead of working on an important
research project, which could get you published, I learn you've been working
on a farm."

"Kibbutz," his son corrected, gently.

"Whatever," his father said with a disparaging wave of his hand. "Now you
show up, looking like a… a… an anachronism… a transplant from the
seventeenth century. What happened to you? Did you get hit on the head?"

"No," his son retorted, quickly, "on the heart."

Michael picked up a glass of water that sat on a small table by the chair and
took a sip.

"If it makes you feel better, Dad, just assume I'm going through a phase and
don't take me too seriously."

"Is that the way you feel I brought you up… not taking you too seriously?"
his father countered, and he couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his
voice.

"Nonsense, Dad," Michael reassured him. "You did a great job with me."

His father shook his head reflectively and frowned.

"Maybe I made a mistake when your mother died by raising you by myself
and not remarrying."

"There's a good psychiatrist," his son grinned at him, “always looking for
underlying motivations and reasons."

He leaned forward and stretched out a long arm to take his father’s hand and
squeeze it affectionately.

"You did a great job with me, Dad," he repeated. "I finished high school,
university, and my doctoral work a good American citizen… ready and
prepared to take my place in the army of consumers along with the rest of my
fellow countrymen."

He sat back in his chair and grew pensive.

"But I wanted something more, only I didn't know what it was. Then I found
out… in Israel… although I suppose I could have as easily found it in
America if I had met the right people."
"Ah, 'the right people',” Dr. Kalin emphasized. "That's the crux of the whole
issue. Don't you see your behavior is a result of the influence of others… or
maybe 'pressure' is a better word?"

His son laughed again good naturedly. “‘Influence’, ‘pressure', 'inward

promptings of the spirit'… call it what you will. I'm just happy I finally
learned what it means to be a Jew."

His father gave a wince of pain and raised his right hand reflexively, as
though warding off a blow. A fly buzzed past his head and he leaped up, glad
of the distraction. He ran to a device on the wall and pressed a switch. A hum
came from the device and the fly flew directly into it. A flash ensued and the
Doctor shut off the machine. In answer to a raised eyebrow, he told his son,
“An electric ‘Venus Fly Trap’ we’re developing. There’re all over the
hospital. I have an aquarium in my office full of flies we’re breeding to test
the machine’s efficacy. The hum mimics the wing-rhythm flies make when
they’re ready to mate. It seems irresistible. If we can iron out the kinks, we’ll
patent it and use the income to help our other research programs.” He
reseated himself, turning his attention back to his son. “Anyway, let’s get
back on subject.” He took a deep breath.

"All right, all right," he conceded. "So, you've seen the light. But why the
archaic clothing… the beard, the long side locks, the conspicuous display of
your inward commitment. If there weren't some sort of psychological
aberration involved, wouldn't you dress like other people do? Take Rabbi
Klein, for example. He's orthodox. And aside from his yarmulke, he looks
like anyone else."

"So do I," Michael said, "where I’ve been living," he added. He stroked his
full beard. "Think of it as my uniform. I'm no longer in the consumer army.
I'm in the army of the Almighty and this is how the enlisted man dresses."

His father was exasperated.

"But you're only opening yourself up to ridicule whenever you step outside of
your little enclave there."
His son grew more serious.

"You know what's interesting, Dad? The gentiles seem to respect a Jew more
who is willing to recognize and admit his differences, and not try to escape
them by looking like everyone else. I can fly almost any airline and get
kosher food. And in Europe, one hotel where I stayed even shut off the
electric door on Shabbat when I explained going through it would be a sin,
since we are not allowed to start a fire I’d be making the electricity (which is
a form of fire) to work. They were quite happy to accommodate me, once I
explained things. It's a tragedy, but non-religious Jews in Israel aren't nearly
so accommodating to religious Jews, as the Gentiles are."

His father was unconvinced.

"Well, please be careful here in America," he admonished. “Our citizens are

not nearly so tolerant of people who are different. There are plenty of anti-
Semites in this country and plenty of Jew baiters… even the best people."

He leaned forward, and, lowering his voice, confided, "even among some of
our neighbors, here."

Michael nodded thoughtfully.

"You know I have a theory about the cause of anti-Semitism, Dad. Gentiles
know Jews are supposed to be different from them. For instance, they know
we’re not supposed to eat pig and cheese-burgers. Saturday's just the week-
end to most Jews instead of the Holy Sabbath. So, the Gentiles get angry.
They feel there's some kind of fraud being perpetrated against them. I mean,
Jews form this exclusive group and tell the Gentiles, 'Don't marry our kids
because we’re different' and 'You can't be a member of the Jewish people
cause you're not a Jew'… then the Jews act like everyone else… giving the lie
to his insistence he’s different."

Dr. Kalin studied his son a moment, trying to decide if he was being serious.
He concluded he was serious and felt a real sadness in acknowledging how
great a gulf had opened between them. He felt he had lost something
valuable, but had he really had something to lose? He was forced to ask
himself just how close he had been to his son, if the boy could change this
much after only two years away from him.

'I guess if you have to ask the question,' he thought, 'then the answer is… 'not
close enough'…'

And under his sadness he felt a resentment-as though his son’s transformation
into a religious fanatic was an indictment of his failure as a father.

Michael, sensing from his father's face the mixed emotions struggling within
him, felt compassion.

"Dad," he asked gently, "would you rather have me end up as a Moonie? Or a

Hairy Kishka? Or maybe sniffing coke, like most of our good neighbors
here?"

"I would rather have you as you were," his father said severely, then sighing
added, "but if you had to do something like this, I suppose it's better you do it
with 'our’ people."

He said the word, 'our', as though it were a major concession to his son. The
young man grinned again. "Atta boy, Dad. We’ll make a good Jew of you
yet."

His father regarded him thoughtfully. "Actually, you look a lot like my
father's father… with the beard and all. He was supposed to be very pious… a
good man, although very innocent in the ways of the world. My father told
me he and his brothers used to be shooting dice when their father thought
they were studying their religious books. My father… your grandfather…
rebelled against him and gave up on religion. You seem to have completed
the circle and come back to the starting point."

Michael nodded in agreement. “My Rebbe says, speaking of the diaspora,

'What the Grandfather knew, and the father forgot, the son will ignore but the
grandson will remember.' Happens a lot that way."
His father sighed in resignation. "Well, I don't know what I’m going to feed
you," he said. "I'm sure none of the meat in the fridge would merit your
approval."

"Actually, my group is vegetarian, Dad, so it should be simple. Just feed me

rabbit food while I'm here, and I'll be all right."

His father shrugged his acceptance. "Perhaps you should eat over at Harold
Feldman's. He's gone vegetarian, too… although he comes to it thru that guru
he's been following."

"Who? Cindy's father?" Michael asked in astonishment.

"Yes, since you went to Israel, he divorced Beatrice and found himself a guru
who has him convinced he's on the road to Sainthood, or whatever it is they
believe in."

"How about Cindy, Dad?" Michael asked. "Is she with Bernice?"

His father had to hide a smile at his son's interest in the pretty blond girl. At
least in that respect he was still normal.

"Bernice left them, so Harold was awarded custody. I think that pleased
Bernice… left her free with her playmates, you know. The girl's caught in the
middle, as kids usually are when their parents make a mess of things. I think
Harold’s relationship with his daughter is none too healthy. Since the
divorce, he's become progressively less aggressive and male oriented. Now
this yogi has given him the perfect rationale for his increasing feminism…
he's trying to love everyone and spread peace and joy everywhere."

His son shrugged. "What can be wrong with that?" he asked.

His father leaned back on the sofa and assumed his professorial pose… tips
of fingers together… legs crossed.

"Let me remind you of some basic psychology you may have forgotten
wandering among the ascetics in Israel," he lectured. "The way we're
constructed, we have certain kinds of biologically prescribed energies…
aggression, sexual desire… and so forth. To bottle up any of them is like
bottling up a genie. It might take time, but, sooner or later, the genie gets free
and sometimes the consequences can be devastating."

"It's interesting, Dad, but the Jewish sages teach much the same sort of thing.
In fact, they say the whole purpose of the Law was to channel man's
biological energies in the proper directions… it's like modern ego
psychology."

"Hmmm," his father said, skeptically. "Freud taught the pursuit of religion
was only the desire to appease the angry father figure we've all experienced
in our childhoods."

"Not me," Michael chortled. "You were very permissive, Dad… a model
parent. I was the envy of all my classmates. So that scotches Dr. Fraud's
theory on religion."

His father threw up his hands in mock frustration. "I can see it's impossible to
have a serious conversation with you[dh3][dh4],“ he said. "I'm going for my
first swim of the summer. Can you join me, or is that against your religious
precepts?"

"Oh, I'll join you," Michael said, jumping up. "But only if you go where I
won't be tempted by the half-naked bodies of our neighbors' wives."

"Only the wives?" his father asked, joking in a malicious tone. "What about
the daughters?"

"Oh, that's okay," his son laughed. "After all, how am I supposed to get
married if I don't have a chance to look over the eligibles… and give them a
chance to look me over?"

"Oh? And once you're married, you're suddenly pure?" Dr.Kalin asked,
pushing his mock attack.

"Not at all," his son retorted with a twinkle in his eye. “Remember under
Jewish law, a man can have up to eighteen wives!"

His father's eyebrows lifted. "Eighteen! Has anyone taken advantage of that
particular law lately?"

"No," his son explained. "Unfortunately, Israeli civil law is too British to
allow more than one at a time."

“‘Unfortunately’," his father scoffed, laughing. "Try living with one wife
before you talk about the joys of eighteen, my boy. You'd need the wisdom of
a Solomon to do that!" They were still laughing as they headed for the lake in
their swim suits.

.p
 Chapter 9

Despite his assertion he would welcome a chance to inspect young eligibles,

Michael led his father to an area some distance from the crowd of young
people swarming in the lakes water. They swam quietly for a while before
they were noticed by some of the kids.

"Hey, who's that over there?" Freddie Finkelberg asked his friends. All eyes
turned, searching the direction his pointing finger indicated.

"That's Dr. Kalin, the shrink," Willie Cohen announced.

"I know that, over-dose brain," Freddie snarled. "Who's the big guy with
him… with the long hair and beard?"

Cindy gave a little cry. "Oh! I think that's Dr. Kalin's son. My father said he
might come back this summer. He’s been away a couple of years in Israel,"
she added.
"Jeez, I don't remember him being so big," Mark Wolman said. “Maybe he's
been in the army there and fought in some battles," he opined, hopefully.

Without a word, and perhaps half unconsciously, the group started shifting
the direction of their play… their voices getting louder and their games more
boisterous as they neared the two men… the group solidifying itself in the
face of what might prove to be a threat.

Dr. Kalin glanced their way and grinned at his son. "I think a welcoming
committee is coming your way."

Michael glanced casually over at the clutch of kids and smiled,

encouragingly. Still watching them, he asked his father, "Who's the blond in
her first bikini?"

His father looked the group over more carefully. It was easy to follow his
son's deduction. The girl in question was making defensive, 'arms across the
chest' covering gestures whenever any of the boys showed too much interest
in her newly developed breasts.

Dr. Kalin frowned slightly as he studied her. "Good Lord! I think that's Cindy
Feldman," he exclaimed.

Michael shared his astonishment. "Little Cindy ‘skinny’ Feldman?" he

marveled. "Amazing what a couple of years and some heavy doses of
estrogen will do. She's become quite a beauty."

Dr. Kalin shook his head. "Not a couple of years, either. Last summer she
looked just like she did the summer you left. Her mother, Beatrice, is quite a
beauty, but I think Cindy will have her beat."

He was secretly amused at his son's open admiration for the young girl. He
seemed to have forgotten, for the moment at least, the strictures of his newly
awakened religious beliefs.

The group of kids finally gave up all pretense of playing amongst themselves
and waded towards the two men.
“‘Lo, Dr. Kalin," Cindy said, her arms crossed over her chest.

Both the psychiatrist and his son were careful to maintain eye to eye contact
only, and gradually, she let her arms drop as she felt more at ease.

"Is that Mike?" she asked the tall young man, rhetorically.

"Is that Cindy?" he retorted with a grin. Suddenly again self-conscious as she
felt his eyes appraise her, she started to cover up, then, deciding against it,
she dove into the water and swam a large circle around them.

"Hey, Mike! How ya doin'," said Freddie.

"O.K. Freddie… Mark," he included as many of the group as he could in his

gaze, groping for names to go with faces that seemed somehow much older
than the two years he had not seen them.

"How's the comic book collection, Mark?" he asked a gangling red-head.

Mark flushed red with pleasure that the older male had remembered his
passion.

"You see any good titles in Israel?" he asked, trying to keep his still changing
voice from cracking.

Michael laughed. "I can't honestly say I looked, Mark. The country’s pretty
young to have anything too old… unless you’re hoping to find a three
thousand year old comic book, that is." They all laughed.

"You a member of some fraternity there, Mike?" Freddie asked, curious.

Mike frowned slightly. "What do you mean, Freddie?" he wondered.

"Oh, ‘cause I see you're wearing some kind'a cool hat, like a pledge wears.
I'm going to pledge for Sigma Rho Phi my first year in college," he added by
way of explaining his interest.
"Oh," Mike said, laughing and taking off the wet skull cap and displaying it.
"This is a kind of Kippah my group wears. We shear our own sheep and spin
our own cord to knit them. We’re a ‘whole earth’ Chasidic fellowship with
our own organic farm. We follow the 'Singing Rebbe'. You may have heard
about him."

"You mean… you're religious?" Mandy stammered in surprise. Mike

couldn't help laughing at her incredulity.

"Was I such a rascal before I went to Israel that it’s so hard to believe," he
asked. The girl blushed.

"I didn't know anyone still was nowadays," she explained

Mike gave her a reassuring grin. "Oh, that's not true, Amanda. We Jews are
famous for believing in religion… but it’s usually someone else’s." The kids
laughed, then stood around awkwardly, not sure what to say.

"Freddie says you were in the army," Mandy offered, helpfully.

"I did not, tooth-paste brain," Freddie flared out. "Mark did."

Mark looked hopefully at the older youth. "Were you, Mike?” he asked.

"Not yet," Mike answered, "but I'll be going in when I return to Israel." He
turned to his father. "That's one reason I have to go back at the end of the
summer, Dad."

"We'll talk about it later," his father said, brusquely.

The kids looked at each other uneasily. They instantly picked up their
intrusion into adult problems, and they wanted no part of them. Realizing
there would be no war stories forthcoming, the group started to become
restless. Someone sang out, "Hey! There's Jeff over at the boat house. Maybe
we can get a boat and go out."

Cindy wanted to protest, 'Jeff doesn't start til tomorrow. It's not fair to bother
him on his day off.' But her friends were already hurrying away, swimming
and splashing off towards the boat-house. ‘Well’, she thought. ‘Jeff can tell
them himself’. She wanted to talk more with the Kalin’s.

She called out after their retreating figures, "Mark and Mandy, don't forget
we're going to the flea market at Sharp’s farm after lunch!"

Some vague shouts answered her back. She hoped one of them wasn’t
Freddie's. He was so sarcastic and was always grabbing at her whether
anyone else was looking or not… the creep!

When she turned back to the Kalin’s, both of them were watching her. She
felt a sense of relief that they were watching her and not staring at her body.
Mike looked and acted so mature, she thought… like Jeff in a lot of ways.

"Cindy, I haven't seen your father yet. Is he well?" Dr.Kalin asked, quietly.

She hesitated a moment. Was this the best time to bring up how her father
had been acting? Maybe she should wait a few days and see if being at the
lake calmed him down. Anyway… would it be fair to tell them he was acting
strangely? Maybe they would interpret anything he said or did as being
strange because she told them so. If she said nothing and they came to the
same conclusion, wasn't that better, somehow?

"He was tired out from the long drive, Dr. Kalin," Cindy answered, finally. "I
guess he's sleeping late today."

The psychologist nodded thoughtfully. Strange, he reflected. I distinctly

remember hearing that boat man, Hope, saying he had driven all the way.
Why should the girl hide the truth… if it was the truth?

"We'll drop over later for coffee, or tea," Dr. Kalin said.

"I'll let him know," the girl promised.

"My father tells me your father is studying with a guru, Cindy," Mike
remarked.
"Ummm, yeah," she responded, non-committaly. She looked at Mike with a
new thought.

"Do you have a guru," she asked, curiously, "…a Jewish one, I mean," she
appended hastily.

Mike smiled. "Well, I guess you could say I do… only we call him a
Rebbe… a kind of personal Rabbi. One who understands you as an individual
and plans your studies accordingly."

"Like Master Teshoo," Cindy said, half aloud. Privately, she wondered, 'What
is it about men that they need a guru? We women don't seem to.” She would
have to ask Jeff when they had a chance to talk.

When she looked up both Kalin’s were watching her again… but they weren't
amused by her. They both seemed thoughtful and concerned, as though they
sensed something of the problems she was faced with. That was reassuring in
a way. It kind of meant they were really knowledgeable about people and the
kind of situations they could get themselves into, and could, maybe, come up
with some answers, if she could only work up her nerve to ask the questions.

She had just resolved to speak to them about her father and what to do if he
were sick and how it could ruin her summer when the sound of raucous
female laughter burst on their ears. They all looked up towards the shore to
see two women making their way toward them.

They might have been sisters. Both were about the same size and build…
which was generous… with flame red hair and matching bikinis… what there
was of them to match.

"Hi, Phil," the older one called out. "Who's the hunk?"

"Morning, Carol… Maureen. How's your husband, Carol?" Dr.Kalin called

out in a tone of voice that suggested more of neighborly politeness than real
warmth. He had given a slight stress to the word husband and Mike darted a
glance at him. He realized, with gratitude, his father had respected his wish
not to be around the scantily dressed wives of their neighbors. That meant his
father was taking his religious commitments seriously. Good old Dad! Not
that he really doubted he would.

"I'm going to do a couple of laps around the lake and try to get my wind back,
Dad. I'll see you for lunch," Mike announced. Without looking back at the
two women, he plunged into the water and stroked away.

"See you later, Cindy," he called over his shoulder.

Carol Flaherty's eyes narrowed. Men didn't walk away from her like that, nor
swim away either… not til she was ready for them to leave.

"That wasn't Mike, was it, Phil?" she sang out in a loud voice that could carry
to the other side of the lake. "Was he running away from us? I hope they
didn't turn him into a faggot in Israel."

Dr. Kalin looked at her in disgust.

"Not every male who doesn't succumb to your so obviously displayed charms
is harboring homo-sexual feelings, Carol. My son, as it happens, is following
the precepts of our religion… and yours too, as I recall… 'Not to desire your
neighbor’s wife'. Obviously he felt he couldn't stay here without desiring you,
so he left."

The woman decided to be mollified by what was, as nearly as she could work
it out, a compliment.

"It's a good thing not too many people follow that precept, Phil," she
simpered. "It would be an awfully dull life if they did."

Maureen grabbed Cindy and moved the blonde girl away from the grown-
ups.

"You little bitch," she grinned at her friend. "Why didn’t you tell me you had
gone up four cup sizes? Maybe this summer will work out after all. We can
do some doubling up together. I know some cool guys from last summer in
town that can get us some homemade booze they make in the hills around
here. We can have some great parties with them together."

Cindy was shocked at the coarseness in her friend’s voice. Had Maureen been
that way last year and Cindy was just too dumb to realize it? Why… she was
sounding just as crude as her mother, Carol!

Maureen saw the look on Cindy's face, but misinterpreted it.

"Don't tell me," she said in a low voice. "You're still…? You haven't done it
yet?"

Her facial expression matched the incredulity in her voice.

"What are you waiting for, Cindy? The first time doesn't get easier after
you’re fifteen, you know. You're already as big down there as you'll be until
you have kids."

Cindy was so shocked she was speechless. Was Maureen teasing her?

"Oh," the red-head said, "I forgot… without your Mom at home, you don't
have anyone to get you pills. Not to worry… I'll ask my Mom to fill out her
prescription three times… for her, me, and you. She's cool and she'll do it, I
know."

Cindy stammered some words of thanks, and started easing down into the
water. She knew Maureen wouldn't go in over her head and ruin her hair, and
Cindy wanted to get away from her… anywhere.

The red-head followed her, walking at her side into the deeper water.

"Listen," she was saying, confidentially. "For the first time you need
someone with experience. None of these jerks around here know what they're
doing… they'll only hurt you. A married guy would be best… they know
what they're doing and they’re so grateful when a young chick opens up for
them, they go out of their way to make it special."
Cindy slowly slipped into the deep water. Her face felt so hot, she was sure it
was as red as Maureen's hair. But the red-head was preoccupied with her own
ideas and didn’t notice.

"Hey, I know," Maureen exclaimed, her face lighting up with inspiration.

"He's really experienced and a great lover… only he's awfully big and it
could be rough for a first-timer."

Cindy didn't want to hear anymore. She slid under the water, hoping she
would keep going straight down and never come up again. Was that name
Maureen called after her as she submerged really what it sounded like…?
'Jeff, the boatman'?
.p
 Chapter 10

Cindy, Mark, Mandy and several other 'Lake Brats' as they called themselves,
had pedaled their bikes over the narrow path that ran the three miles to the
old farm where the weekly flea market was held.

Mandy, Cindy knew, collected dolls. She had once showed Cindy photos of a
room in her house full of dolls and doll furniture.

"Daddy complains about all the extra insurance he has to carry to protect my
investment," she once told Cindy, indignantly. "Can you imagine? He calls
my dolls an ‘investment'… as if I'd ever sell any of them!"

Mark, Mandy's brother, was always looking for comic books.

"Only Golden Agers," he would say, "are worth collecting."

As if Cindy had any idea of what he was talking about! He kept his best
issues in a climate controlled vault. "Keeps down the acid-conversion factor,"
he had confided to her with an air of knowledge of such mysteries.

Cindy was properly impressed and wondered aloud if some of the old books
she was saving should be protected, too.

"Nah," he had told her. "I've seen you buying those old books with the leather
covers and the gold edged pages. That old paper's mostly cloth… comics
aren’t that old. If they were they’d probably have already crumbled into
brown dust… the way they make paper now-a-days. It's got this self-destruct
mechanism built into it. Eats itself all brown and crumbly in a year or two.
Acid," he explained again.

Cindy wondered why she was the only one who didn't know anything about
anything. But still, just using her instincts, she had found several choice old
books. One particularly had excited Jeff last summer… a first edition of a
poet named Swinburne. She hadn't liked his poetry and had given it to Jeff as
a gift… which he had seemed to greatly appreciate. She hoped she might
find something else for him now.

They left their bikes in a bike rack and entered the grove where hundreds of
cars and trucks were lined up in rows. This flea market was an annual, 'start
of the season' event and dealers, as well as customers, came from all over the
country searching for bargains and finds. Tables and benches, arranged
alongside the vehicles, were covered with every conceivable kind of thing
that someone might collect. Hand painted porcelains; old toys; old tools; even
old beer cans; heavy stoneware jugs decorated with blue birds and flowers,
and glassware of all kinds in pink, green and blue flowed over the tables in a
vast rainbow stream.

Many of the dealers were themselves local farmers who had cleaned out attics
and basements and had come to unload the old 'junk' for whatever sounded
like a good price. The dealers from the big cities hurried along, snatching up
bargains like frantic birds after worms in a rain drenched field. Money flew
from hand to hand as items bought from innocent sellers at a small fraction of
their real value were sold from one dealer to another until a collector would
finally put the item away in his car and hurry home to add it to his collection.

Cindy clapped her hands enthusiastically as they watched the flurry of

activity in every lane of tables. She loved to watch the people, their
expressions, their arguments, their sales pitches, and the delight of the
'winners' as they went off triumphantly with their purchases.

"Even if I don't buy anything," she confided to Mandy, "I just love to come
and watch the local color."

Just then her attention was drawn to some more 'local color' as it came
rattling thru the entrance. An old, beat-up pick-up truck with hardly a square
inch of metal un-dented or un-rusted, wheezed to a halt in front of the
manager's office. A huge, wooden cigar store Indian stood impassively in the
back, wedged in place by scores of cardboard cartons and odds and ends of
furniture. A sign on the pick-up's doors announced it was the property of
"Benny and Birdy's Better Buys Antiques".

Two voices could be heard bellowing above the chugging of an ailing motor.

"Oh, my god, Birdy, I'm eff'n dyin'," a cigarette-clogged baritone moaned.

"You hadda stop and eat Chink's at that greasy fly trap, din’t ya. Ya knows ya
always get sick from their Egg Foo Yung with them rotten eggs they use."
This was from a higher pitched voice, coarsely feminine, with a shrieky edge
to it… like a rusted gate protested efforts to force it open.

"You pay the eff'n set-up fee and park, Birdy. I gotta find me a toilet before
my gut bursts."

"Don't you go sittin' on the pot all day and leave me to do all the work!" she
shrilled. "I can't move that Indian all by myself, y'know."

"Don't worry about that eff'n Indian. Leave it on the truck. I’ll move it later…
if I don't die first."

Cindy watched in fascination as the driver's door flew open and a squat,
obese body tumbled out. It had an over-sized head, framed by a thick fringe
of curly, matted, black hair that merged without transition into a heavy black
beard, shot with streaks of grey. Glasses the thickness of coke bottles reduced
his green eyes to what looked like two globules of Vaseline. The squatness of
his shape was exaggerated by a stomach so vast it seemed to arrive places a
few moments before its owner did. Only his feet were under-sized… almost
dainty, given the rest of his proportions.

Benny, she noted, was waddling towards the perimeter of the flea market as
fast as his under-sized feet would take him. His destination was the heavy
gauge wire fence that ringed the flea market area. It was dotted at various
places with public conveniences, called Porto-Johns, and he hurried to the
nearest group. Cindy thought he looked like the kind of person Jeff told her to
keep an eye out for… someone who would her scope for descriptive writing.
She followed after him, Mark trailing at her side, eyes darting everywhere for
a pile of comic books.
An assorted crowd of dealers and shoppers, recognizing him as he went
muttering past, paused in their activities to observe what might develop. It
was clear from their interest and amusement that the proprietors of 'Benny
and Birdy's Better Buys Antiques' were not unknown entities.

One old timer winked at Cindy and Mark.

"This should be good. Those two cracked pots get thrown out’a here at least
once a yeauh."

Innocently, Cindy asked, "How often do they come here?"

"’Bout once a yeauh," was the laconic, Maine accented, answer.

Knowing grins lit many faces as Benny reached the first of the small fiber-
glass stalls and wrapped his short, muscular fingers around the door handle,
giving it a desperate and mighty yank. But instead of the door opening, the
whole Porto-John pitched forward onto him. From within came a woman’s
voice that rose in a hysterical shriek.

"Eff'n Plastic junk," the hairy one grunted and heaved the structure off of
him, flinging it backwards onto the wire fence which partly collapsed from its
weight. Screams continued from within.

"I got my own eff'n problems, lady," Benny mumbled as he hurried to the
second Porto-John.

Groaning in agony he ripped open the door. Here again the door had been
latched because it was occupied, but this time the latch tore free from the
flimsy plastic.

Inside, a 'callow youth', caught in the middle of an act of self-abuse, was

frantically trying to stuff his swollen appendage back into his trousers. Benny
reached in a hairy paw and snatched out the stricken teenager, who was sure
his sinful deed was being punished by a visitation from the Devil himself.
The 'Devil' snarled at him, "Eff'n faggot! Go beat your meat in your mother's
jock strap!" And, tumbling him onto the grass, Benny disappeared inside,
slamming the door after him.

Moments later, a series of prodigious explosions, piercing the air like the fan-
fare of a king's trumpets, proclaimed the pressing need which drove him.

The boy, dazed by the rapidity of events, unsure as to what had really
occurred, finished zippering up and slunk away to the laughter of the
appreciative audience. Cindy turned away, her face red with embarrassment.
Maybe she would just tell Jeff she hadn’t really seen anything interesting, she
thought, trying to erase the scene from her mind.

"Always better than TeeVee when that clown shows up," the old-timer
observed to the general agreement of his fellows.

Meanwhile, the hysterical screams from the first outhouse, still resting on its
back against the fence, had gradually subsided to whimpers. The crowd
discretely turned its back as the door opened and a woman emerged,
clambering over the side to drop onto the grass. After a moment, she picked
herself up and scurried away, peering anxiously to the right and left to see if
the perpetrator of the atrocity still lurked in the neighborhood, planning
further injury to her dignity and person.

It is doubtful whether she associated her own traumatic experience with the
groans and other sounds indicative of gastric distress, emerging from the stall
next to hers. Nor is it likely she made any sense of the curse hurled from
within at a local purveyor of Chinese food by a recent, dissatisfied and
dyspeptic customer… "EFF'N EGG FOO YUNG!!"

An hour later Cindy left Mark sorting through a large box of ’oldies' he had
found, while the anxious proprietor hovered near by, fearful that a page might
be bent or torn during his inspection. Mandy had already found a bunch of
dolls and was heading towards the bikes, her arms full. Cindy still hadn’t
found anything.

When she finally spotted a box of old books, her heart sank and she hesitated
to look through them because they were at the table of that obnoxious person
who had created such a scene earlier. He and his fat wife were doing a brisk
business in glass and china. Books seemed to be out of their usual line of
merchandise.

Cindy's eye fell on one title, 'The Marble Faun' by Faulkner. She had read a
lot of Faulkner during the year, but couldn’t recall having seen that title. She
lifted the slim volume out of the box and started leafing through it. Her heart
skipped a beat. It was an early work by Faulkner… a collection of poems.
Her face glowed. Faulkner was one of Jeff’s favorite writers… and poems!
She hadn't realized Faulkner had ever written poetry. Maybe the book was
rare. What a gift for Jeff!

Cautiously, she waited until the fat woman was not busy and approached her.
"How much are these books?" she asked, quickly, in a low voice. The wife
came over and glanced in the box.

"Gimme five bucks for all of them, honey," she said.

"Well, I really only just want this one… but okay," Cindy said.

"Wait a minute, Birdy," the husband bellowed from the other end of the table.
"I ain't looked them books over yet. There might be one worth 30 or 40
dollars."

"'n how would you know which one it was, you ignoramus," she snarled at
him over her shoulder. "Just gimme five bucks, honey, and you can take or
leave what you want," she whispered to Cindy.

The girl gave her the money and hurried away with her find. She heard the
two of them arguing behind her and only hoped the fat man didn't come after
her. She really wanted Jeff to have the book as a gift. When she got to her
bike, she rode off as fast as she could pedal.
.p
 Chapter 11

Dr. Kalin, Mike and Harold sat around the coffee table in Harold’s living
room, sipping herbal tea. The psychiatrist watched amused as each of the
others murmured blessings before they drank their tea. As they drank, Harold
attempted to make small talk, as though reluctant to let their conversation
turn to more intimate matters of self and family.

"So, Phil," he chattered, nervously, "have you cleaned up the green tailed fly
population in Central Jersey with your little black box?"

"If by 'little black box' you're referring to the electronic Venus Fly Trap our
research unit developed," his friend said sourly, "you may be interested to
know that it is proving as effective at reducing the local fly population as it is
proving difficult to patent. Our lawyers think we’ll have a tough time, which
in patent law means 'an expensive time', protecting our rights.

"Apparently the principle on which it works," he continued to explain,

although his friend seemed nervously distracted and was not paying close
attention, but Dr Kalin was filling Mike in as much as he was Feldman, "that
mating flies vibrate their wings at a certain frequency and you can lure flies
into the electric grill by replicating that sound, is already used by the
military[dh5] in tracking enemy planes and missiles by their engine noises.
We’re arguing there's a difference between green tailed flies and guided
missiles. We may simply donate the design to the State of New Jersey and let
them sell the device at cost to all residents in areas where that particular fly is
prevalent."

"What about that other thing you were doing… for the Navy?"
Harold said, jumpily, as though still trying to steer the conversation away
from anything personal.

"You're referring, no doubt, to the ‘water-less under-water’ experiments" Dr

Kalin nodded. "That's over. We're waiting for the Navy to come dismantle the
'bath-o-sphere' they built for us to keep our subjects in while we tested them
for the effects of long term submersion."
"I'm not familiar with that one, Dad," Michael said to his father, but his eyes
were on his neighbor as he spoke.

His father shrugged. "It was after you went off to college. The navy gave us a
grant to study the effect on the personality of knowing you're a few miles
down and could be crushed as flat as paper by the water surrounding you if it
weren’t for the super-strength steel doors and walls."

"So, you've got a bath-o-sphere on the grounds?" Michael laughed. "You

must have had the pool deepened since I was there last… by about three
miles deeper, I should imagine."

"Actually, it's like a bank vault, but it’s got all the equipment, including deep
sea sound effects, so we feel we got a valid experiment out of it… the Navy
did, too," he added somewhat defensively, Mike thought to himself.

As though not really paying attention, Feldman switched the conversation,

abruptly. "I understand you've been in Israel, Mike," he said. "Are you
turning from the scientific towards the spiritual life?" he asked.

"Well, actually, I don't feel you have to turn from one towards the other, Mr.
Feldman,” Mike said. "My Rebbe teaches that the spiritual is a dimension of
every activity we engage in… whether it's conducting scientific experiments,
drinking a glass of wine, or even satisfying our most basic drives and
instincts."

Harold shook his head in disagreement. "My Guru, Master Teshoo, teaches a
path to spiritual evolution through which a man eventually becomes free of
his instincts and is able to live, even while in his body, as a spiritually perfect
being,” Harold was saying.

Mike recalled his father's words about Feldman's increasing femininity.

Repression of the instincts could be one way to avoid aggressive
confrontations with other men… or with women, too, for that matter.

"Judaism doesn't teach that a man can… or should… be free of his instincts,"
he remarked. "It teaches a man how to use his instincts in the service of the
Holy. That's a big difference between Judaism and other religions. After all…
we are creatures… flesh and blood. How can we be free of instincts which
are grounded in our physical being?"

Harold smiled knowingly. "Some of us can rise above the lower nature. With
enough power, a person can live as pure spirit in the flesh."

Mike shifted uncomfortably, and glanced at his father, who seemed

unperturbed by Feldman's remarks. "You're making a very sharp split
between the mind and the body, aren't you, Mr. Feldman?" he asked.

"Oh, please, Michael, call me ‘Harold’, or I'll feel uncomfortable," Feldman

said. "As to the mind-body split… actually I prefer a mind- spirit split, it's
more accurate, I know. Even Judaism has traditions of Masters who can
recall their previous existences. So, a belief in a soul, or spirit, independent of
the body and which can be reborn is almost universal to all religions. But my
Master teaches us to live to benefit the soul which is eternal, rather than the
body which is temporal." He sat back beaming happily.

Dr. Kalin looked disgusted with the both of them.

"Since there are more people alive now than ever before," he said, ironically,
"who's bringing in the fresh supply of souls to occupy the new bodies? Where
are they coming from?"

Harold gestured broadly with both hands. "The universe is vast, Phil," he
said, "and there are many levels of existence. Animal spirits are moving up
constantly into the human sphere. Spirits can cross the universe in an
instant… many come from other planets elsewhere in the cosmos and assume
a new life here."

"So, everything studied about genetics and hereditary can be thrown out the
window, of course," the psychiatrist said, sarcastically.

"Oh, not at all," his friend protested. "It's true both the physical realm and the
spiritual realm have their own laws, but there is no conflict between them. A
soul ready for reincarnation either chooses, or is drawn to, just the kind of
genetic background and hereditary appropriate to its spiritual and Karmic
background."

Dr. Kalin threw up his hands in disgust.

"That's the trouble with trying to discuss these 'belief systems' on a rational
basis," he complained. "They're self-contained and self-referring closed
systems of thought where no evidence can be introduced that could persuade
either of you away from your beliefs."

"For that matter, Phil," Harold challenged,” what would persuade you away
from your 'belief system' as you call it? You have assumptions about human
personality… the ego, id, and all that. What would persuade you to change
your mind?"

The psychiatrist was slowly losing patience with his smiling opponent.

"My commitment to the principles of psycho-analysis are based on research

and scientific method," he snapped. "If the evidence comes in that refutes or
modifies current theory, the scientist reacts accordingly by readjusting or
modifying his assumptions. My beliefs are all provisional and testable.
Anyone can carry out scientific experiments and verify for themselves the
truth or falsity of a theory."

Harold bounced up and down in his chair like a gleeful child. "Well put," he
chortled. "And anyone who wants to make the commitment of time and
energy can verify any of my teacher’s statements, too. In that sense, he's a
scientist of the spirit, and we're his research assistants."

Dr. Kalin groaned in exasperation. "And just what kind of evidence can we
submit to verify, or refute, this idea that souls can be reborn in punishment, or
reward, for their past deeds?" he demanded.

"Oh, any Master can tell you your previous lives," Harold said, nonchalantly.
Dr. Kalin looked at him sharply.
"And how do you know that what he tells you is the truth?" he asked, drily.
"He might tell you whatever he thinks you want to hear… even assuming
such a thing as reincarnation is possible."

Harold looked thoroughly shocked at this notion. "That’s like accusing the
Pope of stealing, or the Chief Rabbi of Israel of eating ham and cheese
sandwiches. A genuine Master’s life is devoted to his pupil's advancement."

He paused a moment and stared past the two men. "As to whether his
statements are accurate… well, they have to be if he's a true Master. True
Masters are never mistaken about such things."

The man spoke with such passionate conviction, that both father and son
hesitated to carry the discussion further. It felt like they were trying to argue a
kid out of his belief in Santa Claus. Once more Feldman glanced behind the
sofa where they sat, as though looking at someone, and the effect was so
convincing, the Kalins turned around to see if perhaps Cindy had come in the
back door. But there was no one there. Only an empty chair stood behind
them.

Michael seemed quite serious when, finally, he leaned towards Feldman and
asked, "Who does your Guru say you were in your previous existences,
Harold?" he was more than a little surprised when his father's friend said,
"Oh, no one in particular… no one famous you might have heard of."

Then he leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, glancing once more

behind with a seeing look in his eye, and smiling at something so that the two
men were drawn once more to look around and see if there were someone
there. There wasn't.

Then Feldman was saying, "Actually, I've been thinking my guru may be
wrong about what he's told me, and I may have had a Jewish incarnation my
last time here…" He paused to look significantly at Mike. “I've been thinking
I may have been the Maharal of Prague, or maybe even the Vilna Gaon," he
said and then sat back, smiling smugly.

Mike started. "They're hardly no one in particular," he said.

"And just who were they?" his father demanded, annoyed at missing the
significance of his friend's remarks.

"Oh, great geniuses of Jewish learning," Mike said, still watching Harold in
what seemed like alarm. "The Vilna Gaon memorized all the Jewish sacred
writings, including the complete Bible and Talmud by the time he was
thirteen… kind of like memorizing the entire Encyclopedia Britannica."

Dr. Kalin looked bewildered. "I would have thought you’d claim to have
been Da Vinci, or Rembrandt," he said. "At least they were artists like
yourself. I've never noticed your memory to be particularly prodigious,
Harold, as this Goan's seems to have been."

"Gaon," his son corrected, gently.

"Whatever," his father said with a disparaging wave of his hand.

Harold snorted in disgust, waving his own disparaging hand.

"Art! That's only the feeblest of man's attempts to create life. If he chooses to,
man can accomplish much more. He can be as a god," he announced
triumphantly, glancing once more behind them.

Father and son looked at each other in alarm. Michael rose, abruptly. "I swore
I'd get another swim in before supper, Dad. I'm still trying to get my wind
back. You want to join me?"

His father took his cue and stood up, too. Casually he said, "How about
joining us for a ride into town to a movie, Harold. There's a showing of
Fantasia that both Mike and I always enjoyed. Why don't you come with us?"

Harold immediately shook his head. "I have no time for such nonsense, Phil.
All my energy goes into my meditation now."

Mike, almost eagerly it seemed, urged, "Do come, Harold. I haven’t seen
Fantasia since I was a kid. I'd like to see if I get new insights into the
marriage of form, color and music, as a result of my religious perspective.
And I'd be interested in what you have to say from the point of view of your
religion."

"Well…" Harold said, hesitating. Once more, he glanced towards the empty
chair. Then, brightening, he said, "Okay, you’re on."

Mike grinned and shook his hand. "Maybe we can even get my father to give
us an interpretation from a psychiatric point of view."

Feldman laughed. "I've got a better idea. Phil, you still play your violin? I'd
rather hear your ideas from the point of view of a musician."

"Well, that's all settled then," Mike said, almost too gaily. “We’ll pick you up
around eight… as soon as it gets dark."

After a few more words of farewell, the two men left.

Harold turned and ran to the empty chair where the image of Master Teshoo
sat beaming up at him.

"You did well, disciple," it intoned. "I feel they almost could see me sitting
here."

Harold glowed joyously. "We're so close, Master," he cried. “Soon the whole
world will see you as I do."

The image nodded its head, and its white locks stirred loosely on its wizened,
yellow skull.

"Soon, my son," it promised, rising to lead the way to the way to the
meditation room. Harold followed happily after, chanting in a sing-song
voice, "soon… soon… soon…"
.p
 Chapter 12

The Kalins were silent as they walked towards their cottage. Finally Dr. Kalin
asked, "Weren't you just a bit too enthusiastic with Harold?"

"Wait a minute, Dad. I don't want him watching us talk about him."

His father shot him a quick look, but remained silent the rest of the way
home. When they were finally inside, Mike sat down and said, "I think we've
got a serious situation here, Dad. Mr. Feldman is very disturbed."

His father sat opposite him, his face expressionless. "On what do you base
that diagnosis?" he asked.

His son looked exasperated at him, as though it was self-evident, hardly

requiring proof. Finally, he ticked off the points one by one on his fingertips.

"The man's given up his profession and has quit painting. He’s devoting
almost every waking moment and almost all of his energy to his religion.
He's neglecting his daughter and his responsibilities as a parent. And, he's
having delusions of grandeur."

His father abandoned his poker face and laughed heartily.

"If you could only see yourself, Mike, as you recited that list of 'symptoms'.
Why you could have been giving a perfect description of yourself." He began
ticking off points on his fingers.

"You gave up a promising profession as a first class psychologist to follow

this Rebbe of yours; you devote most of your waking hours mumbling
prayers and studying the sacred writings… all in an archaic language, too;
since I didn’t hear from you in over a year, you also qualify for family
neglect. Admit it! If Feldman had gone overboard studying your form of
Judaism, would you still be calling him, 'highly disturbed'?"

Mike had a pained expression on his face. "I had a lot of studying to make up
for, Dad. That's why I was working at it so hard. It didn't leave me much time
for letter writing. But, I prayed for you every day."

"Thanks," his father said, grimly. "But I'd rather have had a postcard."

"Anyway," Mike continued, "my study of religion is directed at making me

more alive and productive. I'm about to go back to work now and continue
my religious studies in the evenings."

"Well," his father said, somewhat mollified. "I'm glad to hear that. But you
must consider that Feldman himself might be planning the same thing. After
a period of intensive study, he may be intending to go on with his painting.
Who knows?"

His son shook his head, sadly. "You're not being objective about this, Dad.
Cindy's a young girl… still a minor in fact. Neglecting her is a little bit
different from my not writing home."

"For over a year," his father quickly added.

His son winced, then continued, "Anyway, Hebrew is no longer a dead

language. Most Israelis can pick up a book of prayers and understand ninety
percent of it… like our reading Shakespeare."

Mike stretched out his long legs and hunched down on the sofa. "But what's
really bothering me most," he said, slowly, "is that business of the chair
behind us."

"But the chair was empty," his father protested.

"That's what bothers me, Dad. I'm certain Harold believed there was someone
or something in it, and he expected us to see it, too. I think he's having visual
hallucinations… maybe auditory hallucinations, too."

His father sat up sharply. "I'd like to credit your earlier remarks with some
validity, Mike, but with this I think you’ve gone too far. You have enough
experience to know that his behavior is not psychotic… and visual or
auditory hallucinations would definitely mean he's psychotic. There may be
some perfectly valid reason for him glancing at that chair. For example, the
chair is next to the hall. From his angle, which was slightly different from
ours, he may have been able to look down the hall. Perhaps he was looking to
see if his daughter had come in. From our angle it looked like he was looking
at the empty chair."

Mike looked unhappy at hearing his father's logical explanation. He had

wanted his father to agree with him that their neighbor was seriously ill and
needed help. He felt intuitively, if not for any other reason, that whatever
Harold Feldman was involved in had very little to do with religion and
spiritual development.

"What about his idea that he's the reincarnation of the Maharal of Prague…
or of the Vilna Gaon?" Mike asked, finally. "That certainly sounds like
delusions of grandeur to me."

"Does it?" his father asked, raising an eyebrow. "I thought all the Chasidic
sects believe a great Rebbe is always the reincarnation of some prophet or
another."

Mike shook his head. "If a man should accomplish such enormous
achievements in his life… whether in piety or in good works… he might be
likened to one of the great geniuses of the past, but, I never heard of one of
them likening himself to one of the prophets. That kind of egotism is a sign
of little spirituality… especially when you have nothing to point to in your
life that can be considered worthy of note. Most religious geniuses
accomplished a great deal in their lives. What has Feldman accomplished?"

His father smiled. "I'm hardly the one to ask about the qualifications for
Sainthood in any religion." He paused for a moment’s reflection.
"When we go to the movies tonight," he said finally, "I’ll raise the question
of the empty chair. We'll probably get some clarification from his answer."

His son looked at him doubtfully. "Do you think that's a good idea, Dad? If
there's a lot of delusional material behind his beliefs, you could precipitate a
crisis by confronting him with it.

His father shook his head. "You've been away from the literature too long,
Mike" he told him. "We're finding it's better to confront a delusional system;
force it out into the open and break it down. That way, we can rebuild the
pieces into a more appropriate structure of reality perception."

He shrugged. "Even if he denies looking at the chair, or someone in the chair,

we'll learn a lot from the form his denial takes… if he's too vehement… too
casual… you know."

He looked fondly at his son. "By the way that was a clever move… inviting
him to a movie tonight so we could discuss all this now and compare notes
and then have a go at him tonight."

"I didn't particularly like to manipulate him that way, Dad,” Mike said,
uncomfortably. "Anyway," he added, thoughtfully, “I have a feeling he's
going to try to duck our invitation and avoid us for a while."

His father chuckled delightedly. "That's a good sign," he told him. "At least
you’re beginning to think like a scientist again. You're posing a hypothesis
based on your analysis of the situation, and making a prediction of future
events based on that hypothesis. If your prediction comes true, your
hypothesis is verified."

His son glanced at him sideways. "Oh, boy," he murmured.

His father settled back once more in his chair. "Now tell me more about what
you said a few moments ago with respect to your resuming your professional
activities… at my hospital, I hope," he added.
His son grimaced. "I was hoping you'd overlook that slip of the tongue."

"Not a chance," his father beamed at him. "I hear my prodigal son say he's
coming back to do some serious work and I’m supposed to ignore it? I intend
to kill the fatted calf…”

"Well," Mike said with a sigh, "I did think of maybe taking a group or two
this summer to try out a new form of therapy I’ve been working on in Israel.
It's based on combining ego psychology with value preservation, such as we
find in certain religious activities…" He warmed up to his ideas as his father
sat there, beaming at him.
.p

Chapter 13

Cindy pedaled back towards the lake along the narrow bike path, taking the
branch that led to the deep woods above the lake, where Jeff's cabin was
situated. Among the large, old trees, the path became impossible to negotiate
on a bike. Gnarled and twisted roots ran along the ground like the old veins
of a sleeping giant. Cindy dismounted and walked the rest of the way.

Under the trees the forest was dark and unseen things rustled in the leaves of
low bushes. But Cindy was no new-comer to the woods, to be afraid of forest
noises. She had wandered among thick stands of trees every summer she
could remember. She enjoyed the little sounds of small creatures that scurried
after their livelihoods in the shadows, even if she couldn’t see them. There
was certainly nothing large enough to be afraid of in the forest… except,
perhaps, man.

Cindy was pretty sure Jeff would not be at his cabin. He had been looking
over the stock of boats when she had left to go to the flea market. Even
though he officially didn't start till tomorrow, he had remarked, 'There was no
point putting off work he would have to do any way early in the morning'.

One rule all the kids observed scrupulously was not to go to Jeff’s cabin. It
was his rule and a good one. The last thing many of the parents would accept
was their ‘kids fraternizing with the colored help’. So, for his own protection,
Jeff insisted, and the kids concurred, the log cabin in the woods was strictly
off limits.

Cindy would not now be breaking the rule, she told herself, since she was
sure Jeff would still be occupied in getting the boats out of their winter
storage. She would simply leave the book of Faulkner's verses on his cot and
it would be a surprise for him when he came back.

For a moment she fantasized what might happen if he had decided he had
worked enough for an 'off day' and had come home to take a nap in the hot
afternoon. She had a vision of herself, somehow dressed in an houri's flimsy
blouse. Her round breasts were visible behind the gauzy silk, her nipples
poking out against the thin stuff. The fantasy went thru her mind too fast for
her to push it away. She saw Jeff waking, startled, as she seduced him with
gentle caresses. An image of her clasped in his strong arms flashed before her
eyes, vividly, and her knees went weak. She stopped for a moment in
confusion.

'Damn that Maureen with her filthy mouth,' Cindy thought, guiltily. It was
her 'plans' for Cindy's summer that were upsetting her now. And yet Cindy
was too honest to believe that rationalization, totally. She recognized the hot
feeling that had just swept thru her. She had felt it yesterday when she and
Jeff were sitting in her father's car during his visit to Master Teshoo. Then it
had been awareness of his closeness and the slight touch of his muscular arm
that had triggered that warmth.

For a moment Cindy flushed bright red as she remembered her confusion and
embarrassment. What a jerk you are, she told herself, angrily. He never even
noticed the touch. And he was so sweet, holding her hand when he sensed
how scared she had been about her father's weirdness.

And her, wanting to ‘fall into his arms’ just because they brushed arms
together. What a dumb phrase, she thought, critically. Jeff would be ashamed
of her if she tried to use that in a story. Anyway, 'collapsed', would have been
more accurate. When her knees grew weak like that, she really did feel like
she could hardly stand up.
Funny, none of the boys who had tried to kiss her, or grab her, had given her
that feeling. But just the touch of Jeff’s arm in passing had. She wondered if
she could be ‘falling in love' with him. The idea made her pause. Maybe it
wasn't too good an idea to visit his cabin after all. Just suppose he really were
there, what then? I can always leave my bike here, she thought, and creep
close enough to hear if he's inside. If he is, I'll just leave and give it to him
some other time.

After she had left her bike leaning against a tree and started up the path,
another, better, idea occurred to her. Behind his cabin, the hill rose sharply. If
she made her way there, she could peek in the little window at the rear of the
one room and see if the cabin was empty, or if he was taking a nap or
whatever.

She made a wide detour off the path so any noise of her passage would be
lost in the heavy summer air. Slowly, she progressed up the hill, until she was
behind and above the cabin. Then she descended until she stood against the
roughhewn logs of the cabin's rear wall. Once, during her cautious approach,
she thought she had heard a sound of some sort from within, and she had
frozen in place, straining her ears. But the air was hot and still. Her shirt was
damp with perspiration and it clung to her, uncomfortably. With the book of
poems in one hand, she leaned against the wall with the other, and slowly
raised herself up to the small window.

Just as she was about to peek in, she heard the sound again, louder and more
clearly, now. It was a low, moaning sigh… feminine… with an undercurrent
of urgency to it that could have meant either pain, or some other emotion.

It was followed by Jeff's low bass chuckle, and a few murmured words, too
indistinct to understand. Something in the tone of the voices evoked the
memory of her and Jeff in the car. His voice had had a similar quality as he
had spoken to her after they had touched. If it had been ambiguous then…
now… in combination with that low moan, it no longer was. The warmth was
starting again in Cindy’s loins, as her body responded to perceptions she was
barely conscious of. Trembling, the blond girl drew her eyes up to the
window and looked inside.
She could see the interior well enough by the light filtering in through the
cabin's small window… well enough, at least, to make out the two bodies
clasped together on the floor.

The mattress had been dragged off the cot, and they were sprawled across it.
Jeff's body was starkly black within the clutch of Maureen's white arms and
legs. He was moving against her in an unhurrying, rhythmic, thrusting motion
and she moaned again, louder than before. Jeff's back was to the window and
Maureen's face was pressed against his neck. Again she moaned, still louder
and her arms and legs grabbed at him, straining his body to hers. Now, as she
moaned, Maureen pulled her face away from him and Cindy could see it was
contorted, with tightly shut eyes, as though in agony.

The blond girl stared in horrified fascination. She watched in awe as his rigid
organ emerged from her friend’s body, to rebury itself after a moment's
freedom. She could see the heavy, leathery purse bouncing against the red-
head's upturned buttocks. Again, Maureen spasmed, whimpering urgently. As
though her urgency were contagious, Jeff hurried his strokes. Cindy could not
tear her eyes away from them, although she would die if Maureen were to
open her own eyes and catch her staring.

Cindy's loins were on fire, but at the same time, she was astonished at what
she saw. She had no idea sex was so utterly… animalistically… physical. The
way Jeff's hips were pounding furiously now, and the way the muscle of
Maureen’s arms and legs stood out in relief like some sort of circus freak!
Who could have imagined it was like that? Cindy had always pictured sex as
slow and gentle touching with a merging of bodies that was never clearly
defined in her fantasies.

Then, Jeff let out a deep-throated roar and went rigid, as Maureen’s hips
lifted him off the mattress, holding him up, as her face reddened to match her
hair.

Cindy didn't wait until their passion had subsided and their bodies had
relaxed into satiation. She raced blindly back to her bike and rode frantically
away, heedless of the hazards of the path. She didn't even realize she had
dropped her gift for Jeff. She flew down the path back towards the flea
market, then took the cut-off to the lakeside cottages. She was glad she didn't
meet anyone who knew she had gone to the flea market. She could hardly
explain she had been there for hours and not bought anything. Nor could she
explain how she had lost the one thing she had bought.

When she finally arrived at her house, she decided to go in quietly by the
back door. It was close to her bed room and she could reach it without
anyone seeing her. She knew the Kalin’s were coming to visit, but she didn't
want to have to face a psychiatrist right now. She could even hear the voices
of some of her friends coming faintly up from the water, but she had no
inclination to join them. She needed time by herself to think.

When she reached her room, she threw herself on her bed. The memory of
what she had witnessed a few minutes earlier was very intense, and the
images were still vivid in her mind’s eye. Although she was afraid of the
intensity of her own feelings, she couldn't resist closing her eyes and allowing
her imagination to conjure up the scene in the cabin.

She could see once again the fierceness of Jeff's loins as they worked against
Maureen's… could sense the need which made her clutch him to her so
desperately… could feel the same need burning like fire between her thighs.
She didn’t know if she could ever face them again, knowing what they
looked like in that embrace! She was sure she would start to blush as soon as
she saw either of them… and how long would it take them, then, to figure out
she had been watching?

She squeezed her thighs together, resisting the need which urged her to let
her fingers stray into her soft recesses. Like one in the grip of an
overwhelming compulsion, she pictured the view she had had of Jeff's thick
organ. How could Maureen take it in? It would tear her apart to have
something that huge in her. The thought of it was frightening.

Again she pictured their two bodies intertwined. Only this time the head
buried against Jeff's blackness was covered with blond curls, and the face
contorted in passion, thrashing back and forth in ecstasy was hers. The heat
in her groin seemed to suddenly flare up and boil over. But she gained no
relief when it subsided somewhat… like a lessening of the sharpness of a
knife thrust into her belly. In fact, her frustration grew stronger as she was
less possessed by the demon of desire as it gave way to the demon of
jealousy.

'How could Jeff do it… with Maureen, of all people? Why she’s only a little
older than me… and mindless, too… all she cares about is how she looks.'

How she looked with her legs bound tightly around Jeff’s waist, straining him
closer, deeper.

Cindy thrashed around on her bed in an agony of… what? Anger? Desire?
Angry desire? She knew she was angry with Jeff. He had chosen that silly
Maureen over her! It should have been Cindy lying there, panting under his
thrusting body.

The girl had shocked herself with such an open avowal of lust. 'My God!
How could I even think such a thing?' she demanded of herself. Then,
defiantly came the reply. 'Why not? My body's my own, isn't it? Just as
Maureen's is hers… and Jeff’s is his… and Mike's is his. She thought for a
moment of the tall young man she had had a crush on during her early teens.
He had looked so good this morning in his bathing suit. So strong! An image
rushed into her mind of Mike and her on the floor of Jeff's cabin, bodies
locked together and straining, like giant spiders, their limbs wrapped and
entwined with each other.

And Jeff had his stinger, she thought with a hysterical giggle. My God, but he
was big there. Could she really take it in? she wondered. Her hand strayed
once more to her body then jerked away as though she had burned herself.

'I'm so hot there,' she thought, feverishly. She pressed her thighs together and
rolled over onto her belly. I'm on fire,’ she thought, frantically. ‘I need a
fireman to put out my fire… I need Jeff to put out my fire, she corrected. I
need Jeff… I need Jeff… she chanted silently to herself. She wondered if she
were weaving a spell by repeating it so many times. But the only spell it
wove was one of sleep, as the shadows lengthened towards evening in the
silent woods.
.p
 Chapter 14

The object of her conscious and subconscious desires was stirring,

reluctantly, on the fleshy cushion, recently so firm and taut, but now limp and
relaxed. Still linked with the red-head beneath him, Jeff raised himself
slightly and looked down at her. She seemed to be in a deep sleep. That last
climax she had groaned her way through apparently had taken all the fire out
of her.

Just as well he thought. Although he wasn't sated, still he always felt a certain
repugnance for a woman after she had exhausted herself with his body.

The little bitch, he thought as he watched her closed eyes, had come slinking
around just as he had finished showering. She had caught him at a weak
moment, and started caressing him before he could remind her of his rule that
the lake brats were forbidden to visit… in the day-time anyway. Luckily it
was still early enough in the vacation that most of the kids were too eager to
be swimming in the lake to want to come prowling around the woods near his
cabin. Still, he’d have to be firm with her. She was a hot one. The last thing
he needed was for her to popping in on him every time she felt horny. Let her
get one of her lake friends to screw her. The boys all had their tongues
hanging out for her. She’ll have no trouble finding partners.
Anyway, Jeff didn't like to go over ground he had already covered. The
images just didn't flow, he had explained once to Terry. She had nodded her
head, sagely, and observed,

"All that energy you get when you smell a fresh piece of nooky doesn't jump
out your cock when you shoot off your load. A lot of it stays in your brain
and comes out in your poetry."

Jeff was inevitably annoyed when she reduced his artistic efforts to some sort
of sublimated sex drive, but she would only shrug her shoulders when he
would try to argue her out of her notions, so he had given up on it.

He looked at Maureen's red-hair. It had a unique flame-red color. Spread out

against the mattress, it could be blood… the blood of a lover, wounded by
love's dart? he mused. Or, maybe the fire of desire spewed from the liquid
fire in her veins… a volcanic offering to appease the God of Love?

May be I should be writing some of this down, he thought, uneasily. Ideas

can slip away so quickly. He shifted himself of her, pulling his limp but long
organ out of the red thatch covering the juncture of her thighs, plastered
down with the juices of her climaxes. The fading light glistened off moisture
seeping from between the swollen lips. Suddenly Jeff was sick to his
stomach. He looked from her thighs to his organ. Both were covered with
blood.

Cursing, he hurried to the shower head fixed in the wall near the toilet. He
hated anything nasty like this. It made him positively ill. The primitives were
right when they had the woman go off to a hut in the woods when their
menses were on them.

"Wake up, you little bitch," he snarled at the sleeping girl. “You’re bleeding
all over my mattress."

Dully, Maureen sat up and examined herself. "Shit!" she announced. "I got
my period. I was afraid of that. Now I’m stuck for a week."
Jeff was scrubbing himself frantically. "Get off my mattress," he bawled at
her. "Goddamn it! Get dressed. You want to draw flies?"

She looked at him and laughed. "You got a sensitive stomach, Jeff?"
Languidly, she rose and pulled on her shorts and top.

"Guess you don't want me to hang around for a while, eh?" she asked,
hopefully.

Jeff rinsed himself off for the third time, then shut off the water. "Just get
your bleeding ass out of here," he hissed at her. "Now I'll probably have to
burn my mattress and sleep in a sleeping bag," he added, mournfully.

"You’re weird," Maureen laughed, good-naturedly. "Some guys like it when

a girl's got her rag on. Makes it more hydraulic, so they say." She winked at
him. "There's a college word for you, Jeff. It means 'wet'… or something like
that."

And turning she sauntered out the door. He watched her retreating figure, his
stomach heaving.

"Go find a hut to crawl into for a week," he called after her. Her answering
chuckle floated back at him on the heavy late afternoon air. After pulling on
a shirt and pants, he dragged the mattress over to the shower to wash out as
much of the stain as he could… in the process, soaking through the material
of the mattress.

He regarded it queasily. 'I can turn it over,' he told himself, 'but I'm sure I’ll
still smell it.'

He lifted it up, avoiding the wet area and carried it outside. 'Maybe there's
enough sunlight left to dry it,' he thought. It was after laying the mattress on
the ground where the branches of the trees opened enough to allow a bright
patch of sunlight to fall on the ground, that he found the book of poems
Cindy had dropped.

Puzzled, he looked through it with growing excitement. ‘Poems by Faulkner'

he thought. 'How could they have gotten here?' He looked around, but there
was no one to be seen in the slowly darkening woods.

'Cindy!' he intuited suddenly. 'She said she was going to the flea market. She
must have found it there and brought it here for me to look at.'

He walked around the cabin, slowly, his eyes searching the ground. Behind
the rear wall, under the window, he found a footprint in the soft loam. It was
from a small sneaker… a child’s, or a young girl's.

'So she saw us,' he concluded.

He considered the effect such a discovery would have on a young and

inexperienced girl. 'She's sure going to be ready for it now,' he reflected.
'Judging from how deep her sneaker worked itself into the dirt, she stood here
a long time, watching us. So, right now she's got to be really hot and
bothered.'

The thought of the young blond girl in a state of sexual excitement stirred
him and he felt a throb in his groin. He pictured Cindy in place of Maureen,
panting beneath him, and he felt himself growing in jerking, almost painful,
throbs.

'It's getting late,' he thought, looking up through the trees. After dark, he
could creep down to her cottage. He knew which her room was. He only
hoped her father would be out visiting some of his neighbors. He had to get
to Cindy before she cooled off too much. If he didn't get to her, one of those
simple minded fools always hanging around her would try, and this time they
might succeed. Right now her mind would be full of the memories of him and
Maureen. They would keep her fired up for a while.

Better Jeff should have the pleasure of her, than some young idiot, who
wouldn't even help her enjoy her first experience. He at least would be
inspired to artistic creation by her beauty. They would be inspired only to
make stupid jokes to their equally stupid friends. 'Of course I'll have to be
careful,' he told himself. 'She's going to be pretty angry, as well as aroused.'
He gazed thoughtfully at the book in his hand. It was the perfect excuse to
see her. He could deal with her jealousy once he got her alone. 'It was going
to be a great summer!’ he decided, as long as he was careful.

He would have to make sure he didn't run into Flaherty or one of the other
racists living near her place. They'd be furious if they found him down at the
cottages after dark. 'Probably afraid I'll try peeking in on them,' he chuckled.
They all were so bent on protecting their daughters and wives from him, they
had no idea he had already worked his way through most of them that he was
interested in.

But Cindy… she would be special, he thought. Ideas and images began to
flow through his mind, and it took discipline to push them aside and shut the
door on them. Sternly, he reminded himself of his first rule for writing
poetry, 'Never anticipate. Let the experience create the images… otherwise,
there's no directness, no immediacy, no authenticity.'

For the next hour or so, he sat at his desk under the window, reading eagerly
through the book of poems that had fallen, like a feather from a fleeing bird
outside his door. When the light faded so he finally had to put aside the book,
he turned on his solitary light bulb and busied himself for a while about the
cabin, unpacking and straightening out, forcing himself not to think of the
ripe young body he hoped was waiting for him in the gathering darkness.

.p
 Chapter 15

The Kalin's had a hasty dinner and Mike cleared away the few dishes.

"Why don't I start the car and you call Mr. Feldman out, Dad," he suggested
as they walked towards their neighbor’s house. His father agreed and strode
away, but the grinding of the engine brought him back on a run.

"Did you forget how to start a car in Israel?" he demanded.

His son grinned, ruefully.

"I don't think it's me, Dad, but you're welcome to take a whack at it." He slid
over.

"Be my guest,” he invited. In a moment his father was beside him, but the
grinding sound was even worse when he attempted the ignition.

"Damn," the psychiatrist swore. "I just paid two hundred dollars for a
complete tune-up. I'm going to hook that mechanic up to his own starter
cables," he promised, angrily.

Mike chuckled at his father's frustration, and teased, "What would your
colleagues say if they could hear their hospital director blowing his cool over
a car that won't start?"

"They would say I was a normal human being," his father snapped, "despite
the evidence of having produced an abnormal son who can think of nothing
better to do in a crisis than mock his old father."

Mike burst out laughing. "I'll atone for my sin of not honoring my parent
tomorrow morning, Dad. I haven't forgotten how to take apart a car and put it
back together."

"Hmm," his father murmured, as they got out of the stricken vehicle. "If I
recall, your morning usually starts after lunch time."

"Not anymore," Mike grinned. "I'm up at 6:30 every morning for prayers.
I'll start on it by 7:30 at the latest."

His father reacted with mild shock. "Who says the ages of miracles is dead?
Mike Kalin up and moving about before noon! My heart… my heart…" he
clowned, clutching at his chest.

Mike slipped an affectionate arm over his shoulder. "Let's ask Mr. Feldman if
we can go in his car, Dad… that is if he's still going with us. I stand by my
prediction he’ll try to avoid normal social relationships and activities."

His father clapped him on the back as they walked up the steps to Harold's
front porch. "To the testing of hypotheses!" he cried.

Mike echoed as he rang the doorbell, "To the scientific method."

Harold opened the door after a few moments, admitting them to the living
room. He looked sheepish and somewhat distraught.

"You fellows go on without me," he told them. "I just have to get in more
meditation time. Maybe I'll come in later for some coffee, after the show is
over."

The son glanced at the father, significantly.

"Actually, Harold," Dr. Kalin said. "We need you to go along now. Our car
refuses to start…" Feldman dug a hand into one of his pockets and handed
the psychiatrist a ring of keys.

"Take my car then," he offered. "I won't be needing it before morning." Dr.
Kalin glanced at his son as though to say, 'Your ball'. Mike laid a friendly
hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.

"Actually, Mr. Feldman… Harold… I was hoping you'd come with us so I

could ask you about some of the elements of your Master’s teachings which
seem to be similar to the teachings of my Rebbe in Jerusalem."

"Really Mike?" the artist gushed, his face brightening. “Maybe that'd be
okay, then." He glanced back over his shoulder. The empty chair still sat in
its place by the hall. Mike looked at his father and shook his head.

Dr. Kalin asked, "Is Cindy home, Harold?"

"Yes she's sleeping… looks tired out from the swimming and the flea
marketing, too. Let me find some paper and I’ll leave her a note telling her
I'm off to the movies with you two."

He dashed away, out of the room. Mike leaned towards his father and said in
a low voice, "It almost looked as though he was listening to instructions." His
father shrugged.

"Not to me," he said, softly. "I think he was just deciding whether to waken
his sleeping daughter, or not. ‘Or not’ won."

Mike shook his head in disagreement. "I'm telling you, Dad, something’s
going on here. Another prediction… I think his anxiety level is so high, he'll
find some excuse to leave us before the movie starts to get back to his so-
called meditation. The man's deeply disturbed."

"Here he is," his father whispered. "Let's see what happens."

"I'll just leave this note where Cindy can't miss it when she comes out here.
There's plenty to eat in the fridge, so she’ll be okay." He looked at the father
and son.

"Let's go," he announced, "and Mike can drive… as long as he drives on the
right side of the road."

Mike laughed. "It's true the British were in Israel for a long while, Harold,
but the Israelis drive on the same side of the road as we do."

His father interjected, quickly, "…the so-called 'normal’ side!"

But the ride was anything but normal. Feldman began to grow agitated, as
their distance from the lakeside cottages increased. Mike's predictions were
fulfilled as they stood in front of the box office, waiting their turn to buy
tickets.

"You fellows go in and enjoy yourselves," their neighbor suddenly

announced. "I just have to get back to my meditation." He wouldn't listen to
their protestations and insisted he would walk back to the lake by himself.

"It won't take me more than a half hour and I can walk the bike path. When
you get back, just leave the keys in the car. I'll get them in the morning."

Then he was off, almost at a run.

"Well," Mike said, glumly, "what do you think now, Dr.Kalin?"

His father's brow was furrowed with worry lines. "He still doesn’t strike me
as being disturbed enough to be hallucinating, Michael," he said. "But I'm
ready to admit he’s more disturbed than I thought."

The older man chewed his lip, thoughtfully for a few moments, then added,
"When we get home I'm going to call Beatrice. It’s true they're divorced and
she has no responsibilities for him any longer, but it might not be a bad idea
for her to come and take the girl for a while. If he is deteriorating, Cindy
should have a place to stay while he's undergoing treatment. Perhaps, I can
convince him to spend a few weeks at the hospital… as my guest."

Mike looked thoughtfully down the street. Harold had already disappeared.

"If he's this bad now, Dad," he commented, "I wonder what poor Cindy's
been going through."

"I don't know," his father said, a trifle defensively, it seemed to his son. "It's
true I haven't seen much of them, but Harold has certainly not been doing
anything bizarre enough for Cindy to mention it to me. Nor has she seemed to
me more troubled than any normal adolescent with the usual worries of not
being pretty enough, nor smart enough."

Dr. Kalin purchased two tickets. "Whatever is troubling him," he said, "I'm
sure of one thing… it won't express itself as violence, unless his personality
shatters completely between now and tomorrow morning… and I'm willing to
make a prediction on that!"

They went into the theatre.

p.

Chapter 16

Jeff moved silently along the lines of trees that bordered the path from the
woods into the cottage area. The moon was large, almost full, so he had no
trouble avoiding the few large tree roots and half buried rocks that lay in the
way.

The Feldman's cottage was dark, and their car was not in the car port, he
noted with disappointment. He wondered if both Cindy and her father had
gone off together. Cautiously, he edged nearer to the window of her room. It
was half open. The night air was so still, the curtains hardly stirred.

Jeff waited long minutes, listening. He thought he could just make out the
sound of light, regular breathing, but he wasn’t sure. After a few moments
more hesitation, he decided to chance it.

"Cindy," he hissed against the screen. The regular breathing ended with a
sharp intake of air.

"Jeff?" a girl's voice asked, wonderingly. A moment later, Cindy was at the
window, drawing aside the curtain.

"I have to speak to you," Jeff said urgently in a low voice. “Where can we
talk?"

She looked at him in confusion, as though dazed by a dream, unsure if she

was still asleep, or not. Her eyes slid sideways towards her door. The hall was
dark and silent. She remembered the voices she had heard earlier drifting
down that hall. The Kalin's and her father's… they had talked about going to
the movies… and there had been the sound of a car starting outside the house.
It had wakened her from her fitful sleep as it had pulled away from the wall
next to her room. That meant her father had gone out, and she was alone.

Alone with Jeff! Her heart faltered, then raced.

"Come to the door," she whispered out the window, and hurried to the back
door.

Jeff moved sideways along the house until he reached the screen door. Cindy
was already there, unhooking it. She held it open and Jeff slid past, his arm
slightly brushing against her breasts. The girl's breath caught and she
trembled at the contact, but he stood quietly, just inside the door, waiting
until she moved past him, leading him down the hall towards the living room.

She glanced into her father's room as she passed it. The bed was empty. Then
she looked into his meditation room. Also, empty. So, she and Jeff were
really alone. She felt momentarily weak and giddy, as though she had been
spinning on ice skates to the point of dizziness. She didn't pay attention when
Jeff moved past her and sat on the large, over-stuffed chair, forcing her to sit
on the sofa. She felt very small sitting there, very vulnerable.

"Cindy," Jeff said, softly. "I found the book of Faulkner’s poems and realized
only you among all the people in this place might have dropped it there…"
He paused a moment, then asked, "Did you find it at the flea market?"

She nodded weakly, then, not sure if he could see her in the dark, she said
faintly, "Yes."

"And you thought of me," Jeff mused. "I'm touched… I really am. But…" he
hesitated, "why didn't you bring the book to me? Why did you drop it and
run?"

She flushed in confusion. What did he expect her to say?

Jeff pressed her further. "Did you see me and Maureen together? Is that why
you didn't stay?"

Her answer was even fainter, "Yes". Jeff waited long moments, letting the
tension build up in her. Then he said, hesitantly, "I suppose you're going to
tell her parents?"

Cindy was shocked. The idea of such a betrayal had never occurred to her.

"Of course not!" she protested. "What do you think I am?"

Again Jeff was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, as though abashed,
"It was her red hair… last summer she threw herself at me, but I wasn't
interested so much in her body. I had to see how the sun fired that red hair
and discover what images came to me… but she's impossible to talk with.
That girl doesn't have an idea a year that isn’t related to how she looks, or
what the boys think about her. There’s no possibility for a serious
relationship with a person like that."

"You seem to have found a common ground with each other,” Cindy said,
sarcastically, surprising herself by the bitterness in her voice.

But Jeff wasn't surprised. He knew she was angry at him, even if she didn't
know it. Angry… and something else. Quickly he moved to the sofa and sat
beside her, taking her hand in both of his.

"Cindy," he murmured, "I'm sorry. It was an accident. I wouldn’t have hurt

you for the world. I value our friendship too highly. I don't want you thinking
badly of me as a man, now that you've matured so much in the time we’ve
been apart. I want you to think well of me… it's important to me."

She was confused by his words… not sure how she was supposed to react.
What exactly was he saying to her? She pulled weakly at her hand but he
was holding it firmly in his own.

"Tell me you forgive me," he urged her.

A tear slid down her cheek and she turned her head away, unable to look at
him. "It was as though you had rejected me," she whispered, miserably. "As
though you were saying she was prettier, smarter, and more desirable."

"Cindy," he breathed, his voice trembling as though with sincerity. "Nothing

could be further from the truth." And he gathered her into his arms.

For a long moment, he only held her close, letting her get used to the idea of
being held by him. Her breasts were full against him and her hair smelled
sweet despite an underlying odor of sweat. He breathed deeply against her,
then lifted her face upwards for a gentle kiss. As they kissed, gradually she
became more passionate and he slipped his hands under the back of her
blouse, moving his fingers lightly over her skin. The band of her bra was
wider than he expected, testifying to the heaviness of her young breasts.

He caught her upper lip between his teeth and sucked at it, simultaneously
pinching the ends of her bra strap together and deftly unhooking it. Gently he
kneaded the tightness out of her back. She had frozen momentarily when he
had released her breasts, but she slowly relaxed as he eased her fears away
with his gentleness.

Her mouth was open against his and she panted lightly. He dug her tongue
out with his and drew it into his mouth, toying with it in swirling suction until
she caught on and played the same way with him.

When he felt her begin to take aggressive action, he slid his hands around to
her full breasts, molding them with his strong fingers, pinching the nipples
lightly into erectness.

She moaned against his mouth, her passion rising, and ran her hands into his
hair. She felt the tight curls with a sense of giddiness at the difference
between her fine and his kinky hair. She couldn't reach his scalp with her
fingers. For some reason that thrilled her and she ran her hands down his
arms and over the sparse wiry hair there. She had never felt anything like it
before. The very newness of the sensation of his differences was like alcohol
in her veins. She felt she couldn't get close enough to him and she didn’t
resist when he suddenly drew her blouse and bra up over her head, stripping
them over her arms.

His shirt was slightly rough against her skin and she took the initiative to pull
it up[dh6][dh7][dh8], so she could feel his bare chest against her. Once again
he held her motionless, tight in his arms, as they both savored the feeling of
bare skin against bare skin.

Then he held her away for a moment, enjoying the vision of her as the
moonlight filtered into the room, lighting her golden hair and setting it off
against her milky white breasts. Without his direct stimulation, the nipples
began to flatten slightly and fade back to their usual delicate pinkness.

Then, abruptly, he lowered his head to her breasts, searching for her nipples
eagerly with his lips like a baby seeking nourishment. She groaned
passionately as he coaxed them into renewed stiffness, then cried out in
disappointment as he drew away for a moment. But he was only shifting his
position, so he could bear her over onto the sofa, letting his weight sink partly
onto her. The wiry hairs on his chest drew little lines of fire against her
sensitive nipples as they shifted against each other. Her hips lifted under his,
blindly seeking what was still an unknown quantity.

Suddenly sitting upright, Jeff opened her shorts, then slid his hands around
and under her buttocks, lifting her slightly as he skinned her clothing over her
loins and down her legs. Cindy shivered, knowing he had drawn back to look
at her naked sex and she slid a small hand down, instinctively, to cover the
slightly darker blond curls there.

But her hand was in turn covered by his mouth, and half playfully, he bit at
her fingers sharply enough to make her jerk back her hand. Without giving
her a moment to recover, he circled his mouth on her, spreading open her
delicate lips and tasting the hidden flesh at her core.

She moaned deep in her throat as he expertly laved the perfumed nubbin that
shyly peeked out from its protective sheath. As chills of pleasure rippled
through her, Cindy moaned again, deeply. She never knew she had such low
tones in her voice, but she also never knew what pleasures lay waiting in her
own body.

With his hands cupped under her buttocks, Jeff moved her easily to facilitate
his exploration of her loins. His probing tongue found her passageway, and
tested the strength of the blocking membrane even as it savored the juices her
desire was leaking out.

Continuing his oral caresses, he inserted a finger carefully into the blocked
entrance to her body. He waited a few moments until the girl stopped
squirming at the strangeness of the invasion of her flesh, and then he inserted
a second finger. With a sudden movement, he spread them apart and Cindy
gave a little shriek as she split. A moment later, he withdrew his fingers and
moved up her body to find her mouth and kiss her deeply.

Cindy felt faint when she realized the whole length of Jeff’s body as it
covered hers was bare of clothing. She hadn’t felt him undress. She could feel
the pressure of his swollen organ as it lay against the entrance to her body.
But he wasn’t demanding immediate entry. He was playing with her swollen
flesh, teasing and titillating it, only slightly parting her lips with his organ and
then retreating.

Within a few minutes she had forgotten the pain of whatever it was he had
done to her and her passion was again at full flower. Her hips began lifting,
seeking desperately for the playfully, elusive shaft that seemed intent on
avoiding a connection with her.

Finally, its head thickly coated with her lubricious fluids, it slid firmly and
steadily into her. Cindy by this time was beyond caring about the small pain
as it passed between the lacerated edges of her hymen. She only wanted to
open herself fully, so he could enter more deeply.

She didn't need the image of Maureen's legs crossed high up over Jeff's back
to instruct her in aiding his penetration. Instinct alone led her to draw her legs
up and wrap them around his strong loins until she was filled with him.
He thrust against the girlish cervix and she felt a starburst of passion explode
within her… once… twice… three times… each spasm stronger than the one
before.

For one agonized moment, her legs closed on him with such convulsive
strength, he couldn't thrust. He pulsed his organ within her until she gasped
and loosened her hold. His hips resumed their rhythmic pistoning.

Slowly her passion began to build again, keening higher and higher while her
breath whistled from her lungs as though they would burst. He carefully
nurtured her rising tension. Almost regretfully, Jeff felt himself losing control
as his body tensed itself for its own outburst of passion. When he felt her
climax for the final explosive time, he was unable to restrain himself any
longer. Cindy cried out with joy as she felt powerful hot jets pelting against
her womb. She wept as she clutched his trembling body to her breasts.

.p
 Chapter 17

In his meditation room Harold stared with wide, wild eyes at the image of
Master Teshoo sitting calmly in a chair in front of the small altar festooned
with flowers.

"Be at peace," the image told him dispassionately. Harold had never felt as
miserable as he did now. Not even the soft, sage voice of Master Teshoo, as it
came from the Lama’s likeness, seemed to help.

"Why do you rage in your heart?" the image asked him. "Can you by all your
efforts of will change even one hair’s thickness of what is to be?"

"But, Master Teshoo," Harold sobbed at the image… (or did he only imagine
he was sobbing? He seemed not to hear the sound of his own voice
anymore). "Don't you hear them? My daughter is… she's… she's offering
herself to that… that…"

The Master held up a remonstrating hand and Harold felt a compulsion like a
spell of silence. He no longer questioned whether it was his Master sitting
before him, or his own mental projection; he fell silent.

"Are you so wise," the Master was saying, "that you can foresee all the paths
stretching out from this 'offering' to know it is evil and not good?"

"But… but… she's too young," Harold protested. The Master shrugged his
shoulders slightly under his orange robes.

"In my country girls her age have been wedded several years and have made
children. Must she not follow her Karma to its fulfillment to be free of it…
even as you or the black man must?"
"But he's only using her for his pleasure," Harold wailed silently in his mind.

"Is it not rather the case that they use each other?" the Master asked, gently in
his thoughts. "Even now I hear her cries of joy as she approaches the 'small
Nirvana' when she will, momentarily, know the bliss of the Gods."

The Master spoke gravely, but was that not a twinkle of glee in his usually
serious eyes?

"You think of these things differently than we do, Master. You’re at the top
of the mountain, but I'm only a father thinking of his daughter… of what's
good for her in the here and now… not from the perspective of eternity."

He made a move as though to rise, but the image of the Master made a small
negative gesture with its head and Harold hesitated, feeling its compulsion.
He resisted it; trying to stand, fighting the spell.

Now the image held up a yellow, wrinkled hand with the fingers hooked like
the claws of a vulture.

"Stop!" he commanded, and his voice stabbed Harold’s mind like a shard of
ice, freezing him. Never before had he felt so clearly the raw power a Master
wielded.

From the other room came sounds of increasingly heavy breathing and little
girlish cries of joy and wonder. Harold gritted his teeth in agony. The image
of his Master spoke quickly now, as though its words were somehow linked
to the rising urgency in the sounds from the other side of the door.

"Have you searched your heart of hearts?" it queried. "Are you sure your
concern is all fatherly love?"

"Wha… What else is there?" Harold asked faintly, his heart fluttering as
though he had already guessed what was coming. The Lama held him now
with his eyes, like a snake will hold its prey immobile as it makes its slow
approach to within striking distance. His eyes seem to have a reddish glow
Harold had never noticed before. Was that inner fire something he had added
to the image, unconsciously, during his meditations?

The Master asked gently, “What of the numberless drawings and paintings of
her girlish body you produced as she grew from a child to a young woman?”
Harold stammered, “They were only a chronicle of her life.”

“Kept hidden from all eyes,” the Master continued. “You reveled as her
breasts began to form and recorded faithfully their developing roundness.
You cherished her young body and desired to keep her for yourself. What
was that?” he asked rhetorically. Then he answered his own question and
pronounced his next words inside Harold’s head like a sentence of doom.
"LUST," he hissed, and his usually gentle voice dripped venom. "Jealous,
incestuous lust for the possession of your own daughter's young flesh!"

Harold gasped in horror, staring like one on the brink of an abyss that has
suddenly opened at his feet.

"Yes," the image breathed. "How long you watched her ripening body and
desired to possess it? Was there ever a time when you did not?"

"But I have put aside all sexual desire, Master," Harold wailed inside his
mind. "You know that! You gave me your permission!"

"Yes! And how you betrayed me!" the image thundered. "Look at your own
body!"

"NO! NO!" Harold cried out and, despite the compulsion laid on him by the
raised hand, he struggled to his feet.

Even as Jefferson's hoarse roar of release rumbled from his chest, and Cindy's
high squeals pierced the walls, the Master pointed a triumphant finger at the
little artist's groin.

"What is it but lust which now fills your staff of life to bursting?" he laughed.
“‘Free of lust'? You burn with the desire to replace the black man on your
daughter's body."
In horror Harold looked down on himself. Sexual arousal had tented out the
front of his trousers and he opened his mouth to shriek in an agony of guilty
frustration, as he collapsed back into his chair. But no sound emerged from
his gaping mouth.

Betrayed by his body; red with shame; he covered his face with his hands.
His loins burned with undischarged energies as though a knife blade had been
thrust into his vitals.

"Master!" he whimpered, "Remove this sin of lust from me, I beg of you."

The image of Master Teshoo nodded, gravely, made a beckoning gesture, and
at once Harold felt the heat of his lust flow out of him. As his body retreated
from the edge of release, the energy in his groin subsided.

"It is done," his Master said firmly, and his voice somehow sounded more
resonant, more alive inside Harold’s head.

When he felt the return of his self-control, Harold looked up, still tortured
with guilt. Somehow his mental creation seemed more substantial than ever
before… more real… as though Harold’s lust for his daughter had somehow
fed more life into the image. The lines of its form were sharper… the
wrinkles on its face deeper… more articulated. When he moved the chair
creaked at his shifting weight. And the eyes! My God, the eyes! Harold stared
at the twin orbs, glowing bright red as though shot with luminescent blood.

'I'm going mad,' the little man thought. 'I must be!' His body felt drained of
vitality, exhausted.

'Why didn't I go in there and stop them?' he asked himself. ‘She’s too young
to make a decision of that sort.'

But he sat there, no longer having the energy to move. It was as though he
had been the one who had climbed to the pinnacle of sexual pleasure that had
been reached on the sofa in the other room.
He could hear the lovers whispering now and soft laughter. The shifting of
bodies and the rustle of clothing being adjusted, parting kisses being
exchanged, then the outside door closing quietly. Gravel crunched in the
driveway, growing fainter as the walker disappeared down the road. He could
hear Cindy's soft footsteps as she came down the hall… could hear them
falter as she neared his door and saw the faint red light he used while he was
meditating-a light that had not been on when she last passed this door.

Hesitantly, the door opened and he heard her gasp of astonishment as she saw
him at his desk. Like a dream walker, she stepped into the room and moved
towards him. It was as though she could not believe her father was really
there and needed to get closer to him before she would accept the testimony
of her senses.

"Daddy?" she asked weakly when she finally stood before him. He saw she
was carrying her bra in her hand and visualized her swinging it gaily as she
had strolled down the hall towards her bedroom. Her still swollen nipples
were visible thru her thin blouse.

Despite his physical weakness Harold felt a sudden surge of almost over-
whelming hatred for her… he knew at that moment he could kill her. She
looked just like her mother had when she would come home sexually sated
from any of the legion of boyfriends she kept ready at hand. Behind Cindy,
the image of Master Teshoo grinned broadly.

"I… I thought you went to the movies with the Kalins," she faltered.

"I decided to come back and meditate," he said, coldly. “Their car wouldn't
start so we took mine."

Her eyes slid sideways and she turned slightly back towards the door she had
just entered. He could read her thoughts as plainly as though she had spoken
them. He could see her calculating how much he could have heard of what
had recently transpired in the adjoining room. A blush stole up her neck and
suffused her face as she turned back to him and found his eyes fixed on her.
Then she knew he had been a silent witness to her sexual initiation.
"I… I…" she began in confusion.

"Don't be shy," he snapped. "You weren't shy just now with him, so please
don't be shy with me."

If he expected chagrin or remorse, Harold was shocked by his daughter’s

reaction. "Were you spying on me," she flared out in anger. "Mother used to
tell me how you spied on her and that one day you would spy on me too, but I
thought she was just being spiteful."

His rage broke free at the taunt in her words.

"You dare talk to me of that whore, your mother," he screamed. "Are you
planning to follow in her footsteps? Or, are you incapable of not following
her?"

Cindy became in turn equally angry.

"My body's mine to do with it what I want," she cried. “Aren’t you the one
who always told me to make my own decisions? Well, I made one and I
won't have it thrown back in my face."

Behind her Master Teshoo seemed to be rubbing his hands together in glee.
Harold could not hide his anguish. "But Cindy," he wept, "you let your self
be used by that… that…"

Cindy looked at him with contempt, while the look on the image of Master
Teshoo's face seemed to be that of benign amusement.

“‘That… what'?" she demanded. He was silent.

"Hypocrite" she shouted. "You want to say 'Nigger', don’t you, but you just
can't be that honest, can you?" Now she seemed suddenly on the verge of
tears.

"Jefferson was right when he told me the white man hates the Negro because
he fears his sexuality. But at least what he shared with me was honest lust…
not lust paraded around as sanctimonious holiness."

Harold glared at her in rage and his eyes darted over his desk for something
to throw at her. Behind the girl Master Teshoo clapped his hands together in
silent applause.

Almost choking on the words, he screamed at her, "Get out! Get out before I
show you what I did to your mother when I caught her cheating on me."

"I can't be cheating on you, Daddy," she said, acidly. "I’m your daughter, not
your wife. But, I see now, you always had trouble keeping that straight, didn't
you." And she turned to leave.

But when she passed the chair where the image of Master Teshoo sat
beaming up at her, she stopped suddenly as though in confusion. Bursting
into tears she turned to her father once more.

"How could you do something so hateful," she cried and fled weeping from
the room. Harold stared after her, too enraged to be perplexed by her words.

"You blame her for your pain," the image of Master Teshoo said, soothingly.

"She betrayed me," Harold mumbled, trembling in new agitation.

"Is that not foolish?" his Master's voice asked in gentle reproof.

"Like her mother did before her," Harold whispered hoarsely and ground his
teeth together.

The image shrugged deprecatingly. "What is woman, my disciple?" he said,

benevolently. "Weak… willful… wanton from birth… the reincarnation of
those souls unable to control their lusts! Is it not their nature to betray and to
whore? Can we blame them for following their natures?" Then the voice
seem to harden and grow chill.

"But… who did you betray you with?” Again he answered his own question.
“One just like those who beat you as a child; shamed and humiliated you.”
Harold gasped.

“Had you really forgotten? An eight year old boy, taking a short cut through
the park, and set upon by a pack of human wolves just like that that one who
stole your daughter’s innocence. They beat you and laughed at your tears and
pleadings.” Harold flinched and moaned at remembered pain. The Lama
continued. “And the final humiliation… they pulled down your trousers and
mocked your small body.

‘Look at that, boys,’ the leader cried. ‘He got one of them cut-cocks like them
Jews do to themselves.’ Then there was a knife in his hand. ‘Maybe I’ll cut it
off the rest of the way.’ The blade was cold against your skin, and you
shrieked in terror. Remember!” the image urged him.

Harold remembered his agony. They were going to mutilate him! He had
begged and shrieked and his bladder let go. The big black boy and was
tormenting him leaped back. “What the fuck…?! The little bitch pissed on
me!” He took his dripping hand and smeared it over Harold’s face. “You
keep your own piss, little white mother fucker,” he had snarled. Then,
mercifully, he and his gang went off laughing and joking.

The image of Master Teshoo was silent, letting the remembered agony return
in full force to his disciple. “You went home like a beaten dog. You
showered and scrubbed your body, and tried to forget. Your art became your
refuge and the memories of your shame and humiliation faded. But they are
still there, aren’t they?”

Harold shuddered. “I thought they were going to kill me,” he wept.

“And now they return again in the form of this black man, who pretended
friendship only so he could rape your daughter.” There was a momentary
pause and then a whisper… “Woe to him who preys on the weakness of
woman’s flesh."

"Yes," Harold whispered, his eyes staring straight ahead into emptiness.

"Woe to this man… black like your tormentors who shamed you!" the image
of kindly Master Teshoo intoned, hollowly.

"Yes," Harold repeated, his voice rising.

"Woe to the lustful predator… cruel oppressor of your youth," the wrinkled
lips hissed.

"Woe," Harold repeated.

"Corruptor of the innocent… woe to him," the image chanted.

"Woe," the disciple repeated.

"Pouring his lust into her pure flesh… woe to him."

Harold's breathing quickened. "Woe to him," he cried.

His Master's voice hissed at him like serpents were writhing behind his lips.

"It was rape!" he cried out, and his red eyes glowed.

"RAPE!" Harold repeated, staring wildly.

"Death to the rapist," his Master chanted.

"Death to him," Harold raged.

The red eyes glowed more fiercely, as though the fire that burned within the
image was now blazing higher, drawing on the rage of his disciple.
"Remember what he did to your innocent child and let your hatred run free,”
the image of Master Teshoo urged.

"Hate," Harold shrieked, a volcano of emotion distorting his face so it hardly

looked human.

"He raped your daughter… stole her love… now she hates you. He is the
same flesh as those who beat you. Perhaps he was one of them come back to
torment you anew. Death to him!" the Lama shrieked.

"Death to him! Woe to him!" Harold cried.

"Rend his flesh," the Master cried. "Tear him apart. Death! Death! Death!"

"REND HIM! DEATH!" Harold shrieked and leaped to his feet. His face was
purple with rage and his thin chest heaved as though the heart that pounded
within would burst from his ribs.

Suddenly the likeness of the old Lama was at his side… his thin arms
embracing his disciple as though supporting him in his paroxysm of fury.
The withered lips covered Harold’s mouth with a lover's kiss. For a moment
the artist inhaled breath from his Master's likeness that had the sickening, foul
odor of rotting flesh. It was as though he had suddenly awakened in his coffin
after months of death and decay and been forced to breathe in his own
putrescence.

Then the breath was sucked out of him and all the murderous blood lust
pounding in his veins was drained away. The strong arms that had held him
released their clasp and Harold slipped down to the floor as though his bones
had been dissolved within him and his flesh was pouring out like water floor
to lie in a[dh9] soulless, empty puddle. His eyes were open, but sightless.

The thing that now wore the image of Master Teshoo stood above him for a
moment, savoring the power of hate and lust for death flowing through him…
power which had finally given him life after eons in the void. His eyes shown
like beacons and the once kindly features were undergoing a metamorphosis
as though to reflect the nature of the energies that drove it. The flesh on the
face rippled like a living thing covering the skull under it, darkening from
yellow into a dirty brown that looked like hide covered with patches of coarse
hair. With each breath the thing took, it grew taller, broader, as though the
puny form Harold had contrived could no longer house that which had taken
possession of it.

A few moments more and the orange robes, unable to contain what was
growing within them, split and tore, sliding down and off, revealing a
hideous, powerful torso, covered with great plates of scales like the armor on
a reptile. The robes that had fallen from it began to steam and bubble into
vapor, as though separation from the creature robbed them of their basis for
existence.

Huge hands, taloned like claws, tore away the final remnants of the orange
robe and then the massive thing stood there, drawing in huge breaths as
though tasting its first air in countless centuries. Something like yellow drool
slavered from its huge jaws, dissipating into foul vapor as it slid from great
flapping lips.

Now the red eyes closed as its other senses were seeking some distant
objective. Then the thing went rigid like an alert hunting animal that has
found its prey. Its mouth moved and a voice like breaking bones grated from
its bubbling, slavering lips- "Woe to him!"

It rushed through the hall to the rear door, flung it open and ducked through;
boldly leaping out into the night, certain no one could see or hear it without
its permission. The thing that had been Master Teshoo crashed through the
woods, snapping branches and tree stems like wisps of straw… and chanting
endlessly in a hoarse, rasping voice; "Woe to him! Woe! Death!"

.p
 Chapter 18

On arriving back at his cabin, Jefferson Hope immediately showered,

scrubbing himself clean. He always washed as soon as he could before the
juices of lovemaking became stale and foul smelling. Now he let the warm
night air dry him as he hunched over one of his precious notebooks, seeking
words to match his inspirations.

He was writing on a page headed: ‘Cindy Feldman… Virgin; 16 years old’.

"...her breast, like a plump white dove, trembled with fear in the nest of his
hand..."

He paused for a moment to reflect. "Naw, that's not it," he mumbled, and
scratched his head with the pencil's eraser. He studied the lines for a few
moments more. "Why should it be afraid?" he asked rhetorically. He erased
'with fear' and jotted down more words. '…his brown fingers curled about it
like gnarled branches, shielding it from his predatory gaze…"
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered to himself. "That's getting there." He wrote more
lines, while keeping up a steady stream of critical comment, crossing out
words or starting new lines as new ideas came to him.

His recollection of the events of the past few hours made him pause in
reflection. He had not wanted to climax when he did. He had wanted to hold
off and watch her through a few more of her orgasms. But her freshness had
gotten to him. Her birdlike cries of pleasure as the feelings had burst inside
her had excited him to the point he had lost control and finished too soon…
something that hadn't happened to him in years.

Jeff's eyes were vacant as he recalled the scene. The moonlight streaming
thru the window really had fired her hair so the curls glowed like spun gold.
And the way she had 'ooohed' and 'aaahed' at every new sensation… it was
more stimulating than any virgin he had ever had before. If she was still so
special after he had had her a few more times, maybe he might keep on with
her after the summer was over.

Of course, he'd have to keep her away from Terry… that knife-crazy bitch
would cut her to pieces. Perhaps he should rent a place of his own, move out
of Terry's place. It was nice having her foot the bills, but Cindy was
something special. Maybe her father would help them set up in an apartment
somewhere. 'He's always spouting off about racial equality,' Jeff thought. 'Let
him put his money where my mouth has been.' He sat upright, delighted with
himself.

"Hey, that's good!" he said aloud. "I can use it, maybe, somewhere."

And began scribbling once more in his notebook, when a rustling sound in
the bushes outside the cabin made him pause. ‘Someone outside?’ he asked
himself. ‘Can’t let them see these books.’ He hastily slid the notebook into a
drawer in the table.

"Wouldn't do to have one of the owners drop in here and get curious as to
what the 'boat nigger' is writing away at, would it?" he asked himself. "Sure
wouldn't," he answered himself, with a grin.
There was another sound of rustling and for a moment Jeff thought he had
heard footsteps approaching the cabin from the rear. 'Someone trying to peek
in the window?' he wondered. He looked up at the small aperture and shaded
his eyes against the glare of his solitary lightbulb reflecting off the dirty
glass.

For a fleeting instant, he had the impression of something dark moving away;
something darker than the wood, its murkiness almost unrelieved by the scant
moonlight that trickled thru the trees.

Jeff sniffed the air and winced. An awful odor was seeping in through the
cracks and seams of the old log cabin. 'Skunk, ‘he told himself. 'Hope it
doesn't come nearer. I have enough to worry my nose with the underside of
that mattress that red-headed bitch ruined this afternoon.'

A sudden inspiration told him that it was Cindy outside, unable to wait for
tomorrow to meet by the boat house as they agreed. He caught himself in
time as he was about to call out her name. That would have been disastrous
had it turned out to be one of the cottage owners, or maybe a bigshot from the
country club. He wondered if the girl had recovered her energy and with it
her sexual desire. She was certainly eager for new experience, but her last
climax had drained her so completely Jeff figured she would sleep the sleep
of the dead.

He had promised to meet her at the boathouse in the morning at first light. He
also had had to promise her not to have anything more to do with Maureen…
but that was a promise he did not anticipate any trouble keeping. He was still
sick from the smell of the redhead's blood that afternoon. He would hardly let
that crude little bitch get anywhere near him again.

Well, if it did turn out to be Cindy outside, he would have to make sure she
understood he couldn't allow her to spend the night at the cabin… it was too
much of a risk for him, if they overslept in the morning.

Still, the thought of Cindy's firm, young flesh and her newly awakened
eagerness had aroused him, and he headed to the door to greet her. Even if
her father were to come home soon from the movies, she could always tell
him she had not been able to sleep and had decided to walk along the lake in
the moonlight. So they could have another two or three hours together.

Jeff could feel himself erecting in rapid jerks as his imagination spewed out
visions of him and the blond girl writhing in renewed ecstasy. He would just
peek out the door and if it were someone else who had come to talk with him,
he would apologize and get dressed.

But if it were Cindy… she would be in for a big surprise when he opened the
door. 'How big a surprise?' Jeff asked himself, as he reached for the door
knob. 'Oh, about 10 inches,' he answered himself, and gave a short laugh, as
he grasped door knob.

Before he could turn it, a tremendous blow landed against the door from
outside, splintering the heavy planks inward.

"What the fuck!" Jeff cried out, instinctively leaping backwards, as a second
blow burst the door into fragments. Shards of wood flew about the room,
some embedding themselves in his chest, and he cried out from the sudden
pain.

To his horror, a huge dark shape filled the door frame, and a blood chilling
snarl made the air beat against his ears. At the same moment, he was assailed
by a lung searing stench that made him gag. For a heart-stopping instant
Jefferson stood there, gibbering in terror. Then, he turned shrieking, to flee.
His cries for help seemed to be swallowed up in the thick atmosphere that
clogged the cabin. He leaped onto his writing table and ripped the window
open, but… while a child conceivably might have slipped through the narrow
opening, Jeff's shoulders were far too wide.

Even as his nails clawed at the wooden frame, trying to enlarge the opening,
a taloned hand clutched him by the shoulder and spun him around. He flailed
his fists against the thing that held him in its grasp, but he might as well have
been pounding an oak tree for all the effect his blows had.

The huge talons shifted from his shoulder to his throat, and squeezed,
crushing his larynx and choking off his screams. The creature's grip was so
tight, Jeff began blacking out from the total blockage of the blood flow to his
brain, but he was still conscious enough to feel the thing's other hand groping
at his groin. The growing blackness in his brain became a brilliant white
sheet of flame as pain beyond endurance lit his total being.

With his throat blocked off, no sound could emerge from his tortured lips.
His screams imploded, building internal pressure which ruptured the major
blood vessels in his brain and bulged his eyes out until they burst from their
sockets.

As the white light of his agony faded into total blackness, he lost all sense of
his being. Mercifully, he could not hear the horrible squelching sound of his
wet flesh surrendering to overwhelming force, nor the spraying and gushing
of pent-up fluids suddenly released to splash hotly over the old oak floor
boards.

The thing held the limp flesh that had been Jefferson Hope and contemplated
his lack of resistance in puzzlement, as though it had forgotten what frail
material human beings were made of. Then, suddenly angry at his victim for
having died too quickly, it flew into a paroxysm of rage and ripped the weak
flesh it held to shreds.

Poor Jeff! He had found at last his Moment of Truth in which the union of
flesh and spirit was made complete. But the union was forged not of pure
pleasure, but of pure pain. And his soul did not cry out, at its moment of
release from its fleshly prison, 'Stay… for thou art beautiful!' It had been too
frozen with terror at the last to do anything except flee, shrieking, into the
Void.

.p
 Chapter 19

"...'n I figgah he was trying t'get out that little window when hit snatched him
down, Shayif… though I don't believe he could’a got his shouldahs through
hit, anyways."

Sheriff Danial Walker, ex-Marine and Vietnam vet, grunted

acknowledgement of his deputy’s remarks and stepped gingerly around the
large areas of drying blood on the oak flooring. He was a big man, six feet
plus tall, heavy thru the chest and stomach, and going bald in the classic
‘front to back’ pattern of a fifty year old man.

He was a veteran of numerous scenes of carnage at both the county’s road

and hunting accidents- and in Vietnam where he witnessed every form of
battle death his thoughtful nation could provide. Still his stomach was
wrenched at the sight within the small cabin and he did not want his deputy to
see how shaken he was. So, he was thankful for the excuse to be looking
anywhere but at the cabin's grisly interior.

Laboriously, he climbed onto the table under the window and peered closely
at the window sill… at least, as closely as his more than generous stomach
would allow.

His shirt had pulled free of his trousers during his ascent to the table top,
revealing a heavily haired rump. He tucked in most of it as he jumped down
from the table. The whole cabin shook.

"Right you ah, Hahve," he told his deputy… a long, lanky blond with a thin
face and an Adam’s apple that bobbed continuously, even when he wasn't
speaking.

"Thah's a couple of deep grooves in the sill, 'n I'll bet you a week's supply of
beyah meat from that one you shot last week, you check under his nails,
you’ll find wood splintahs and dust that matches the wood of that sill. He was
tryin' pretty hard to get out those last few seconds, 'n he took out a lotta
wood." The deputy grinned, his good humor unaffected by his surroundings.

"Ah can't afford a bank loan on what little you pay me, Shayif, 'n I guess I'd
need one to keep you in beyah for a week… so I won't take yoah bet.
Anyways, I ain't found but one of his hands… t'othah's prob'ly been et."

After a moment's inspection of the one hand he had found, the deputy
announced, admiringly, "Yoah shaw right, Shayif. Plenty of wood under
some of these nails… so he was tryin' to get out when it dragged him down."

They both looked up sharply at a sound from the doorway where another
young man in a uniform had stuck his head in, glanced around, and turned
green.

"You found them beyah tracks yet, Mack?" the Sheriff asked him in a deep
voice tinged with sympathy for the youth's obvious distress.

"Shaw ain't, Shayif," came the choked reply. "But it ain't rained in a few
weeks and the ground’s hard as cement."

"Must have plenty’ a blood tracks though," Harve suggested, grinning at his
younger partner's distress. "That ol' beyah was a’ wollowin' in blood in
here… though all the mahks are too blurred to be sure of anythin' 'cept that it
was BIG," he added, glancing around the floor.

The Sheriff grunted, studying the patches of blood more closely now. After a
moment he said, "Hahve, you go out and help Mack look around. We'll get
the dawgs up here latah, but theyah should be some pretty good claw
scratches no matter how hard the ground is. I mean, this has to be one of the
biggest damn brownies we've had in these parts in my lifetime."

The lanky deputy paused at the door, his Adam’s apple all abob, "Jest a
thought, Shayif. Maybe a grizzly come wanderin' down from Canada
somehow and decided to have a breakfast o' dahk meat."
The Sheriff laughed, scornfully.

"Boy, you better take your next huntin' trip up in Alaska,” he admonished the
blond deputy, “’cause you have sure fohgot how big one of them grizzlies is.
Ain't hardly room in this little cabin for one of them to stand upright.

“‘Sides from that… first rule of good police wohk is never look foah
something out of the auhdinary when somethin' auhdinary will do jest as
good." He gestured around the room. "There are brownies big enough to
teyuh a person apart like this… jest haven't been many in these pahts is all.
Too hunted out ovah the yeahs foah 'em to get so big, anymoah."

The deputy shrugged and went looking for his friend. He found him retching
in the bushes. Harve laughed good-naturedly.

"Yoah face is jes’ as green as it can be, Mack," he observed. “You keep it
that way till next Halloween, you can rent yourself out to scayuh kids at
pahties."

Mack looked up sourly. Just an hour ago he had been a fresh-faced eager
rookie of eighteen, enjoying his first week in uniform. Now his stomach was
jumping around like Harve's Adam’s apple.

"Don't tell me it didn't turn you inside out, Hahve, seein' that Niggah tore up
in theyah," he growled.

His partner chuckled, his prominent larynx jumping rapidly with his
laughter.

"Shoot, boy," he drawled. "You wait till you been out on a few accident calls
on 81 Nawth. One time theyah was this six cah pileup at night n' I was
stumblin' round in the dahk lookin' for stray bodies when I tripped over a
large rock n' almost fell on it. Only… when I got my light on it, that ol' rock
had the prettiest blue eyes you ever could hope to see lookin' back at you! Ah
was so shook, I kicked it by accident 'n it went bouncin' off like a football n' I
had t’run aftah it down the hill. Carried it back to the car by its pony tail n'
tossed it in the back seat with the rest of her, so they could bury it all
togethah."

Mack went a brighter shade of green and was sick again in the bushes. His
friend laughed heartily.

"Now that ol' black boy back theah," he went on, gesturing towards the cabin,
"’n they want a full coffin at his funeral then we gotta catch up with that
th’yah beyah foah he's laid up all day, sleepin' his meal off. Otherwise, that
coffin'll have to be half full of niggah and half full of beyah shit."

While he had been speaking Harve's eyes had been covering the ground as he
wandered in ever increasing circles through the area.

"Mounts to the same thing, I guess…" he ruminated,"…beah shit n' niggah….

never did like that boy when he was heyah last summer… seemed to think he
was sahperiah, o'somethin'… talkin’ like a college purfessah"

He moved closer to Mack and clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by.
Mack, recovered somewhat from his nausea, had joined him in scrutinizing
the ground, and slowly they were moving off into the woods.

Inside the cabin the Sheriff gingerly moved a hunk of flesh that hung over the
drawer in the table, and then slid the drawer open. There were a few
notebooks inside and he drew one out, idly riffling the pages.

"That fellow sure did like to write," he murmured to himself.

Casually at first, then with growing interest and alarm, he scanned the first
few pages. Whistling softly in surprise, he skipped to the last few leafs with
writing on them and grunted in consternation. Finally, he stuffed the
notebooks in his shirt front, and checked the rest of the cabin. Whenever he
found another notebook, he hid it away with the rest of the collection.

A voice from behind startled him and he wheeled around, surprisingly

quickly for a male of his considerable weight. A small old man, carrying a
doctor's black bag stood framed in the doorway. He had a round body and a
round red face. A sparse supply of white hair lay plastered to the top of his
head. Closer inspection would show there were no more than twenty hairs
comprising his one lock of hair that ran in a long arc from one side of his
head and around its circumference in decreasing concentric circles. That lone
lock of hair had sat atop Doc Wilson's head like a coiled snake as long as
anyone could remember. And it never seemed to have had more or less than
those twenty hairs in it.

"Whew," the old man said in astonishment. "They mentioned an animal

attack, but this place looks more like a slaughtahhouse t’me."

"’Lo, Doc," the Sheriff said, beckoning him inwards.

"What have we got heah, Dan'l… wolves?" the doctor queried.

The Sheriff shrugged his broad shoulders. "At first I thought it was a big
beyah, Doc, but too many things don’t fit. Theyah's plenty of game in the
woods, and plenty of fish in the streams, so theyah's no reason for a beyah to
be attacking a human being… particulahly one that's inside a house. Then,
too, tracks have been mighty hahd to come by." The Sheriff gestured around
the room.

"I'd like to have as good a patch up job as you can do, Doc. I’d like some idea
of just how much of that fella has been ‘et… if any," he added, pointedly.

The Doctor scoffed. "You can be thinkin' murdah, can you, Dan'l?" he asked
skeptically. "Would ‘a been a lot easiah for a murderah to use a gun or a
knife. This poor fellow’s been ripped to pieces."

He looked slowly around the room. "Ah'd’a guessed wolves myself, cept
theyah haven't been too many of them in the pahts, lately[dh10]."

The Sheriff shook his head in reply. "Theyah's still plenty a' wolves around,
Doc, but theyah's plenty a' game for them, too."

"Still," the Doctor said with a stubbornness he was famous for, "I wouldn't
discount them altogethah."
The Sheriff gestured towards the remnants of the heavy door. “How could
wolves bust through them heavy planks?" he asked.

The Doctor peered at the fragments of wood hanging from the hinges.
"Hmmm," he murmured in disappointment. Old Doc Wilson hated to lose an
argument about anything. He brightened suddenly.

"But what about wolves coming across a body somebody else had murdahed
and settling down to dinnah?" He smiled in satisfaction having found a way
to salvage part of his argument. Sheriff Walker knew from long experience
how much time he could lose by arguing with Doc Wilson.

"Well, you're the county coronah," he said diplomatically, “so I'll wait til I
have youah repawt befoah I make up my mind. Meanwhile I'll send one of
the boys ovah with a body bag." He paused for a moment's reflection. "Fact
is, I'll send Hahve… if I had Mack come in heyah, you'd waste too much time
doctorin’ his stomach for nausea."

"He just couldn't 'stomach' it, eh," the Doctor joked as he knelt ponderously
to examine some of the remains.

There was a sudden rush of running footsteps and the voices of the deputies
raised in distant protest, "Hey, you can't be goin’ in theyah."

Another voice cried out in reply, "What are you doing to him? Jeff! Jeff!" It
was the voice of a young girl. A shadow fell across the doorway and the
Sheriff hurried forward to block the view of whoever was trying to come in.
But it was too late.

Darting quickly through the remains of the door, a short blond girl stood
peering around in confusion, as though looking for someone she expected to
see there. Finally she found his eyes fixed on her in a bulging stare from the
severed head lying at her feet. Jeff had kept his promise, after all. He was
waiting for her… and always would be.
The Sheriff reached the girl just as she was slipping, unconscious, to the
floor; her senses numbed by the horror before her. He scooped her up easily,
and carried her outside, the Doctor waddling anxiously after them, his black
bag bouncing at his side.

"She hit hah head, Dan'l?" the old man asked.

"Nope," the Sheriff said, impassively. "Got to hah just in time."

He addressed the two deputies who came hurrying up. "Anyone know hah?"

"That's one of those summah girls," Mack said wonderingly. “What the hell
was she doin' heyah?"

"Cindy something," Harve added with a wicked snicker.

Remembering the name heading the top of the last page with writing on it in
one of the notebooks in his shirt, the Sheriff looked hard at them.

"Not a word ‘bout this to anyone from eithuh of you… you heyah? I learn
eithuh you has mentioned this girl's name, you'll both be shiftin' dirt for ten
miles around, lookin for beyah shit, unnerstand?"

The Doctor interjected, "Boys, I got a couple of body bags in my cah, up by

the road. How about you fetch them out’a the back seat and bring ‘em ovah
to the cabin foah me?"

The two deputies beat a hasty retreat away from the Sheriff’s baleful glare.

After they had moved away, the Doctor looked shrewdly from the Sheriff to
the girl's golden curls and back again to the Sheriff.

"I guess now I know what you wah gettin' at when you asked me to check if
all of that fellah was in that cabin, Dan'l. Though it'd be nothin' foah someone
to take a few pieces of him off a mile and bury them, t’make ‘n old country
Shayif think they had been et by wild animals."
The Sheriff started for his car with the girl still unconscious in his arms.

"What's been buried can be dug up again, Doc," he said, phlegmatically. "I'm
going to take this little girl home. You let me know as soon as you can
whethah he was attacked by wild animals and died as a result, or whethah he
was already dead when he was cut up."

He looked down at the girl's pretty face and shook his head wearily. "I got me
a motive for murdah right here in my arms, but befoah I go lookin' for a
murderah, I gotta' be sure there was ah murdah done." The Doctor moved
past him and opened the door to the Sheriff's cruiser.

"I'll stop by hah house latah t’check on hah, when I'm finished heyah," he
told the Sheriff, “If you’ll let me know which family she belongs to," he
added.

He shook his round head as the Sheriff eased his lovely cargo into the
passenger's seat. "When she wakes up she'll have hell to pay to huh folks, I
guess," the old man murmured, sadly.

The Sheriff glanced back towards the cabin, and said grimly, "That bastahd in
theyah stahted payin' his paht of 'Hell' with a big down payment, that's foah
shuah. Now what I have to find out is, 'who is the cashiah?'." He slid his big
belly carefully past the steering wheel and drove off towards the lake.

.p
 Chapter 20

By the time the Sheriff reached the cottages along the lake, Cindy had
regained consciousness, but her face had the dull look of deep emotional
shock. She answered the Sheriff’s questions in a monotone without thinking
when he asked her name, address, age, and other details of her personal life.
When at last he found the correct number on the row of cottages and pulled to
a stop before hers, its door flew open and a small man came hurrying out.

"Cindy," he cried with evident relief in his voice… a relief which quickly
became concern as he took in the fact of the official car and the Sheriff's
khaki uniform. The big man climbed out of the car to help the girl into the
cottage.

The smaller man gestured to the Sheriff impatiently, stopping him. He

studied the girl for a moment, peering deep into her eyes, as though the story
of the last half hour might be imprinted on their surface.

After his a brief survey the man gathered the passive and slack girl into his
arms, and she automatically buried her face in his chest, but made no other
movement, nor any sound.
"What happened?" the man asked the Sheriff in a cold voice.

"You Mistah Feldman?" the Sheriff countered, automatically.

"No, I'm Dr. Kalin, a friend of the family. Mr. Feldman is inside. He's under
my care at the moment, and I would strongly urge you to answer my
question. The girl has apparently had a deep emotional shock and the reason
for it will determine what type of treatment is indicated."

The Sheriff nodded. He was not without compassion, even when he had a job
to do.

"She walked in on a pretty ugly scene this mahning back in the woods. Man
was killed by a wild animal attack… taw him up pretty bad. She came in
befoah we could stop hah… got a pretty good look at the, uh, remains, and
fainted."

"Did she hit her head?" the Doctor asked, quickly.

The Sheriff shook his head in answer. "Got to hah foah she hit the floah, but
when she came out of it, she was like this." He gestured at the still girl.

Dr. Kalin frowned thoughtfully. “‘walked in'… 'hit the floor',” he repeated.
"The only structure I'm aware of back in the woods is that log cabin. Is that
who was attacked… Hope? The black fellow?"

The Sheriff nodded. It was then the girl spoke her first words. "I thought he
was with Maureen again," she said dully. "When he didn't come to the
boathouse this morning like we made up… and she wasn't outside either… I
thought she had gone to his cabin again… so I went there to accuse him…
very melodramatic… Jeff wouldn't have approved of it as theatre, too
melodramatic… and his head lying on the floor with the eyes… Oh, my
God… the eyes!" She shuddered and began to sob.

The Doctor held her tightly while the Sheriff looked around at the other
cottages where the neighbors were beginning to stir and focus curious eyes
on the trio.
The Doctor caught his eye and said quickly, "I agree, Sheriff. This is too open
a place for tragedy. The less said out here the better. Come inside, if you have
more questions, while I give her a sedative; sleep is probably the indicated
treatment anyway." Supporting the girl, he led the Sheriff inside the
Feldman's cottage.

The Doctor seemed to know the way around the house and he led the girl off
to what the Sheriff assumed was her bedroom. He took the opportunity to
move rapidly around the room, looking and probing for anything out of the
ordinary. There was a conspicuous absence of the kind of things that give the
house a lived-in look. No old newspapers or magazines… waste cans were
empty… even the ashtrays were clean. But the Sheriff knew the summer
people were only starting to arrive, so that made sense.

The Sheriff walked to the fireplace and knelt on the hearth to feel the bricks
and andirons. Nothing had been burned in there in months, he was sure.
Everything was stone cold, nor was there the slightest smell of fire. ‘If the
black fellow’s killer were a 'who' instead of a 'what', there'd have to have
been some pretty bloody clothes to get rid of,’ he considered. ‘But they
weren’t burned here.’

There were many paintings on the walls… some of them were quite good…
local scenes that the Sheriff recognized. ‘Quite good' to the Sheriff meant that
they looked like what the artist was painting. He remembered now hearing
that one of the lake people was a well-known artist… probably this Feldman
was him… wonder what the Doctor meant when he said Feldman was under
his care… that didn't sound like a chest cold… curious he should need a
doctor the morning after the black fellow was killed. His hand strayed to his
shirt front and felt the slight bulk of the notebooks he had hidden there… and
his girl's name freshly written too… very curious indeed… another
coincidence? ‘Sure would like to get a look at the father’, the Sheriff thought.
Slowly he began to make his way down the hall to the other bed room, when
the Doctor stepped out of the room at the end of the hall. The Sheriff
retreated quickly to the living room.

"Sorry I took so long," the Doctor said, "but I wanted to wait until the
sedative took hold before I left her. I’ll keep an eye on her."

"And on her fathah, too?" the Sheriff suggested. The Doctor gave a thin wry
grin. "Kind of a post-man's walking around holiday for me so far," he said,
shrugging, "but these things happen."

"What's wrong with her fathah?" the Sheriff asked, casually. The Doctor
frowned thoughtfully and sat down. He seemed lost in his own thoughts as
he took out a packet of cigarettes, shook one free, and lit it. Then,
remembering the Sheriff, he offered him one which was accepted. Not that
the Sheriff smoked that brand, but he wanted to continue the conversation on
a casual, neighborly level.

The Doctor settled back in an over-stuffed chair, crossed his legs, and blew a
cloud of smoke, gazing at it absently as it dissipated in the slight breeze that
was blowing thru the house. His frown was deeper and he almost seemed to
be arguing with himself, mentally, before he spoke. When he did speak, he
seemed hesitant, even unsure. The Sheriff sat quietly, waiting patiently. He
was a good hunter, and as his father had always told him, 'a good huntah is a
patient huntah'.

Finally, the Doctor said, "I'll skip the technical language. Let’s just say he's as
weak as a kitten, as though all his energy has been drained out of him… like
a car battery with no spark left… kind of what you'd expect to find in a
hundred twenty year old… everything functioning, but just barely."

"You give him a sedative too?" the Sheriff asked to keep him talking. The
Doctor gave him a withering look.

"I would think the last thing a person in the condition I just described would
need is another depressant, Sheriff Walker. Mr. Feldman is quite cogent…
just exhausted. We put him to bed and he's sleeping quietly."

“‘We’" the Sheriff repeated. "You and his daughter?"

The doctor shook his head. "My son, Michael, was here with me. We had
borrowed Mr. Feldman's car last night to run into town. Ours was out of
order. When we dropped the keys off this morning, we found Feldman in his
present condition. Cindy had apparently left without looking in on him. I
sent Michael off to see if he could locate Cindy and tell her of her father's
condition. He's probably still walking around the lake… or maybe he's
visiting with people he hasn't seen in a while."

The Sheriff nodded absently, crushed out the remains of his cigarette, and
rose as though to leave. At the door he paused. "Oh, Dr. Kalin. Just a thought.
As long as he’s asleep, there wouldn't be any problem with my taking a quick
peek in at Mr. Feldman. I know a lot of the lake people, uh, that is, you, uh,
summah folk, by sight, but I don't always have the names to go along with the
faces. I'd just like to see which face goes with the name 'Feldman'."

The Doctor thought for a moment. "Well… as long as he is still asleep…"

He led the way down the hall towards the back of the house. As they passed
one room with its door slightly ajar, the Sheriff pushed it open,
simultaneously asking, "This the little girl's room?" as he peeked in.

The doctor walked back, his eyes narrowing. "That I believe is Mr. Feldman's
study," he said curtly, but the Sheriff had already had his look. His quick eyes
took in the altar with its flowers, still fairly fresh; and a large picture of an
Oriental in an orange dress. The Sheriff remembered other Buddhist monks
he had seen. He wondered if this Feldman had been in 'Nam, too, and picked
up some of the religion there.

The Sheriff was to reflect later, for an artist Feldman had shown strange taste
in decorating his study. 'An old china-man in an orange dress… that's what
he had on his wall, when he had all those pretty pictures hanging in the other
room he had painted himself. Strange.'

Another thing the Sheriff had noticed. There was a certain odor in the air of
that room… very faint, but definite, like a skunk, or something else rank. He
gave another sniff, and the hair on the back of his neck began to rise. He
remembered where he had smelled that same odor recently… in the black
man’s cabin.

The doctor looked at him curiously. It seemed to the Sheriff this doctor
always seemed to be trying to read his mind. He began to wonder what kind
of doctor he was.

"Yes," he said. "We noticed that odor, too, Sheriff. We opened the windows,
so it's almost dissipated. At first, I thought Feldman had been overcome by
fumes of some sort, but he showed no signs of any kind of poisoning. So, it’s
probably the result of some sort of problem that's developed in the plumbing
during the months the house was closed up." He resumed his trek down the
hall. "Mr. Feldman's room is this way." The Sheriff followed dutifully after.

A few moments later, they were standing quietly at the artist’s bedside,
looking down at his sleeping form. The covers were down at his waist, and
the Sheriff could see he was fully clothed. He could also see that the man was
small… smaller than the doctor who was no big fellow himself. The doctor
picked up a limp arm and felt the pulse at its wrist.

"Much stronger," he commented, to himself, more than to the Sheriff. The

puzzled look on his face seemed genuine and the Sheriff began to look
elsewhere for suspects. Still… a few more questions might not hurt.

"That the way you found him?" he asked, off-handedly, gesturing towards
Feldman.

"Dressed, you mean?" the doctor asked. The Sheriff nodded.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Dr. Kalin said, studying the Sheriff more closely.
"Dressed and lying on the floor of his study. Apparently, he had collapsed
during the night. His daughter must not have looked into his study before she
left, assuming him to be asleep in his bedroom."

The Sheriff bent quickly over Feldman and looked closely at his fingernails.
He could feel the doctor's sharp look stabbing into his back.

"Don't his fingernails look kind’a blue, Doctor?" he asked, as casually as he

could. The man made no reply; he just watched the Sheriff thru narrowed
eyes.
Sheriff Walker would have loved to strip off the blanket and look at the rest
of Mr. Feldman, but he didn't dare. If a case ever did develop against the
man, it could be ruined by gathering evidence in the man's house without a
search warrant… and he had no probable cause to request a search warrant…
not at this point in the investigation… that was for sure. What could he tell a
judge? ‘It stunk in his house just like at the murder scene?’ He kicked the
shoes that lay on the floor near the bed, as though by accident.

No question that Feldman's hands and fingernails were clean. If he had been a
bloody mess, he'd have surely cleaned and changed his clothes and burned or
buried the messed up ones. The dogs would find them… if there were any to
be found. Question was: did he have time for all that?

The Sheriff turned and walked out, the doctor walking silently after him, his
brows furrowed in thought. When they reached the door, the Sheriff asked,
casually, "Would you say Mr. Feldman was unconscious at the time that
fellah Hope was killed, Dr. Kalin?" The psychiatrist gave a knowing smile
and a nod, as though his mind was now made up,

"I could hardly answer that question, Sheriff, since I know neither when Mr.
Hope was killed, nor when Mr. Feldman was stricken. Now," he asked,
grimly, "perhaps you’ll be willing to share some information, especially if
you want my opinion on something?"

They had stepped out onto the porch and Dr. Kalin gestured around the
cottages with a wave of his hand. “For instance, what sort of ‘wild animal’
attack was this, Sheriff? And is the creature likely to repeat its antisocial
behavior? And if so, what sort of precautions should we ‘summer folk’ be
taking?"

The Sheriff looked at the doctor approvingly. Apparently, he had realized the
Sheriff had been fishing in the Feldman’s house. 'Well’, he thought, 'might as
well keep the game goin’ a little bit longer.'

The Sheriff scratched himself and yawned mightily. "Neyah as we can make
it out, it must have been some sort of beyah," he said, off-handedly, as though
the matter was one that was totally under control. "The dawgs will get started
trackin' it soon as all the pitchas are taken."

He stepped down the couple of steps and looked back up at the doctor.
"What kind of a doctor you say you were Dr. Kalin?"

The man grinned down at him. "Actually, I don't believe I mentioned it,
Sheriff Walker, but I'm a psychiatrist."

"Ummm," the Sheriff nodded, then added as an afterthought, "This fellow,

Hope, have any family that should be notified?"

Again, the psychiatrist smiled, disingenuously. "Surely that information

would be on file at the offices in the clubhouse, Sheriff. I, myself, hardly
knew the man, but I do recall hearing some mention once that he was an
orphan… though no doubt he had some aunts, uncles, or siblings who should
be notified."

The Sheriff stared at him blankly a moment, then said finally, "Yeah, don't
we all?", as he got into his car and drove off towards the country club office,
wondering what on earth 'siblings' were.

.P
 Chapter 21

The Sheriff made his way to the resort’s office and found that news of
Hope’s death had preceded him. He could see it in the curious glances of the
early morning golfers as they set off in their electric golf carts, and from the
staff as he strode thru the richly decorated club room towards the manager’s
office.

Chip glanced up from his large desk and smiled in a friendly way. The
Sheriff wasn’t fooled. Chip Morrow never missed a chance to remind the
Sheriff the country club paid as much in taxes as the rest of the county
combined. There was also a suggestion of wariness in his eyes that made the
Sheriff wonder.

"Hello Dan'l," he said. "Could'a been bad if one of our membahs had got taw
up like I heyah happened to that boat boy. They say it was a big beyah that
did it." He waved a hand vaguely at a large picture window that looked onto
the fringe of the woods.

"Maybe be a good ideyah to organize a beyah hunt, eh," he suggested. "Give

the folks heyah the feelin' that weyah doin’ somethin'?"

It was more of a statement than a question, but the Sheriff’s grunt was non-
committal. If Chip, or anybody else wanted to know what the Sheriff was
doing about the killing of Hope, they could wait til the coroner's hearing. The
Sheriff had learned from bitter experience, it never paid to let people know
what you were doing. They usually just wanted to tell you that you shouldn't
be doing it your way, you should do it their way.

"Anyone mention hearing a disturbance during the night, Chip?" he

countered. Chip ran a thin, nicotine stained thru hair the same dirty brownish
color as his stained fingers. His fingers almost disappeared, camaflouged for
a moment. The Sheriff had a momentary flash of brown splotched uniforms
moving into a dusty brown jungle. He had learned too quickly in those
jungles that some of those uniforms were sure not to come back out.

"Funny about that, Dan'l," Chip was saying. "Usually, after an attack like that
folks will always tell you they heard somethin' and be full of their own
stories, mostly made up out theyah own heads,“ he shrugged, non-judgmental
about the foibles of human nature. "But this time, no one heard a thing, they
say.

"Way I see it, he must have walked into a big brownie in the dark and gotten
a good cuff to the head that knocked him out. Better for him that way,
anyway." He lit another of his habitual cigarettes from the butt in his hand.
"Damn shame," he said as he blew out a cloud of smoke. "Now we gotta find
someone on shawt notice to handle the boats this summah… prob'ly have to
pay moah, too."

Chip stood up and stretched. "Only this time I'll make sure I get a local boy…
least ways one that knows enough not to walk down a beyah's throat in the
middle of the night."

"Did Hope have any next of kin listed, Chip?" the Sheriff asked, hiding his
disgust at the man's attitude towards the death of one of his workers.

The manager gave a knowing grin. "I guess you don't want to have to pay for
his funeral out of yoah budget, eh, Dan'l."

"Not if someone else has a bettah claim, Chip. You got a name foah me?"

The man pushed a three by five card over to the sheriff. “Pulled his cahd out
this mawnin, soon as ah got in. Only address we ever had foah him was a
post box numbah… no phone numbah."

The Sheriff reflected a moment. "Since he was an employee, Chip, I suppose

there was some sawt of insurance on him… employee group policy, maybe?"

The manager smiled, complacently. "As a matter of fact, I already was over
the terms of that policy this mawnin, Dan’l. Seems it only comes into effect
when Hope actually stahted to wohk. He wasn't due to staht his summuh
employment with us until eight o'clock this mawning, so he wasn’t covahed
by the policy. Theyahfawh," he said, smugly, "I guess with no claim made
against it, I don't have to worry ‘bout owah rates going up ‘cause of all this."

He gestured at the card with his cigarette and ashes flew over his desk. The
Sheriff was revolted at the way the country club was scrambling to make sure
Hope's death cost them nothing more than a little inconvenience. He
wondered if the townspeople would have that same attitude towards him if he
were killed on the job. 'Prob'ly' he thought without rancor. He was a realist
when it came to his fellow man. Sheriffs usually were, or they didn't get
reelected.

Chip was waving another card at him. "Actually Hope had no legal right to be
in that cabin last night. I prepared a bill for one night's occupancy. I'll fowahd
it to that postal address. Maybe his estate will pay it."

He looked so smug with his own cleverness, the Sheriff didn’t bother to
point out that presentation of the bill to Hope’s heirs would be an admission
that Hope was a guest of the country club for the night and, as such, was
probably covered by a higher amount of liability insurance than the
employees' policy carried. 'Maybe whoever collects on it will need the
money,’ he thought, benevolently. If he ever got to talk with them he would
urge them to pay for the one night occupancy, then put in a claim after the
check was cashed. (Of course, he would have to caution them not to mention
his name)

"What I was thinking, Chip," he explained, "was that maybe theyah was a
beneficiary on that policy… and an address."

The manager frowned slightly. "Good thought, Dan'l," he said. "Seems to me

I did see a name, somewheyah." He drew a sheath of papers out of a drawer
and glanced over them, then scribbled a few words on a notepad.

"Here it is," he announced as he handed it to the Sheriff. “Name and address,

but no phone number."

The Sheriff read aloud, "Miss Terry Wilkins, 183 west 83rd St. New York."

"Not his wife," Chip suggested, "since his employment fawm lists him as
unmarried."

"Different last names anyway," the Sheriff mused. "Not his sistah eithuh.
"Could be if she was married," Chip offered.

"No, he lists huh as 'Miss Terry Wilkins'," the Sheriff pointed out.

"Well, whoevah she is," Chip said, using the last of his cigarette to light
another. "I'd appreciate it if you didn’t mention you got her name and address
off of an insurance policy. She might try to file a claim and get upset when
she finds out there's nothing for huh to collect. Not that owah position isn't
one hundred puh cent legal and above-bawd," he added, hastily.

The Sheriff made no comment. Hope sure didn't rate any consideration in his
book, after what the Sheriff had read in the handwritten notebooks. But
maybe Miss Wilkins did. He would decide that after he spoke with her. It
shouldn't be too difficult to find a phone number to go with the address.

"Thanks faw the help, Chip," he said, waving the slip of paper. The manager
clapped him on the shoulder in an overly familiar way. "You decide to get a
huntin' group togethuh, let me know, Dan'l. I can make it into an outing faw
some of our membuhs who have nevah been beyah huntin'. They should find
it excitin’."

"I'm shoah they would," the Sheriff said, dryly, weighing the potential for
accidents and disasters in such an expedition of people without experience
and training running around the forest with loaded weapons. If there were a
hunt of any sort, he would make sure Chip was the last one to know about it.

As he climbed into his cruiser, he wondered what kind of conversation he

would have with the Wilkins woman once he reached her by phone. He
hoped she wouldn't get hysterical on him. He hated trying to deal with a
hysterical woman… or man either for that matter… he had had too many
years of his wife’s hysterics over the dangers of his job, and her endless
series of miscarriages, to be looking forward to more.

As the Sheriff adjusted his seat belt, he considered returning to the cabin to
check on the progress of the trackers, both men and dogs. But the sun was
rising higher now. It was almost eight o'clock, and the humidity was already
building in the air. His shirt was starting to cling to him, a feeling he hated
since it reminded him too much of the jungles in 'Nam and the clothes that
seemed to rot on him from the heat and humidity.

He had switched on the air conditioner as soon as he had started the motor,
and now the first few waves of colder air were fighting their way thru the
heat towards him. He started towards town and his office.

'Hell, I can be trackin' down this Wilkins woman' he argued to himself,

‘while Harve and Mack are trackin' down that beyah, or whatever it is that
did that boy in. After all what are deputies for anyway, if not to do the work
in the heat of the day?' he asked, rhetorically.

As he drove he tried to raise Hank on the radio in the deputy’s cruiser. But it
was a good ten minutes before his beeper signal was answered by Hank's
phlegmatic voice.

"Sorry, Sheyif," Hank said. "I was off in the woods. Some of the kids hangin'
round here told me the radio was goin'… figgahd it to be you wantin' a
progress repawt."

The Sheriff pulled to a stop in front of the station house. He considered going
in and taking Hank's report on his office radio, but decided to keep enjoying
the coolness of his car’s air-conditioning. The one in his office had been
threatening to go on the 'fritz'.

Aside from that, once inside, Mildred, his secretary, would want to hear the
whole thing, and then, before lunch time, the news would be flashed all over
the area thru her long list of friends. Better to keep the lid on things as long as
possible until he was sure what he was dealing with.

"You got a repawt… repawt it," he told his deputy.

"Well, I guess I got to repawt that there ain't that much to repawt, Sheyif. Doc
went off pretty quick with the remains. Packed that boy up just like so many
cuts of slawtahd hawg and hustled him off to do some 's’periments' he said.

"Seemed to enjoy himself, he did… whistlin' the whole time. Said him and
the deceased wuz going to get to know each othah real good, though he
expected the conversation would be a bit one sided… kind'a funny, ol' Doc
is."

The Sheriff sighed deeply. His usually laconic deputy had picked a fine time
to fall off the taciturnity wagon. "You got anything maw to the point to tell
me, Hank?" the Sheriff demanded.

"Well, ol’ Nathan’s dawgs're out theyah… you can prob'ly heah 'em yappin'
in the woods but they ain't found nothin' yet. Keep runnin' round in circles.
Kind'a funny, actually. Them hounds are runnin' round like pups on their first
hunt that can't figger out what happened to the rabbit they was chasin' after it
popped into a hole in the ground."

The Sheriff sat in silence, pondering the deputy's words. Had there been a
wild animal attack, the hounds would have found some sort of scent to
follow… particularly old man Nathan’s hounds… they were the best trained
in the county and had won prizes in the state fair.

'But suppose Hope was murdered?' he asked himself. 'The dogs might not
think to follow a man's scent… and maybe the murderer didn’t walk there
anyway. There were some bike tracks behind the little
cabin.'

"You say something Shayif?" Hank asked, and the Sheriff realized he had
been speaking his thoughts out loud.

"Yeah, Hank," he said. "I want you to take a dawg… maybe one of
Nathan's'd be best… ‘n follow along some bike tracks I saw below Hope's
cabin… they looked like Dunlops… rear wheel was wobblin' a little and the
tahyahs was stahtin to weayah bald."

"I did notice them, too, Shayif," Hank drawled. "I followed a bit back
towards that flea market, but lost them when they mixed with a bunch of
other bike tracks… looked like a girl’s bike to me," he added helpfully, "with
them thin tahyahs 'n all."
The Sheriff grunted. "See if you can get the dog to follow 'em home, but
whatever you do don't give them city folks by the lake the idea you're
followin' a beyah into their cottage area. Last thing we need is a panic that'll
last all summuh 'n have t' be answerin' the phone every hour with someone
repawtin' they saw a beyah when it was just a big hound dog."

Hank's chuckle echoed over the radio as he signed off. The Sheriff had a
mental flash of Hank's larynx bobbing and dancing as he laughed. 'Been
looking at that boy's damned Adam's apple too damn long,' he grumbled to
himself. 'Either he needs a vacation, or I do.'

He climbed out of the car and was hit by a wave of intense heat. He groaned,
'I knew it… another scorcher.' Beads of sweat immediately began popping up
on his face, and he could feel his clothes starting to cling to him. 'I hope
Mildred had the good sense to turn on my air-conditioner when she came in.'
he thought, wistfully. He smiled with a sudden inspiration. 'Hey! Maybe I can
get Mildred to break the news to this Wilkins woman once we get her on the
phone. Then, after the hysterics were over I could get on the line and ask her
about Hope. After all’, he thought shrewdly, ‘what are secretaries for
anyway?’

.p
 Chapter 22

The Sheriff sat slumped in a broad backed desk chair, with his booted feet up
on the desk. He was munching his way through a submarine sandwich,
bursting with an assortment of meats and cheeses of a quantity sufficient to
bring a smile to the face of a moderately hungry giant. Two empty beer cans
had been ceremoniously 'shot' into a distant waste basket-for which the
Sheriff mentally gave himself four points-and he was ruefully regarding a
third can that sat before him, patiently awaiting his further attentions. He had
vowed before lunch to stop at three, and now his last can was half empty… a
lesser man would have regarded it as half full… and he still had several
fistfuls of sandwich to wash down.

Behind him, an antique air-conditioner was asthmatically wheezing gasps of

cold air at his back. A strident whine high enough to irritate the human
nervous system and drive away any dog without a head cold, came from the
laboring machine.

When the Sheriff had first started noticing the whine a week earlier, he had
run to Pritchard's Hardware Emporium to order a replacement bearing.

"I know it's gonna give out on the hottest day of the summer," he had told
Pritchard as the old man checked the part number in his catalogue.

"Been outta stock for yeahs, Dan'l," he announced with a mournful shake of
his head. "Could take a few weeks, or moah, as is likely. Mayhap be bettah to
get a new ayah conditionah."

"New ayah conditionah ain’t' in the budget, Brothuh Pritchahd," the Sheriff
complained, "as you should know since you are paht of the same town
council as passed the budget."

Every day for the past week, the Sheriff had enquired as to the whereabouts
of the replacement bearing and everyday Pritchard’s face grew more
mournful, and the whine from the air conditioner, louder. He had listened to
that whine for so many hours now, it was deeply embedded in his brain and
he could whistle the same tone without thinking about it.

He was drawing on the last reserves of beer, and considering whether to

discard the rest of the sandwich, when the door opened and Mildred, his
secretary/dispatcher came bustling in. She was a round, red-faced woman in
her sixties with white hair fixed in a conservative 'bun', clutching a sheath of
papers for the Sheriff's signature to her capacious bosom. It seemed to the
Sheriff Mildred was always clutching something to her capacious bosom…
either papers, groceries or a new husband. How many had she buried now?
Four or five. This last one she married was already dying from cancer. He
hadn't lasted long enough for the Sheriff to even be sure of his first name.

She just needed someone to mother, did Mildred… didn't much matter who.
She had kind'a come with the job, or at least with the building. She had
worked for four different Sheriff’s over a forty year span, and he didn't have
the heart to tell her she could have retired three years ago. If she was just
about to lose this husband, she would be bound to be at loose ends for a
while… so better to keep her working. He could retire her when she
remarried.

"Boys called in and said wasn’t nothin' new, Shayif," she reported. "Hank
says them bike tracks led to the lake cottages… said you'd know which one…
whatever that means," she added, looking at him hopefully for an
explanation. But the Sheriff remained silent, knowing too well the only way
to ensure Mildred's silence about department business was by ensuring her
ignorance of it altogether. Instead of telling her anything, he aimed the third
beer can and fired it into the waste basket, then began signing requisition
forms.

Mildred shrugged and continued her recitation. ‘Let the Sheriff enjoy his little
ways… she would get the news out of Hank or Mack later on,’ She thought,
smugly.

"Couldn't get that Wilkins woman on the phone for you Sheriff. Been tryin'
every half hour since Central came up with a number for us."

The Sheriff shrugged and maintained his silence as he pondered what to do

with the Wilkins woman if Mildred succeeded in reaching her. Maybe if he
weren't here… but, no… she could always patch him thru on his car radio,
when she made the contact by telephone.

Mildred watched her boss squirm with an amused and tolerant smile on her
face. This Sheriff didn't fool her any more than any of the other Sheriffs had.
He had something on his mind, all right… something to do with this Wilkins
woman… had to be he didn't want to be the one to break the news to her
about that black fellow's death and have to listen to her wailin' and gnashin'
her teeth at him. Prob'ly, he wanted Mildred to talk to her and didn't know
how to go about askin' her. Well, that's no never mind to her… she had
buried four husbands already, three by accidents and one by cancer. Looked
like she be sendin' poor Rob on his way, soon, too. People just had to learn to
accept whatever was shoveled their way. That was her philosophy.

"I'll keep tryin' Shayif, but maybe you might want me to send a telegram to
huh address, or maybe to ask the New York police to stop by and pin a note
to the door telling her to call us heyuh?"

The Sheriff winced. Obviously, Mildred had never been to New York. Big
city policemen were more likely to kick a door in, as to pin a note to it as a
favor to some ‘Hicksville’ Sheriff.

"Telegram might be all right," he said, finally. "But let’s put it off until aftah
the inquest. Just keep callin' every so often."

"Oh, that reminds me," Mildred said as she gathered the signed documents to
their accustomed place of repose against her bosom. "Ol Doc called and
wanted you to come over as soon as you could. Said he had something for
you, but he wouldn’t say what it was," she added, pointedly.

The Sheriff didn't bother asking her why she hadn't told him at once about the
call, or better still, put the call through to him. Mildred ran things her way,
and arguing about with her would only get a man hotter on an already hot
day. She could outwait him and she knew it. She had outwaited four
husbands and three Sheriffs and she sure as hell could, by God, outwait him.
He considered calling Dr. Wilson; had to be him that called, Mildred would
never acknowledge anyone else as the Doctor as long as Doc Wilson was still
alive. Just then the air conditioner gave a particularly ferocious snarl behind
him, and the Sheriff decided to visit Doc in person. After all, Doc's air
conditioner was new… plus, he didn't want to be sitting in his chair if that
fool thing exploded behind him. They’d be picking nuts and bolts out of his
back for a week.

He stood up and stretched, his three beers sloshing noisily in his belly. "I'll
be over at Doc's, Mildred. I guess if you reach that Wilkin's woman you can
patch me in ovuh theyah. Doc's got a radio for police business," he added
unnecessarily since Mildred of course knew that.

"No need to do that, Shayif," she said cheerfully. “I’ll tell her Hope's been
killed in an accident. Don't you worry none. If she wants the body, I'll call
Cousin Henry ovuh at the funeral home and arrange shipment."

The Sheriff grunted in assent, but couldn't keep the relief off his face at not
having to talk to a hysterical woman after all. He put on his hat and left
hurriedly as the air conditioner gave another whine and chugged to a halt.
Mildred switched it off, then swept the refuse of the Sheriff’s lunch into the
waste basket, using the sheath of papers as a whisk broom.

She carried it out and dumped it outside in the large galvanized trash can that
stood against the side of the building. She remembered how Sheriff Ogleby,
her first Sheriff, had brought that can over from Pritchard's New Hardware
store that had just opened that very day.

The Sheriff's car disappeared around the corner. 'He's so happy he doesn't
have to speak to that woman,’ she thought, mentally comparing him with the
other men who had been Sheriff there.

"All these big men aren’t nothin’ but big boys," she chuckled, aloud, as she
went back in and dropped the wastebasket in its place. "They all had their
little ways," she explained to the silent air conditioner.

.p
 Chapter 23

The Sheriff pulled up to a small, white cottage with a neat garden and closely
trimmed lawn surrounded by a white picket fence. A large sign on the gate
announced in large gold letters, 'Francis Wilson, M.D. Coroner'. The Sheriff
smiled a wry affectionate smile as he read the familiar words. Ol' Doc Wilson
had delivered him and just about everyone else in the County under the age
of sixty and older than 10. Ten years earlier he had retired from practice, but
had continued to hold onto his sinecure as county coroner. His reappointment
by the citizens every six years was virtually automatic for as long as he
wanted it. In fact it was inconceivable that anyone would stand up to oppose
him.

The Sheriff lumbered up the wooden steps and rapped sharply at the door. It
opened almost as soon as the Sheriff knocked. Doc Wilson was a dumpling
of a man as wide as he was short. 'Bury me in a beer barrel, boys', he had
been telling his cronies for years. His one long lock of white hair was
plastered to the pink skin of his head in its long, swooping arc in its
customary place.

"Well, heyah I am Doc," the Sheriff growled, “but I don't know what you
have to tell me now you couldn't tell me over the phone. Either Mr. Hope was
attacked by a wild animal, or animals, or he was murdahd and mutilated by
pahty or pahties unknown." He pushed past the Doctor and entered the too
familiar office with its turn of the century furnishings. The Sheriff must've
had over a hundred needles shoved into his backside there while growing up.
"Sit yourself down, Dan'l," the Doctor told him. "And anyway, I never said I
had something to tell you. I said I wanted to meet with you in my office, so
just sit in that chair and shut up for five minutes."

The Sheriff grunted his resignation, tossed his hat into the deep well of a
large roll top desk, and slumped into an oak pressed back chair with a cane
seat that creaked as his bulk strained the hand woven strands. But it had been
creaking like for a long time and the Sheriff had so far ignored its protests
without dire consequences.

Most of the wall space in the room was taken up with display cases of
butterflies, pin-mounted and neatly labeled. Many of them had not been seen
in the area for decades. The Sheriff reflected that it was probably 20 years or
more since Doc Wilson could run thru a field in pursuit of his hobby. He still
got around good though for 80 plus, the Sheriff acknowledged, wondering
whether he himself would even be around at that age, never mind being
active. 'Gotta cut down on the beer', he promised himself… for the eight
thousandth time.

The Doctor went to the window and lowered the old oilcloth shades. Then he
pulled down a movie screen and fastened it to a hook in the wall. "Fact is,
Dan'l, I got a pitcha show foah you… one I think will be wuth yoah trip."

"A pitcha show," the Sheriff groaned. "Why in blazes couldn’t you tell me
that ovuh the phone? What's it all about?"

"To tell you the truth Dan'l" the Doctor said, confidentially lowering his
voice, although they were all alone in the house-Doc's wife had died fifteen
years earlier… "I didn’t want anyone to know these particulah pitchas
existed, or they might try to get a look at them… you know… one of those
reporter types. Last thing we need is a panic in the town."

The Sheriff shifted uneasily in his chair, which creaked again, ominously.
"Well Doc, you're certainly making it sound mysterious enough," he
complained. "Just what kind’a pitchas you got theyah?"

The old man chuckled merrily in reply, relishing his chance to build suspense
into his theatrics, as he switched off the lamp on the desk. In the dark, he
moved as unerringly as a blind man around furniture to a projector sitting on
the examination table and flipped on its lamp. The screen lit up, its dirty
yellowish grey color showing it to be a contemporary of the other
furnishings. Yet when the Doctor fed a slide, into the projector the colors
were vivid enough to make the Sheriff wish he hadn't bolted down the
submarine sandwich and three beers.

"Ughhh," he groaned. "Dammit, Doc! Why'd'n't ya tell me not to have lunch

befoah I came ovah?" The Doctor chuckled again, merrier still.

"Shame on you Dan'l… with all your years on the highway patrol and
grubbin' ‘round Vietnam, aydah thought you'd seen everything."

"Just get on with it, Doc," the Sheriff said, wearily. If Doc had many more
pictures like this one it was going to be a long afternoon.

"Well, Dan'l what we're looking at in these first slides is my reconstruction of

Mr. Hope from the bits and pieces found around the cabin," the Doctor
intoned. Successive slides focused on various sections of the mutilated body.

Gruffly, the Sheriff said, "Looks like to me, Doc, he’s mostly all there. Hard
to believe some crittuh tore him all to pieces like that and didn't eat nothin'?
How about his innards? I've seen some wolves get addicted to the livuh…
wouldn't eat nothin' of their kill til they got the livuh out."

The Doctor fumbled in his box of slides, holding various ones to the light,
then grunted in satisfaction, loading his selection into the projector. "This
heyuh one's all the organs, Dan'l. As you can see everything is there… heart,
lungs, liver, kidneys and intestines. All there."

The Sheriff rubbed his jaw reflectively in the dark. "Could just be whatever
killed him was scayuhd off before it started to feed… seen wolverines tear a
Bull Moose apart then crawl off with a hunk into theyah lair. Ain't nothin'
missin' that might'a been carried off and ‘et some wheyuh’s else, Doc?"

"Take a look heyuh, Dan'l," the Doctor said as he fed in another slide. "This
is a close up of Mr. Hope's genital area." The Sheriff felt his stomach heave.
The area was one raw, gaping wound.

"Now, what conclusion would you draw from that, Dan'l? Is it just a
coincidence this here black man lays that little blond girl and a few hours
later gets himself ripped to shreds, apparently by some wild animal, but the
only pieces of him not on the floah are his cock and balls?"

Now it was the Sheriff's turn to snort derisively. "And you think a little artist
fellow from New Yawk no bigger than you, was strong enough to hold that
big fellah still while he yanks off his ahms and legs?"

"I guess I don't believe in coincidence any moah than you do, Doc… but I
don't want to jump into a homicide that ain't theyah," the Sheriff murmured.
He screwed his head around to look at the old man, dimly illuminated in the
light of the projector. "It looks to me you got yoah mind made up ‘bout this
Doc. What's your reading of the missing genitals?" The Doctor snorted in
derision.

"Didn't seem to be too much question at first, Dan'l. You know the Bible says
'If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out; if thine hand offends thee, cut it off.'
Looks to me like Mr. Hope heyuh offended someone mighty bad with his
pecker and that someone takes his Bible quite literally.”

"Anyways,” Doc continued. “I wasn’t suggestin’ a lone killer, Dan’l. Could

be five or six men held him down and the artist (or someone else for that
matter… I got a feelin' Hope was carryin' on like this for some time) relieved
him of his privates. You might say it was done by someone that had a
'privates grudge' against him," the old man added, slyly, then laughed
uproariously at his own joke. Doc Wilson's macabre sense of humor had been
notorious for years and he never cared that no one joined his laughter. The
Sheriff waited patiently until the old man quieted down, his mind wandering
to the notebooks celebrating Hope’s conquests he had stuffed into his safe.

"Just tell me one thing, Doc," the Sheriff said. "Are his wounds consistent
with your theory? Could those arms, legs, and all been cut off in a way to
make them look like they was ripped away? Or maybe bit off?"

"Well," the Doctor said, shrewdly, "I ain't sayin' one way or t’othuh, Dan’l.
How about I run the rest of the slides by you and you decide." He showed
four or five more slides… close ups of the severed members.

"Shit!" the Sheriff exclaimed. "There ain't even any hesitation, or bite-marks.
That means whoever took him apart didn't make any mistakes, but cut
everything away clean at first try. No way it could'a been anythin’ but
humans that done it. No way!"

"You see, Dan'l," the Doctor said, approaching the screen with a long wooden
pointer. "Most of these wounds look like they were cut clean, like with a
sword or maybe a long razor. Only critter I ever saw could do that was in
Australia once when the Missus and me was takin our trip round the world
and we were on the beach there one day when a great white shahk took a
woman's leg off at the knee-just as neat as a surgeon could'a done it."

"Well, I think we can discount that Doc," the Sheriff said dryly. "We ain't
hardly had a great white shahk in these woods as long as I can remembah."

The Doctor grunted his acceptance of the retort (his refusal to laugh at the
jokes of others was also notorious) and returned to the projector. "I said
befoah, Dan'l, at first I thought there didn't seem to be much question ‘bout a
bunch’a men killing Mr. Hope. But something made me think again. Now
this is the thing I found really fascinating."

Ol' Doc Wilson fed another picture onto the screen and returned with his
pointer. "Here's a close up of Mr. Hope’s neck. Look at these tissues heyuh
and the blood vessels. You can see how the skin has been stretched thin and
how these blood vessels are almost foah inches longuh than they should be."

The Sheriff rose and moved to the screen, fighting his rebellious stomach,
and looked closely at the indicated areas. "Okay… just what does that mean,
Doc?" he asked, quizzically.

"That, my young friend, is the main reason I wanted you to come out heyah
quick without telling anyone else just what I had. Y'see the only conclusion I
could come to was that something took hold of Mr. Hope's head and stahted
twisting it til his neck broke… then kept on twisting until it had rotated his
head around foah or five times when the tissues finally gave out and his head
ripped free."

The Sheriff paled. In the light of the projector his face had the same sickly
yellow pallor as the old oil cloth screen[dh11]. He slowly backed towards his
chair, dropping into it.

"You got anything to back that notion up 'cept them stretched out blood
vessels and skin?" he asked, thickly as though afraid of the answer he was
going to get.

The old man sidled softly past his chair, murmuring as he moved to the
projector, "Yes, I guess I do, Dan'l." And he shot another slide into place.
"Look at this," he commanded. The screen showed a close up of Jeff's head.
There were several dark splotches under the skin.

"Now these three dark patches are hemotomas… bruises," the old man
lectured. "If you use your imagination you can visualize the other two on the
other side of his head. Anyway, I can assure they're theyah. Five of them…
each about as big as a silver dollar. And under them, the bone is crushed in."
The Sheriff rose slowly out of his chair as though the Doctor's words were a
spell of levitation. His voice was hushed as he articulated one word…
"Finguhs? Impossible… no one is that strong!"

The Doctor did not answer immediately. Instead he switched off the projector
and pulled up the shades, flooding the room with afternoon sunlight.

"Dan'l," he said finally, "I don't know of any critter or human being in these
parts, or anywhere else in America for that matter, with hands the size they
would have to be for those marks to be finger marks. But that's sure as hell
what they look like. So, eithuh we ah dealing with someone who's not only
clevah, but also sick beyond anything I evah heard of, aw theyah’s some sawt
of creecha on the loose heyah that don’t fit anything we've got in these
pahts."
The Doctor cleared his throat. "On t’othah hand, if it’s a fake, then he'd have
had to have some sawt of machine to clamp around Hope's head so he could
twist it off like that."

"Not just 'he', Doc," the Sheriff said, speculatively. “'They'. One man could
never have controlled him long enough to fix whatever it was onto his head."

"Don't be too sure of that, Dan'l. From the small amount of blood lost from
his arms and legs, I'd guess Hope was in deep shock when they were tawn
off. No, I'll go futhah. I would say, judging on the basis of blood loss, his
genitals went first, cause that area's all bled out, whilst there’s still plenty’a
blood left in the rest of him. That means something walked into his cabin,
took hold of his gonads and ripped them right out of his body.

"He felt it; at first, anyways; then he went into shock and probably didn't feel
the rest. After that his ahms and legs were pulled off, then his head and
finally his internal organs were ripped out. Now I'd say from his musculacha,
our Mr. Hope was one strong man. Yet there was no indication of drugs in his
blood, so he wasn't unconscious. That means somehow he was overpowered
and tawn to pieces."

The Sheriff began pacing nervously back and forth. "If he was murdahed and
the murderahs (there had to be more than one from what you say, Doc)
wanted to make it look like a wild animal attack, why no footprints? Why
fake something like this and then not lead us on a little furthah? Why give us
the solution for one mystery only to present us with a biggah one?"

"You're right," Doc said, grudgingly. "So where does that leave us?"

The Sheriff continued with his pacing. "The way I construct things, he spent a
few hours screwing that kid on her living room sofa. I saw what appeared to
be blood and semen stains on it when I was there this mawnin’. Then, around
ten o’clock, he went home, took out his note books and stahts to write about
it… some kind'a dumb poem or somethin' about birds and trees. He must've
heard somethin' outside, figyuhs it might be one of the ownahs ovah heyah, is
afraid of his notebook bein' seen, and maybe read, so he stuffs it into the
drawyah with his othah ones."

The Doctor considered the Sheriff's words, nodding in agreement while he

gathered up the slides and locked them away in his desk.

"Something busts thru the door," the Sheriff continued, “overpowahs him…
teyahs him to pieces, and eithuh carries off or devowahs his private pahts.
Then whatever it was, walks out, leaving no sign on the ground of either its
arrival or depahcha, not even in the pool of blood in the cabin. And it doesn’t
leave a trail the hounds can pick up… 'cept maybe some kind'a foul odor that
hung around for a while. The dogs didn't much like it… no more'n I did."

The Doctor snapped his fingers. "Something as strong as a gorilla, able to

climb trees like a monkey and swing away, leaving no trail on the ground to
follow?"

The Sheriff stopped in his tracks and his face lit up. "Doc! I think you've got
it! I'll check with the zoos and circuses for 500 miles around and see if some
kind'a ape maybe has escaped."

Now the Doctor began pacing rapidly. "No, that won't do, Dan'l," he
muttered. "This business of ripping his genitals off and tearing the body
up… ripping his head off that way. That gorilla would have had to have been
very mad at Mr. Hope to do all that. I don't see it."

The Sheriff began pacing alongside the Doctor. "Dammit all, Doc," he cried.
"Now you've gone and erased the ansuh you just gave me."

The Doctor paled suddenly and stopped in his tracks, grabbing the Sheriff by
his arm halting him in mid-stride, and fixing him with a hollow stare. "If it
wasn't a gorilla, and it wasn’t a man, Dan'l, maybe it was something between
a gorilla and a man."

The Sheriff stopped and looked at him in consternation. "Now just what the
hell is that supposed to mean, Doc?"

The Doctor formed a word his voice was too hoarse to vocalize, but the
Sheriff read his lips and repeated it in astonishment. "SASQUATCH?! A Big
Foot?!

The Doctor nodded. "Everything fits it, Dan'l," he said, excitedly. "The
strength, the escape thru the trees… a big male Sasquatch in some kind of
'heat' or sexual frenzy grabs another male… maybe that boy, just having
finished with the girl, was covered with female sex odors -pheromones,
theyah called- and that drew the Sasquatch to him; and it got angry findin'
anothuh male when he expected to find a ready and willing female, and he
taught him a lesson about not trying to fool Mothah Naycha."

"But, doc," the Sheriff protested. "There's never been a ‘Big foot' in these
parts."

The Doctor snorted. "Maybe not in yoah time, you mean Dan'l, but I
remembah my Grandfathah telling me stories about Bigfoots -or maybe the
plural is Bigfeet- that his fathah and Grandfathah had from the Indians in the
pahts. They were around here once, and they would carry off females… so
the sexual attraction part fits, too."

The Sheriff rubbed his jaw reflectively. "Could be anything livin' up in those
mountains," he admitted. "Or maybe it wandered in from somewheyahs else.
Also seems to me I remember reading somethin' 'bout a Big Foot out west
and about them smelling rank." He resumed his restless pacing.

"But, Hell, Doc, I can't staht askin' folks to keep theyah eyes open for a horny
Big Foot! Not only would theyah be a panic ‘mongst our own people, but
also ‘mongst them city folk up at the lake… and theyah'd be a bunch of hot
heads around here would start a huntin' expedition that'd get someone killed;
or maybe ruin the county if wuhd got out."

His pacing increased in speed. "I don't know which is wuss… a homicidal
maniac running around, or a Sasquatch in heat trying to make females out'a
males."

The Doctor shook his head grimly. "It's worse than that, Dan'l. If word got
out we'd have reportahs with TV cameras, Federal and State people comin'
out'a the wood wuhk. ‘N if it turns out to be somethin' other than Bigfoot…
they'd be laughin' at us in every language in the world." The Doctor sat down
at his desk and started drumming his fingers on the green felt blotter. A
school house clock on the wall ticked ominously, like a time bomb.

The Sheriff stabbed a finger at him. "Well, give me somethin' else, Doc. If it
ain't a Bigfoot then what is it?"

The Doctor looked up slowly. "Maybe what we thought at first… a sick

diseased mind, but one hell of a lot smarter than an old country practicionah
and a beer bellied county Shayif. Someone as cunning as a fox, planning a
murdah so carefully, we'd start looking for wolves, beyahs, Bigfeet, devils
undah the bed, but not foah him."

The Sheriff collapsed groaning into his chair. "I thought we’d eliminated it
bein' someone human… particularly that artist fellow," he complained.

The Doctor nodded thoughtfully. "And yet, medical literature is full of stories
of little woman liftin' cars off their kids that got run over… or some sawed
off Jap wrestlah sticking his fingers through someone's ribcage and pulling
out his heart, and so on."

The Sheriff shook his head. "Hell, that means the girl could'a done it herself.
Come down off‘a cloud nine and decided she'd been raped by that boy.
Anyway I thought that kind of super human strength only lasted for a few
seconds. Whoever did Hope in must've kept at him more'n fifteen minutes, at
least. Can a crazy person keep their strength up that long?"

The Doctor shook his head helplessly. "I don't have the slightest idea, Dan'l.
We're gettin' far away from deliverin' babies and gunshot wounds, which
were always my specialties. There's a psychiatrist up the lake. Why don’t
you go have a talk with him?" He licked his fingers and slicked down the
coil of hair that had worked its way free. “His name is Karlin, I think."

"Kalin," the Sheriff said, reflecting. "I met him already. He mentioned he was
a shrink. But he’s friends with the artist. I wonder if he'd give me straight
ansuhs if he knew what I was driving at."
Doc Wilson stiffened indignantly. "That man is a medical doctor, Shayif, and
has our code of ethics to follow. Plus, he’s a big man in research from what I
hear. I think you can depend on him to let you know what he thinks maniacs
are capable of when they're in a murderin' fit."

The Sheriff stood slowly and took his hat from the desk. “Maybe yoah right
Doc," he said, thoughtfully, as he set it on his head. "Maybe just what this
crazy case needs is a close examination by a shrink." He left quickly like a
man full of doubt who hopes he has found someone to make up his mind for
him.

.p
 Chapter 24

The Sheriff sat opposite Dr. Kalin in the psychiatrist’s study, uncomfortably
aware he was overflowing the delicate chair his host had placed for him. He'd
rather have been sprawled out on one of those big overstuffed chairs in the
living room. He wondered if the psychiatrist had sat him in a small chair to
make him uncomfortable… just to keep an edge on him. If so, it was a
strategy the Sheriff could appreciate and his estimation of the 'shrink' went
even higher.

"Glad you could make time to see me, Dr. Kalin," the Sheriff began, but the
psychiatrist cut him off.

"Let's just say I'm more than glad to help the forces of law and order where I
can, Sheriff, and let's get to what it is you think I can help you with."

The Sheriff grinned. He liked a no nonsense attitude about things. Maybe all
that education didn't ruin a man’s commonsense after all.

"Problem's this," he said. "Got a man dead wheyuh the physical evidence isn't
consistent with an animal attack… but while we got plenty'a motive… we
just don't see how it could'a been done… 'n if it could be done why they
didn’t take the trouble to fake it a little moah to look like an animal attack."

The Dr. regarded him thoughtfully a few moments. "So you were, in fact,
trying to gather evidence this morning when you looked in on Feldman… I
thought as much at the time."

The Sheriff shrugged. "Wondahd if I could save myself a lot of time and
trouble, right then and theyah by finding him in blood covahd clothes."

The psychiatrist shook his head. "Mr. Feldman was as I described him…
weak as a baby, but otherwise not remarkable. He complained of some bad
dreams. I believe he was pursued by demons of an Oriental sort… no doubt a
manifestation of his dabbling in Oriental mysticism. He’s made a rapid
recovery, by the way. In fact, I believe he’s gone for a swim."

The Psychiatrist grew distracted for a moment and looked off vacantly into a
corner of the room. "Like the battery of our car," he murmured. "Drained
empty last night, but after a rest, it started right up in the morning."

After a moment of silent reflection, he turned back to the Sheriff and said,
almost apologetically, "Not a scientific diagnosis, I know, but it describes the
situation quite well, none the less."

"Then, that was him I saw in the watah as I drove by just now…" the Sheriff
said. ”Kind’a thought it was."

The psychiatrist’s eyes narrowed. "If I may say so, Sheriff Walker, it seems
to me you still are looking on Mr. Feldman as a suspect. Would you be
willing tell me why?"

In response, the Sheriff pulled a packet of papers out of his shirt and tossed
them on the desk in front of the psychiatrist. "These ah Xeroxes of some
notebooks I found among Hope's things. Why don't you take a look through
them and then maybe we'll have a little talk about motives and methods."

Dr. Kalin shrugged and began reading… more quickly than the Sheriff had
ever seen anyone read, before. He was flipping pages so fast, the Sheriff
began to harbor the suspicion the psychiatrist had seen all the material before.

After a few minutes Dr Kalin had finished the last sheet and looked up at the
Sheriff. "Well?" the psychiatrist said.
"Well!?" the Sheriff ejaculated in surprise. That was not the response he had
been expecting. "What do you mean, 'well’? You've just looked through as
good a motive foah muhrdah as any man is evah liable to need." He
wondered privately if the shrink had even read the pages he had hurried
through so rapidly.

Dr. Kalin shrugged. "If they aren't pure fantasy," he suggested, calmly.

"What? Made up?" the Sheriff ask, stunned.

The psychiatrist looked at him in amusement. "Surely the idea must have
occurred to you, Sheriff. These so-called poetic ramblings attached to the
names of the women and girls living here may have been Hope's way of
working out his fantasies. It's possible only some of it may be true, or perhaps
even none of it."

The Sheriff snorted. "Or, perhaps even all of it," he said. Dr. Kalin gave him
a sharp look.

"You seem anxious to believe they may be based on historical occurrences,

Sheriff. Any particular reason?"

The Sheriff grinned. "I can play that game, too, Doc," he said. Then,
imitating the psychiatrist’s manner, said, "You seem anxious to believe they
may be fantasy, Doctor. Any particulah reason?"

Dr. Kalin laughed easily. "Touché," he said. "The fact is… I've read and
heard so much fantasy material from my patients, I tend to look at anything
outside ordinary occurrences as fantasy… however plausible it might sound.
In this case," he added, "given the level of racial paranoia operating in this
area, Hope would have had an extremely difficult time 'plowing the fields'
he's described in his writings."

"Well, I'm no shrink," the Sheriff said with a shrug,” but one thing I've
learned in the ‘University of Hard Lumps’ is that if a man wants a woman
and she wants him, they'll find a way to get togethuh… even under the noses
of a crowd of people."

Now it was Dr. Kalin's turn to shrug. "If your experience is that profound,
Sheriff, you hardly need my in-put."

The Sheriff regarded the psychiatrist thoughtfully. Apparently even shrinks

could get their noses twisted out of joint. He would have to get to the point at
once before he lost himself his expert opinion.

"What I need to know, Dr Kalin, is whether a little guy like this Mr. Feldman,
in a fit of rage… maybe brought on by finding out his dawtah just had had
carnal knowledge with this black fellow… "

"Is that speculation, Sheriff?" Dr Kalin interrupted.

"…would have the strength to pull off the ahms, legs and head of a big fellow
like Hope?"

The psychiatrist opened his mouth as though to say something, then shut it
and stared at the Sheriff.

"That's what happened to Hope?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The Sheriff nodded. "Show you the pitchas, if you want," he said, "but they
ain't too easy t’look at."

The psychiatrist waved the suggestion away; then, picking up his pack of
cigarettes, shook several out, putting one between his lips while pushing the
others towards the Sheriff, who ignored them in favor of one of his own.

As he lit his cigarette, Dr Kalin leaned back in his chair, reflectively. He

puffed out a long stream of smoke and said, “I guess I see the direction your
inquiry is taking, Sheriff. It’s true the mentally ill are capable of occasional
extreme feats of strength. I, myself, once saw a patient go berserk and wrap
his arms around three toilet bowls, one after the other, and yank them out of
the concrete they were bolted into… plumbing and all. Of course, he had
strained almost every muscle in his body and couldn't move for a week after
that."

He looked significantly at the Sheriff. "Mr. Feldman is out swimming right

now," he said.

"Doesn't have to be Feldman," the Sheriff conceded. "Those notebooks list

plenty'a names."

The psychiatrist leaned forward and looked hard at the big man. "Was Hope
literally torn apart, Sheriff?" he asked. "Or was he cut to pieces?"

Before answering the Sheriff looked around, cautiously, although they were
quite alone, then lowered his voice to a whisper.

"The skin and ligaments wuz stretched til they tore," he said, hoarsely. "No
bite marks at all… no indication anything was eaten, except his genitals were
missing."

Dr Kali shook his head. "Forget a maniacal fit, Sheriff. I’ve never heard of
one that could be sustained long enough to do what you've just described."
He was silent a few minutes, lost in thought.

"Why only one man?" he asked, finally. Gesturing at the packet of papers on
his desk, he added, "If these aren't just fantasies, then several people have
motives, not just Feldman. Could be our people here at the lake, or…"

"Or my people in town," the Sheriff finished for him. "I know," he added,
mournfully. “Theyah’s a lot of folk heyah got no time foah black folk.” The
psychiatrist looked at him sharply. “But not you?” he asked.

“One thing I learned in Nam,” the Sherriff responded. “All blood is red. Held
some of my black comrades as they bled out. Got carried to safety by a black
comrade, and him shot up himself. Could’a left me to bleed out. Safer for
him… but he didn’t. Still keep in touch with him.”

Dr. Kalin nodded sympathetically. "I'm afraid you have a long investigation
ahead of you, Sheriff," he said.
The Sheriff didn't answer at once, but sat studying the smaller man before
him. He had seen the shrink was shrewd. He was beginning to get an idea
that might just work if he could enlist the psychiatrist's help.

"Dr. Kalin,” he said, finally, “I want to try something and I’d like you to give
a hand."

The psychiatrist looked his surprise. "You realize I'm hardly a disinterested
witness considering I may be close friends, or at least a good neighbor with
whomever it is you suspect."

The Sheriff nodded. "I'm not looking foah something you'd have to take the
stand about," he said. “Let me tell you what I have in mind, and then you can
tell me if you think you can lend a hand."

The psychiatrist shrugged his acquiescence.

The Sheriff leaned forward. "I want to get togethah with all the men whose
wives and daughtahs are listed heyah… hit them with Hope's notebooks and
then sit back and watch what happens. I'm bettin’ that if they wah all in it
togethah, they won't be able to hide hatred that strong and they'll unravel
right in front of us."

The psychiatrist shook his head, ruefully. "First of all," he said "if they do
'unravel' as you put it, you'll hardly need my help to make that determination.
On the other hand, if you don't get a reaction you can identify, you’d have
told the murderers you're aware a crime has been committed and they'll[dh12]
be doubly careful."

"Let me worry about that one, Doc," the Sheriff said, with confidence. "What
I need you for is to spot something subtle that I might overlook. I mean, I
know what a guilty conscience looks like, but you know what a psycho looks
like. If this was done in cold blood, like it looks it almost has gotta be, then
there's someone around with a whole lot of loose screws rattlin’ round inside
his head. Ah'm hopin’ you can nail him."
The psychiatrist looked his skepticism. "I have a bad feeling about this,
Sheriff," he said. "Somehow these little psycho-dramas never work out quite
like you plan them to."

The Sheriff stood up. "But I can count on you?" he asked.

Dr Kalin sighed. "I suppose I can hardly refuse, since you seem determined to
go ahead with it anyway whether I'm there or not. At the least I can bring a
large supply of tranquilizers. I have a feeling my neighbors are going to need
plenty of them after you get through rampaging through their psyches."

The Sheriff shook his hand and headed for the door. "Ah’ll let you know
when ah it all set up, Doc. Thank you foah yoah cooperation."

The psychiatrist showed him out, then sat for a while reflecting. The Sheriff
might not find who he was looking for among the married men at the lake, he
decided. In that case, he might start looking for someone else out of the
ordinary.

He pictured his son, Mike, with his bizarre clothes, his long side locks and his
large white, knitted skull-cap, and a chill went down his back. With a sudden
sense of almost panic, he decided he had to get Mike out of the way. 'Some
problem at the hospital' he told himself, 'not so serious I have to go myself,
but something one of us should be there to handle.'

Perhaps he could go and set up that new therapy program he was talking
about… that would seem plausible to both him and the Sheriff if the question
should ever come up. Maybe I could get him to leave tonight… let him take
the car… that should do it.
p.
 Chapter 25

Two days later, the Sheriff and Dr Kalin sat talking softly at the bar as, one
by one, various members of the community around the lake came straggling
in.

"Sheriff, I hope you know what you're doing'" the psychiatrist told him. "You
could be unleashing emotions that will prove to be more destructive than
what we've seen up til now."

"Yeah, maybe yoah right, Doctor," the Sheriff said, softly, "but if someone
has that kind of reaction, I'll hang up my badge if I can't spot it. And you'd
bettah give back yoah diploma if you can't figuh out who could be a killah
‘mongst yoah friends."

The Doctor looked unhappy. "I've been seriously considering handing in my

diploma anyway, Sheriff. While I believe anyone can be a murderer, given
the right provocations and system of rationales, I am chagrined to discover
someone I am in close contact with can be a homicidal maniac of the
proportions suggested by the murder of that black man.

"I did feel he was on the 'make' as it were… if not with females as his target,
at least with the system as his goal for conquest."

He reflected silently for a moment. "You realize of course, Sheriff, that

considerable planning and forethought must have gone into this murder, if in
fact, murder it was."

The question was rhetorical, but the Sheriff nodded in agreement anyway.
"And the fact that it occurs only a few days after the arrival of our group of
residents, suggests someone was ready to put a plan into operation… only
needed the arrival of the Hope plus a night when few people were about to
put it into effect."

The Sheriff's face clouded. The psychiatrist continued, "That means the
seduction of Feldman's daughter may not have been the provoking factor…
which in turn means Feldman, or any of the others may not be the ones you're
looking for."

"Damn," the Sheriff swore softly. "That could mean one of my local folk
could'a been settin' here all winter, just waitin’ for that black man to come
back so he could tear him up."

The psychiatrist nodded in agreement. "Or,” he suggested, "one of the

summer residents who, for whatever reason, could not get at Mr. Hope during
the year used his first opportunity to slaughter him here at the lake."

The Sheriff rubbed his chin. “I got one moah idea, Doctor, and it's a real
nasty one… not one of these folk, but a bunch of them… waiting by
agreement until they were all together again to share in the pleasure of tearin’
that boy limb from limb. Plenty of time for planning, setting things up."

The Doctor paled at the Sheriff’s suggestion. “I refuse to accept," he said

firmly, "that I could fail to be aware of a group of homicidal maniacs in my
midst. I may not be the most perceptive practitioner of my profession, but I
cannot… will not, believe I am totally blind to what's going on around me."

The Sheriff gave a grunt which could have meant anything from
acquiescence to skepticism of the value of a college education and several
graduate degrees as preparation for understanding one's fellow men.

Meanwhile, the small group of men they had invited had arrived, and Dr.
Kalin seated himself slightly to the side and facing his neighbors so he had a
clear view of all of them. There were some isolated conversations going on,
all in whispers, and occasional nervous laughter. The men seemed edgy, and
wary of the Sheriff, a natural reaction, Dr Kalin thought.
Only Feldman, the psychiatrist noted, sat quietly and calmly, a little smile on
his lips, as was usually the case. His hands were cupped in his lap. 'Probably
a form of meditation posture,' the doctor thought. ‘Strange he doesn't exhibit
the same nervousness the other men do. It should be obvious to him that
something is in the air.'

He looked over at Flaherty. The big, bluff, Irish politician was scowling,
arms and legs crossed and fists clenched. He seemed to be working himself
into an aggressive stance. 'Flaherty’s usual response to any tense situation,’
the doctor observed to himself, 'and the one which apparently the voters in
his district most appreciated, since they kept re-electing him.'

"What's this all about, Sheriff," the red headed politico finally demanded. The
Sheriff's response was a slow unwrapping of a package he had set on the bar.
His movements were a kind of physical drawl, matching the vocal drawl of
his speech.

"Well, you all know I'm investigating the death of that black fella that worked
heyah…"

"What's to investigate?" Flaherty interrupted. "He was killed by some wild

animals we heard."

The Sheriff wrinkled his face into what may have been a grimace or a grin.
"Well, that's as may be, Mr. Flahahty," he drawled. "Yet there's another
aspect of the case that made me feel I should gather you men togetha. ‘Cause
if there was a muhdah here…" a murmur started among the men, except
Feldman, whose face held a beatific smile, "then each of you men has got a
good motive for doin’ it."

The murmur increased, and Flaherty's face got red. "What the hell are you
talking about, Sheriff? Just what kind of motives are we supposed to have for
wanting to kill that boat boy?"

The Sheriff picked up several of the notebooks. "These heyah ah the writings
of that boy, Hope," he drawled. "Now, the doctor heyah, feels it's mostly
fantasy… made up like, out'a that boy's own woolly head… but since I'm in
chahge of the investigation, and I'm pretty shuah he was killed by wild
animals, I thought I would show you what I'd found befoah I destroy these
little books."

He ruffled their pages, and each man looked nervously at his neighbor as if
wondering what the black man may have seen them doing, and whether it
would cost them money. Only Feldman was imperturbable.

"Each of these books has a name written on it, in some cases two names. I got
Flaherty, Brown, Feldman and a lot of othahs."

Like a flash, Flaherty was on his feet and had ripped the books out of the
startled Sheriff's hands.

"What did that nigger have to say about me?" he demanded. Throwing the
other books aside, he opened the ones bearing the names of his wife and
daughter. His lips moved soundlessly as he quickly scanned the pages. The
redness left his face as the blood drained away. Finally, he let out a howl of
anguish, "AAAHHHRRRR'!!" and dropped to his knees, crying like a child.
The Sheriff slowly straightened up, his anger at the bigger man's shove
evaporating at the sight of such agony.

For a moment he glanced at the doctor, and could read the reproach in the
psychiatrist's eyes. 'Yeah,' the Sheriff thought, guiltily. “I screwed it up.
Inwardly he cursed himself. 'Could'a got the same reaction maybe in
private… didn't have to shame all these men in front of each other. Guess I
had decided they were all in it together. But this Irishman, he'd had just gone
out and strangled that boy if he had an idea of him messin' with his
womenfolk.'

Slowly one after another of the men came forward and took the books
bearing their names. Their reactions ranged from anger, tearing their books to
pieces, to sadness, to nausea, with Mr. Blounder throwing up over the bar.

Only Feldman made no move to find and read the book with his name on it.
The Sheriff looked at him curiously.
"How about you, Mr. Feldman?" he asked. "Aren't you interested in reading
what this fellow had to say ‘bout you?"

Feldman shook his head and smiled. "Oh no," he said benignly. “I’m pretty
sure he relates his seduction of my daughter the other night. There's really no
need for me to see what his reactions were."

The Sheriff looked at him closely, resisting an urge to dart a glance at the
psychiatrist.

"You mean you know he had sexual relations with your daughter?“ the
Sheriff asked with greater astonishment than he felt.

The little artist went on in a calm voice, "Oh, yes," he said, simply. "You see,
I was meditating in the next room and heard the whole thing."

With genuine astonishment and growing dismay, the Sheriff now asked,
"You mean to say you heard that black man having sexual relations with yoah
underage daughtah… a felony, by the way… and you didn't intahfeah?"

Feldman smiled in gentle reproof. "You don't seem to understand, Sheriff.

We are all on the Wheel of Rebirth. Each of us has to be free to make our
own mistakes and suffer the consequences of them. Had I interfered, I would
be setting into motion even more causes and effects. There's no way of
knowing what the final outcome could be."

Feldman frowned for a moment. "Aside from that," he continued

thoughtfully, "suppose Cindy's impregnated. Perhaps the child might develop
into a great genius… a benefactor of mankind. By interfering, I would have
prevented the incarnation of another soul on the Wheel of Birth and Death…
even as we all are here. Did you know Beethoven was the fourteenth child of
a washer-woman and that most of his siblings were mentally impaired? You
see, one never knows when it is dangerous to interfere. Why, if she had
aborted Beethoven, think of the loss of beautiful music the world would have
suffered."
The Sheriff's mouth was hanging open in total disbelief as he stared at the
artist, and he was completely unprepared when Flaherty hurtled past him,
shrieking like a maniac, and landed on Feldman, collapsing the wooden chair
and crushing the artist under him. He began smashing his large fists into the
much smaller man's body.

"FILTH… MONSTER…” he screamed. "EEEEYYAAAAHH… ILL KILL

YOU! You bastard! You scum! Kike! Fucking Jew bastard filth!"

The Sheriff scrambled to his feet. All the other men were standing wide- eyed
unmoving, staring helplessly at the scene. The psychiatrist was hurrying
forward, but the Sheriff reached the big Irishman first. He couldn't budge the
man's hands which were clamped around the artist's throat.

Flaherty’s face as red as his hair now and he clung grimly to his victim.
Feldman's eyes were starting out of his head, and the Sheriff was afraid the
big man's great strength had already crushed the little man's throat. He had
his blackjack out and rapped Feldman's assailant sharply on nerve points on
both shoulders. Flaherty's hands went instantly numb and his fingers
slackened, so the artist slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor,
gasping.

Choking, the artist raised his hands in a traditional Hindu blessing and
croaked out in barely intelligible words, "Father, forgive him for he knows
not what he does."

Dr. Kalin reached him and helped him into a chair. The Sheriff held Flaherty
in a submission grip that enabled him to control the politico easily, and he
steered him away from the artist.

"I'll kill him," the Irishman howled. "Fucking Jew scum. I’ll rip him apart.
Sat there and listened to that nigger rape his daughter like he raped mine…
I'll rip his heart out… tear him to pieces?"

Then suddenly the big man went limp and collapsed into a chair, sobbing.
The Sheriff considered for a moment putting handcuffs on the man. He was
pretty sure he had found his murderer. He wasn't sure how the Irishman had
accomplished it, but he just heard him threaten the artist with an identical
death the black man had suffered. The psychiatrist was calling him, and it
sounded urgent. For a moment he hesitated, then hurried over to where
Feldman was still struggling for air in throat wracking gasps.

"I don't like this," Dr Kalin said, anxiously. "His trachea may have been
partially crushed. I think we better get him to a hospital so they can do a
trachoscopic examination. We don’t want to add to the evenings blunders, do
we?" His eyes were as full of reproach as his voice was full of irony, and the
Sheriff flinched, but stubbornly said, in an aside, "Well, maybe I could'a done
it better, but we got ourselves a muhderah, didn't we?"

The psychiatrist looked startled. "Who are you thinking of, Sheriff?" he
asked, softly.

The Sheriff shrugged a shoulder towards the door where Flaherty’s sobs had
subsided and he was staring morosely at the floor.

"I guess he's got the strength and the hate,“ he whispered back.

At that moment the big Irishman lurched to his feet and stumbled out the
door. The Sheriff cried out "Hey!" and then started after him, but the
psychiatrist grabbed at him.

"This man needs help, Sheriff, and you're very much mistaken anyway as I'll
explain to you later. Meanwhile, we've got to get Mr. Feldman to a hospital.
Flaherty's not going anywhere. If you want to do something constructive,
when we’re in your car, you can send some deputies to his cottage to
safeguard his wife and daughter. He's capable of killing them if his rage
hasn't abated by the time he gets home.

The Sheriff grudgingly turned away from the door and together they carried
Feldman out to the Sheriff's car. Before they were underway, though, the
Sheriff used his radio to order two deputies to go at once to Flaherty's cottage
and arrest him if he were found there.

"I ain't takin' anymoah chances with that baby." he growled. “He’s too big
and fast and he's caught me by surprise twice tonight. A third time would
mean I'm ready to turn in my badge."

The psychiatrist sat tight-lipped and silent beside the Sheriff during the rush
to the hospital. Feldman was still breathing with difficulty, but the first
emergency room examination results indicated he was not in any great
danger.

"We best keep him over night, Sheriff," the resident said. "No point in taking
chances." The Sheriff had concurred, and Feldman was admitted to the
hospital as a guest of the county. They left the artist weak and shaken, but
resting comfortably. He couldn't speak out loud, but in whispers he begged
Dr Kalin to make sure Cindy was all right and told him to reassure her that he
would be okay by the morning.

It was only later, when the Sheriff was impatiently speeding him homewards
that the psychiatrist allowed himself to relax in his attitude towards the
lawman. He began a patient explanation of his view of the death of Jefferson
Hope.

"You have to understand, Sheriff; when we see a ritual murderer-such as

whoever killed Hope- we are seeing a perversion of ordinary human anger, or
hate, into a parody of almost divine vengeance. A person setting himself up
as God, which allows him to suspend all his ordinary repulsion at such a
crime and such a manner of death; since he feels he is acting out God's will,
all things are permitted."

The Sheriff had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road. "Well, damn it
all, ain't that what we saw tonight when that Irishman jumped that poah little
guy and almost toah his head off?"

The psychiatrist gave the Sheriff a look of patronizing humor. "Just the
opposite, Sheriff. What you saw tonight was a perfectly healthy display of
anger, rage and hatred for someone who, by association at least, participated
in the sexual use of his wife and daughter. Add to that Flaherty’s in-bred
prejudices against blacks and Jews and you've got just what you saw… a
normal (for someone with his psychology) reaction to an overwhelming
threat. He attacked it and tried to destroy it.

"The man you're looking for isn't capable of such a direct and, in its own
context, healthy reaction. Flaherty sees red; Flaherty tries to destroy! Clean
emotion and very understandable under the provocation."

The psychiatrist's face turned grim, "But there was one reaction tonight that
was definitely pathological and revealed the heart of the kind of murderer
you're looking for,"

The Sheriff shook his head in helpless confusion. Pulling the car over to the
side of the road, he turned off the motor and switched on the light so he could
study the psychiatrist’s face. "Well, who, for Christ's sake?" he demanded.
"No one else did much of anything ‘cept the guy that threw up… and I'd call
that normal. I was tempted to do that myself."

"Yes," the psychiatrist agreed. "As normal, perhaps, as Flaherty’s reaction, in

its own way." His face grew sad. "I was referring to a man I've known for
many years and whose talents I admire… a friend whom I should have been
able to understand and offer help to long before he came to this present
condition. In a sense I feel I share his guilt."

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Feldman?! But, man, he just smiled and
blessed everyone in sight, even the guy that was strangling him a minute
befoah!"

"Exactly!" the psychiatrist said. "A Christ complex… or in his case, given his
preoccupation with eastern religions… a Gandhi complex. Forgive your
enemies even as they are killing you. But back in the privacy of your own
unconscious, plot their destruction… their sacrifice on the altar of the
Almighty for daring to lay their hands upon His anointed messenger."

The Sheriff considered for a moment. "But he's one little guy, and he couldn't
handle Flaherty tonight to save his life. Where did he get the strength to do
Hope the way he did?"

The psychiatrist pursed his lips. "I offered to help you identify the murderer,
Sheriff, not to give you his M.O."

"His what?" the Sheriff asked.

"M.O[dh13]. Method of Operation," the Doctor said in surprise. “Don’t you

ever watch the cop shows on the T.V., Sheriff?"

In disgust the Sheriff started the car and pulled back onto the highway. His
headlights cut the blackness of the night that covered the unlit road.

"I guess if I want to have the time off to watch cop shows on T.V. I should
become a shrink… right, Doc?" he said in malicious humor. "Now… what
should I do about Mr. Feldman? How am I supposed to prove a muhdah from
what you say might have happened?"

"Proof for trial is your headache, Sheriff," the psychiatrist said, sternly. "I'm
not sure I could ethically get more involved than I have been. Feldman is a
friend and neighbor after all. But I would think a search of his house and or
its environs would turn up something. After all, he must have used some sort
of mechanical device to give the effect of a wild animal attack. I feel like a
traitor for suggesting it, but usually these pathological murderers want the
evidence of their wrong doing found out so they bury the bodies close at
hand. It’s part of a strong need to be punished… to ease the guilt they feel. I
mean deep down, they know they’re not God, but they've attempted to
displace Him by acting in His place… therefore they have a need for Divine,
or even human, punishment."

The Sheriff shook his head in wonder. "If I find what we’re looking for on
Feldman's place, Doc, I'll take my badge off and pin it on you myself. I got
to admit I nevah put much stock in all that fancy talk you shrinks put out, but
my kind'a commonsense approach shoah did make a mess of things tonight.
If you're proved right, then I'll be the first to vote foah a shrink for Sheriff
next elections."

They were nearing the lake cut-off where the Doctor lived when the Sheriff's
radio squawked into life. "Sheriff, this is Hahvey. You readin' me?"
"Yeah, Hahve," the Sheriff responded. "What’s happening?"

"It's that Flahahty fellah," Harvey said, dispassionately.

"Oh, no," the Sheriff groaned. "Don't tell me he got past you and Mack and
beat up on his wife and daughtah!"

"Could'na done that Sheriff, lest he first pulled himself back togethah."

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?" the Sheriff demanded.

"Means some crittah tawh him up just the way it did that black fellow… up at
the lake near the boat moorings!"
.p
 Chapter 26

Mike Flaherty sat gazing moodily into the dark waters of the lake. One of the
moored boats, caught in a series of ripples, stirred uneasily and bumped into
the wooden pier with a steady thunking that gradually lessened and faded
away, like the footsteps of a retreating giant.

His first impulse when he fled the club house was to go home and confront
his wife and daughter with the evidence of the notebooks. But he was shaken
by his loss of control over the violence that had overwhelmed him and which
had compelled him to attack and almost kill Feldman. He still ached to have
his hands around the little Hebe's throat, but that would mean the end of
everything… his re-election chances, his position, his money… to end up in
jail for the sake of those two bitches.

Like mother like daughter! And she always pretending she wasn’t interested
in sex with him… was too tired. Yeah, too tired from humping the Nigger.
Now if that black bag of shit were alive, Mike Flaherty would gladly go to
jail for the rest of his life for the privilege of pounding his face into a
boneless pulp. But someone had beaten him to it… God bless him whoever
he was. At least the bastard was dead and, anyway, the Hebe was a famous
artist who really had nothing to do with his daughter and wife getting laid by
a nigger.

'Must be a faggot', Flaherty thought, 'to sit there and listen to his own
daughter getting it from a nigger. Ugh!'

Mike felt his temper rising again and wanted, in fact needed, something to
pound on. That was the way he was… always had been… from the time he
was a little kid. Maybe after a while he would go over to the gym and work
out on the heavy bag. It wouldn’t be as good as beating someone's face in, but
that pleasure would have to wait.

With a sigh he rose and walked to the end of the pier and onto the grass. For
a moment it seemed to him someone was moving in the trees lining the lake.
Mike almost called out,’ Who’s there?', but restrained himself. 'Probably,' he
thought,’ that hick Sheriff sent someone to watch him, make sure he wouldn't
go back to try and beat on the Jew again.

God, that little faggot made him sick! Maybe when he got back to Philly he
would send a couple of goons after the kike and have them break his arms
and legs. If they also ended up killing him, so much the better. It'd be easy
enough to make it look like a mugging.

'In fact,' Flaherty decided, 'why not go back to the city right now. That way
he wouldn't have to face the two whores in his cottage… mother and
daughter… and maybe lose his temper again. Cut off their money- that's
worse than a beating to them. And send a couple of tough guys to work
Feldman over… finish what he'd started. Nobody fools around with Mike
Flaherty and gets away clean.'

Satisfied with his decisions he started down the path now with a quickened
step, determined to leave the area and drive back to his district. 'Maybe I'll
give Marilyn a call,' he considered… then decided against it. He didn't want
her or any of the damn 'whores'. He was disgusted with woman in general.
'Jeez,' he coughed. 'What was that smell? Like swamp gas or something really
foul.'

There was a rustling of bushes at the side of the path and Flaherty started in
sudden alarm, then relaxed. 'So, the Sheriff had had him tailed to keep him
from doing more harm.'

Almost at his side it seemed to him a harsh voice grated out words that were
muffled and distorted, although intelligible. It sounded like someone
deliberately over pronouncing every syllable, like a drunk trying to make sure
he was being understood. "Mike Flaherty," it rasped. "What are your
intentions towards Feldman?" Flaherty smiled. 'So, the Sheriff was afraid he
would start in on the little guy again. What a hick.'

"You better give up smokin' pal," Flaherty said. “It's getting’ to your voice."
Again, Flaherty coughed as an odor of rotted flesh seemed to well up near at
hand. “And take a bath, too," he added. "Ain't you ever heard of under-arm
protection?"

"What of Feldman?" the voice insisted.

"Tell the Sheriff I'm not done with that little Jew bastard," Flaherty said,
suddenly angry. 'Who did this hay-seed think he was dealing with anyway?'
"Tell him that kike bastard is dog meat. I already got the building site picked
out where I’m gonna bury him, but, it ain't gonna be happinin’ in his territory,
so fuck off and stop buggin’ me."

The voice in the shadows of the trees seemed almost to sigh in regret. "It was
not my wish to reveal myself again," it murmured in its harsh tones. "My
union with this flesh is still tenuous and my will only partially controls it.
Feldman’s newly conceived hatred of you pervades it now and seeks to make
this form act against you as it acted against the other one."

'What other one?' Flaherty wondered. 'What the fuck is this creep talking
about?'
Suddenly the smell got much worse and a large shadow began to detach itself
from the dense blackness of the forest. Flaherty’s eyes widened in horror as
they comprehended the enormity of the figure moving towards him. Then a
sudden fear took hold of him. This was no joke. Some kind'a huge
muthafuckah was reaching out a giant hand for him!

Fast for a big man, Flaherty wheeled and darted towards the water, a cry of
terror forming in his throat. Before it could emerge, a heavy hand fell on his
shoulder and horny nails or claws of some sort, tore away his shirt and ripped
open his flesh. He staggered and stumbled, shrieking from the agony that
streaked up and down his nerve endings.

Suddenly he was up into the air, his back towards his tormentor. "I cannot
allow you free if harm might come to Feldman from you. He is my life!" the
voice grated at him. "I must not die because of your petty human angers."
Huge fingers grasped the Irishman's head in a grasp of steel, while the rough
voice rasped in his ears, "Mike Flaherty, look upon your death!"

With a sudden move, the Irishman's head was rotated around so he was
looking sideways over his shoulder. Still the fingers gripped and twisted, the
horn-like nails crushing the skull beneath them as his head was turned further
and further until the bones of his spine squeaked in protest.

Then, just before the loud snap of his cracking vertebrae echoed through the
night air like a branch breaking underfoot, he was looking into the face of his
attacker. It was not a sight to start eternity with.

The head was as broad as a normal man's chest. It had eyes that burned like
red coals. Thick lips were drawn back over great yellow fangs but in place of
skin there was a scaly hide covered with tufts of brown hair. The breath of
the thing burned like fire and the stench it emitted was like decayed
putrescence.

But Mike Flaherty did not have to endure the vision long. The gripping claws
twisted more and kept twisting until the tissues of his neck ripped and the
head was pulled free of the body. Growling savagely, the creature tossed the
head aside and pulled the decapitated corpse to pieces, flinging arms and legs
in every direction.

Finally, the fury of its passion apparently spent, it regarded the limbless,
headless trunk it held, almost lovingly, in its huge hands. Then the giant
arms spread apart until the abdomen split open, spilling guts over the ground.
Carelessly, the thing hurled away the remaining sorry scraps of flesh and
started back into the woods.

Suddenly, it halted, lifting its head and listening intently, as though it had
heard a distant but urgent sound. Now the harsh, though somehow still
human voice rasped aloud, “Feldman! They're taking him away! Where?"

It turned slowly facing in every direction. In the distance a dog barked and
the voices of men came faintly calling. The alarm had been raised. The
creature moved back into the woods, its eyes almost lighting the way with
their fierce red glow[dh14]. It had no fear of the puny creatures and their
futile weapons, but it needed Feldman.

"Will they harm him?" it asked itself and there was a tremor of anxiety in its
voice. "I think not," it answered itself as the sound of the dogs and the voices
grew in the darkness. “The daughter he secretly lusts for is here. He will
return here. I will await him." And it disappeared into the blackness of the
forest.
.p

Chapter 27

"Hey, Birdie! These eff'n pork chops are burning!"

"Well, for Chrissake, take'm off the fire, y'ass-hole," she shrieked.
"I don't do pork chops," he announced coming out of the tent. “That’s
woman's work. I only eats 'em," he said, proud of his status as Lord of the
Manor. He gestured at the tent with a fat hairy arm. "I'll wait on the
customers. You fix dinner," he ordered.

Cursing under her breath, his wife darted into the tent which was now
emitting a fairly heavy cloud of smoke along with the smell of burning meat.
"Ya could'a at least took them off the fire, ya fat turd. Now you'll eat 'em
burnt!"

"Just put two more on for me," he said, complacently. "You and your mutt
can eat the burnt ones. Anyway, it's your fault they got burnt. You know I
stands on my principles. And one’a my principles is 'I don't do pork chops.' "

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "I know already. You only eats 'em."

"Shut your ugly face," he bellowed. “There's customers coming."

The cursing from the tent ceased abruptly and the face in question was thrust
out of the tent flaps. "Christ," she said in wonder. "They must be the last
ones in the whole place. Is it the guy you were waiting for… the one that
wanted the wooden Indian?"

"Naw, it's not him. That muthah better show up tonight, or I’ll kill the
sonuvabitch. I dragged that eff'n Indian across three States for him," he
grumbled.

At the approach of the two strolling couples he fell silent and twisted his face
into what was supposed to be a pleasant grin; then, remembering he was
exposing his rotting, blackened teeth to view he assumed an indifferent, and,
he hoped, a professional stance. He was able to stand the strain of holding
such an (for him) artificial pose for only a few seconds, then reverted to form.
"Yessir, folks," he bellowed at them. "What can we do you out of today?
Heeyuk, heeyuk!"

The two couples were startled at his outburst but after a moment’s glance,
studiously ignored the proprietor and looked over the goods on the table.
Suddenly one of the men spied the wooden Indian. "Holy cow, “he said
excitedly. "Is that thing for real?"

Benny walked over and stood next to the huge carved figure, reaching up to
slip his arm onto the broad shoulders that were level with his head.

"Absolutely genuine and original," he declared solemnly. "I can provide

museum authentication that's it’s one of a kind.” Then he bellowed towards
the tent at the top of his voice. "Birdy! Get ready to bring out another one of
those Indians! I think we got this one sold!"

The two couples gave him a horrified look and then, as one person, hurried
away. "Hey," he called after them in dismay. "Come back here! I was only
jokin'! That's the only one I got. Honest!" The four people never looked back,
but increased their speed until they were practically at a full run.

Birdy came leaping out of the tent. "You smacked ass," she screamed. "They
was gonna buy somethin'."

"Nah," he said, unabashed "they were strictly Hicksville."

"Oh yeah," she shrilled. "That blonde’s shoes were Cardin’s and the brunette
was wearin' 'My Sin' that sells for $80 an ounce. They were loaded and I got
plenty'a jewelry they would’a bought."

"Bullshit," he said half-heartedly, his complacency slightly shaken. "Forget

them eff'n creeps. They wouldn't know Meissen from 'My Sin'. Didn't you
hear him ask if that eff'n Indian was real? That shows how much they knew!
A genuine cigar store Indian!! What do they think? I punch them out one an
hour like an eff’n toy-shop? Hand-carved cigar store eff’n Indian… so life-
like you'd expect it to shit wooden matches! Eff’n mother humpers! What do
they come to a flea market for anyway?"

Birdy gave a disgusted snort and ripped open the tent’s entrance flaps.
"Finish covering the table up with the plastic sheets, y'ass-hole. I don't want
to spend all morning tomorrow wipin' dew off the glassware when we pack
up."

"Who you callin' an asshole, you eff’n uglymopotomous?" he flung at her

retreating back, but he began laying sheets of plastic over the table.

“‘Dew’," he grumbled. "I'll 'dew' you in one of these days!" The dog
wriggled squealing in fright, from under the table where it had been rudely
awakened by a shoe descending on it. Recognizing the owner of the
offending foot, it nipped at his ankle. Benny kicked at it but it bounded away.

"C'mere, Pasha," Birdy coaxed. "Come away from that big bad man." The
dog scurried away into the tent, dodging another kick.

"An' your little dog, too!" he snarled at the tent; then in an after-thought,
"You better not be giving that mutt any of my eff'n pork-chops," he bellowed.

"Just the ones ya burnt, y’ass-hole," she muttered… then called out, "C'mon
in and eat if you're finished coverin' everything over."

He stomped up to the tent entrance. As he passed the Indian he gave it a hard

kick. The massive form hardly shuddered, but he went dancing for a moment
on his stinging foot before he lurched inside.

"What a smacked ass you are," she laughed. "Why do you always kick that
thing when you know you're only gonna hurt your foot?"

"I hate that eff'n thing. If that sucker shows up I'll sell it to him for two
hundred bucks."

"Two hundred bucks!! Chrissalmighty, you paid five hundred for it!" she
shrieked.

"I shit paid five hundred bucks!" he retorted. "I traded Crazy George those
postcards for it."

"Five hundred bucks worth of postcards," she reminded him loudly.

"For which I gave Carl the Creep only twenty bucks. So twenty bucks is what
I got in that eff'n Indian and anytime I can turn twenty bucks into two
hundred bucks, I'll do it."

"That Indian's worth two thousand dollars," she screamed at him, "and you
want to sell it for only two hundred??'

The shades of night settling around their tent finally bore the last strains of
their argument off into sleep.

.p

Chapter 28
Across the valley a posse of armed men with hunting dogs gathered in front
of the Sheriff's office. The Sheriff himself stood before them, his large black
jack in its holster at his side, but otherwise unarmed. He had dressed quickly
after Harve's call had alerted him to the situation developing outside his
office. It was the only mob he had had to deal with in 20 years as a Sheriff.

He cried into a bull horn, "I want all of you men to disperse peacefully and
return home."

A hundred voices rose as one in protest. "No way, Sheriff. We’re gettin' that
thing before it gets one of our family members." The Sheriff sighed and
looked around. Those men were all friends of his; people he had grown up
with, who had elected him and, hopefully, who would re-elect him.

"Boys," he called into the bull-horn, "only way to keep you all from gettin'
prosecuted, or maybe sued by someone (which could be worse) for any
damage you might cause on this hunt is for me to deputize all of you."

A cheer went up from the crowd and several guns were fired into the air. The
Sheriff raised his voice louder. "I’ll tell you right now: anyone I catch
drinking on this hunt is gonna get Sister Susie alongside his head (he patted
the black-jack at his side) and a day or two in the clink." The crowd
groaned.

"Any of you too likkered up to know what you're gettin' into,“ he continued,
"your family or friends better take you off right now before we start. The rest
of you raise your right hands." Hands went up all over. The Sheriff pointed to
two men.

"You, Eberhardt and you, Felix, get over to the court-house and take a nap.
You can catch up with us in a few hours."

"Aw, wha' foah, Sheyif?" two slurred voices called out.

"Cause if yew eithuh too drunk, or too dumb to know yaw left hand from yaw
right, then yew too drunk or too dumb to be wanderin' round the woods with
loaded rifles in yoah hands." Sheepishly the two men dragged themselves off
to the hoots and howls of laughter of their friends and neighbors.

"The rest of you say 'I do' after me." The Sheriff intoned some sentences
rapidly and paused. The crowd hollered, "I do!” some of the more sober ones
wondering just what they had affirmed. The Sheriff pronounced them
deputized with the panache of a minister announcing a newly joined 'man and
wife'.

Looking out over them, he tried to push back a sinking feeling in his
stomach. He would just have to keep tight control, or all hell would break
loose tonight. He slapped the black-jack at his side, reflexively. "All right,"
he called out. "Who's got the last sighting on this thing?"

"Abner told me he thought he saw it up at the lake, after it had killed them
men up theyah. Probably, it's still in that area Sheriff," a lean grey haired
farmer said.

"Right you are, Nathan," the Sheriff grinned. "And I think I saw a couple
your dawgs nosin’ round up there too. Were you planning on taking it by
yourself?"

The old man seemed uncomfortable at the Sheriff's remarks or perhaps he

was just uneasy at speaking in public.

"Eyah," he answered, "but you won't need no hounds now. It’s givin’ off a
stink as rank as can be… smells like my barn did that winter we had the three
week long blizzard and the cows couldn't get out. Gettin' wuss too, from what
I kin judge… like somethin' that died and is gettin' riper," he added softly.

The Sheriff looked hard at the old man, then turned to the other men. "All
right, fellows," he called out. "Let's get into our pick-ups and head up towards
the lake. No horn blowin', or I'll impound the truck of whoever lets loose.
Remember, you're all my deputies now.”

The old man called Nathan moved closer to the Sheriff as they headed
towards their trucks. "Mayhap, I'll ride out with you, Dan'l." The Sheriff
welcomed the company for he was fond of the old farmer. But curious also.
Nathan did not usually seek out his company.

They did not speak until they were seated in the van and moving belatedly
after the others. The Sheriff had stopped to confer with Harve and Mack
before seating himself behind the wheel.

Nathan began speaking in a quiet matter of fact way which was his style.
"Guess I'm old enough to have seen every crittah we ever had in these parts,
Dan'l… from wolves to moose to grizzlies, ‘n wolverines. But I ain't nevah
seen the likes of this thing."

The Sheriff looked at him in surprise. "Then you seen it, Nathan?" he asked
cautiously. The old farmer didn't answer until he had first lit a cigarette, the
Sheriff noted his hand shook slightly. After he had taken a long drag and
blown out the smoke, he was finally ready to talk. Old Mainers like Nathan
came to their point slowly and in their own time, the Sheriff knew. It did no
good to rush them.

"Ayuh. Guess I'm one of the only ones to see it and still be alive to talk about
it," the farmer said, flatly.

When he didn't continue immediately the Sheriff waited patiently. There was
no forcing an old-time Maine farmer. His type of man aged slowly… like
meat hung in a smoking house… until he was lean and toughened enough to
endure the uncompromising struggle which Maine farmers had waged with
nature for over three hundred years.

The Sheriff looked at him fondly. Old Nathan had given him one of the worst
hidings of his life when he caught him stealing pumpkins from his pumpkin
patch one Halloween. He wondered if the old man had ever found out that ten
years later his youngest daughter had been the Sheriff's first love.

The image of Betty Lou lying nude and panting beneath him as he took her
on a patch of grass in the woods, was one he had cherished all his life. It
might well be the last thing he would think of before he died, for she had
been his only true love.

'Shameful to think that way about the dead', he reproved himself. Fever had
taken her a few months after their lovemaking and her parents had buried her
in virgin white. He guessed he was the only one who knew she shouldn't have
been. Better to go to his own grave with that knowledge still a secret. 'Bury
the sins along with the sinner' he thought; then, feeling Nathan's curious eyes
on him, he realized he had spoken out loud and reddened.

"What do you figgah it to be?" he asked the old man, gruffly.

Nathan sighed as though in pain. "Nothin' that has any business bein' alive,
I'd say," the old farmer intoned. “Like one of them crittahs them scientists say
died off a long time ago… only this one didn't die off… just went to sleep
and now it's woke up. Big it was… maybe eight feet tall… had fuh ovah most
of it, but shiny patches, too… like scales"

The old man hesitated. "But I gotta tell you, Dan'l," He hesitated again. "It
didn't feel natural… that crittah. It didn't seem just wild… it seemed
downright… well, evil is about the only word to use.”

The Sheriff reflected a moment. The old man was one of the bravest he had
ever known. Thirty years earlier he had seen him run into a burning house
and carry out four children… none of them his own… when no one else
would even go near the fire because of the heat of the flames. Nathan's hair
on one side of his head had never grown back. 'Too much damage to the
skin', old Doc Williams had pronounced. But now the Sheriff heard an
undercurrent of fear in the old man's voice and it worried him.

"Where did you see it, Nathan? Up by the lake?"

"Ayuh," the old man drawled. "That’s wheyah it is. It’s got some business
there seemingly; but it behaved… confused… as though it's not rightly shuah
what its business is, or what it should be doin' about it."

"How'd you get close enough to it to see it so good and still come away in
one piece?" the Sheriff asked.
"’Cause I wasn't close, Dan'l" the old man drawled. "I was on the roof of my
house with my mounted binoculars and I watched it for most part of an
hour… pacin' back and forth on its hind legs, like some city dweller worritin'
how to pay the bills."

The Sheriff suppressed a grin at the old man's image. "’N then what
happened?" he prompted.

"Well, it was a good two mile off Dan'l an' I was seein’ it pretty good, when
all of a sudden it stopped dead in its tracks n’ slowly turned around an' looked
me right in the face. Its eyes wuz big… huge… and glowing red … an' I felt
it stab me with them eyes, Dan'l… like I was one of Doc Wilson’s flutterbys,
pinned right to a board so's I couldn't move.

"An' it felt mean, Dan'l… mean and evil. An' the longer it looked at me (It
could'a been a second or an hour) the moah I felt it… like it had holt of me
with its long teeth… like a lions fangs. I mean… I felt them eyes, Dan'l. I felt
them grab holt of me and see me and see into me… an' I was so scairt, Dan'l,
I felt my bowels loosin’ up to let go in my pants."

He was speaking faster now and there was a twinge of hysteria in his voice.
The old man's fear was contagious, and the Sheriff could feel the hairs rising
on the back of his neck. "An’ then what did you do?" he asked mostly to
relieve the growing tightness in his chest.

"An' then it grinned at me, Dan'l. Mayhap it was a snarl but I swear… it felt
like a grin… like he knew we had an appointment together n' he'd make
certain I kept it."

There was silence for another mile then Nathan continued. "I never could'a
pulled my eyes away, but the sun movin' along caught them binoculars just
right and the light blinded me. It was like I was released from a spell, or
somethin'. Once I wasn't seein' those eyes I scrambled down the roof so fast, I
left half the skin of my ahm up there. I got out my Bible and spent the next
howah on my knees prayin' to the Lawhd to forgive my doubts."
The Sheriff could not keep the grin out of his voice when he asked, "How did
seein' that thing get you to jump to Jesus?"

"Dan'l," the old man said, after clearing his throat, "I’ve personally
considuhed it was easiuh to believe in a Devil than in a God, 'n that's why
religion's always had such a tough time in this world findin' followuhs. Let
the preachuhs get folks to believe in the Devil, 'n they'll get’ em inta the
chuhches for shuah.

"Well… when that thing grinned at me, I made shuah it was the Devil himself
smilin' on me, 'cause he knowed he was comin’ to see me soon."

The Sheriff laughed aloud at this strange statement of faith.

"You can laugh, Dan'l, an' I don't begrudge it to you, 'cause you didn't see
them eyes, but I figgah if theyah's the one thing, theyah has to be the t’othuh,
also. An' the feelin of evil in that thing was so great I knew there had to be
somethin' restrainin' it, ‘cause otherwise that evil creatuah’d long ago have
taken over the world… if theyah weren't somethin' equally strong on t’otha
side of the fence, don't you see?"

"Hmmm," the Sheriff murmured non-committaly. "What did you do then?"

The old man squirmed uncomfortably. "I got on the phone and I roused up
the countryside," he finally admitted.

The Sheriff looked sharply at him. "So youah the one I got to thank for this
mess," he snorted in disgust.

The old man said, almost apologetically, "I didn't tell them the whole story,
Dan'l, 'cause most of the people'd be too scairt to do aught but sit in their
houses and hope it took their neighbahs and let them be."

The Sheriff grunted distractedly, then asked, "How come youah tellin' me the
whole story, Nathan? Ain't you afraid I’ll bolt too?"

The old man's voice registered his shock at this idea. "But it's yoah job, Dan'l.
It's what you ah. You swoah an oath t’uphold the law. I don't know what
kind'a man could walk away from what he is… deny himself, but I'm damn
well certain you ain't him."

Then his face hardened resolutely. "An' I gotta go, too. That’s the message
that came to me whilst I was on my knees with my Bible. Unless good men…
leastways men as good as they can be expected to be… oppose evil things
when they come a'creepin' out of the darkness, how can they expect God
Almighty to put His hand in it? We gotta do owah paht to be wuhthy of gettin
some help from Him."

The Sheriff made no comment as he pulled into the lake road. Dozens of
pick-ups were lined up on Hangman's Meadow, and the men crowded silently
around the Sheriff's van as it drove up.

Dogs in every truck yelped and whined in excitement. They didn’t know
whether the prey tonight was fox, or wolf, or what, but they knew a hunt was
in progress and that was enough for them.

"Men," the Sheriff announced, “I sent Hahve and his squad t'tothuh side of
the lake. They're gonna let loose theyah dawgs soon as he sees we're all
gathuhed here. Now, no shootin' lest I give the word. I don't want you killin'
each othah in the dark. 'Cordin to reports, this thing is big enough, there
shouldn't be no mistake about wheyah to put yoah bullets. Whatever it is…
grizzly, brown bear… or somethin else… its head and hide are going into the
county museum without anyone's name on it; so don't try for glory. Only way
yoah name's gettin' into the newspaper is in the obits."

A chorus of yelps and bays echoed from across the lake. The dogs in the
trucks increased their impatient protests at being left out of the festivities and
soon the air on both sides of the lake was filled with enough hound sound to
satisfy the most ardent lover of man's best friend. The Sheriff doubted if he
could restrain either men or dogs for much longer. He decided to loose both.

"Okay, men. Let loose your hounds, and remember; it's smellin' pretty rank
from what we heah tell so it shouldn't be too long befoah we raise it up heah
or on t’othuh side of the lake. Now, let's go." Excitedly the men freed their
dogs and hurried after them as the hounds streaked for the lake.

The Sheriff watched them depart and sighed heavily as he turned back to
Nathan and his deputy, Mack.

"I'm afraid I'll be spendin' all day tomorrow answerin' the phone calls of those
Lake folk wantin' to know how I can let people go fox huntin' at night and
keep decent folk from their sleep." He looked at the old man and his grinning
deputy.

"Nathan, I want you and young Mack here to go swing over t’Rt 81, past that
flea mahket. Wait alongside the road near Pritchahd’s grove. I gotta feelin'
this thing likes trees. If it gets past us on this side, it could head ovah that
way."

The young deputy hurried to his car, but Nathan lingered a moment. "Seems
to me fayah might be a better weapon 'gainst it than anythin' else, Dan'l." The
Sheriff's eyes narrowed and he looked grimly at the old farmer.

"There hasn't been a fayah in these parts for over fifty years, Nathan… which
you well know 'cause you been around longah than that. The brush is piled
high between every tree from heyuh to Massachusetts. You start a fayah, half
the State could go up in flames."

"I wouldn't start the fayah, Dan'l," the old man said in an injured tone.
"You're the Shayif, 'n only you could order that." His voice sounded almost
wistful. "It's just that I gotta feelin' our guns ain't gonna be much good 'gainst
it, that’s all."

The Sheriff regarded him for a moment, then said softly, "Yewah spooked
Nathan 'n that ain't like you. That's why I want you away from the action."

Nathan nodded slowly, “‘Course if it gets t’tothuh side of that flea mahket,
an' takes refuge in Pritchahd's grove… it’ll be boxed. With Rt 81 on one
side, Crippleback creek behind it, the flea mahket's open area, 'n Brown's
fahm… a fayah that's set just right could close in on it simultaneous like."
The Sheriff grimaced and turned abruptly away. The old farmer had spoken
out the loud the very plan the Sheriff had visualized and then thrust out of his
mind as being sheer madness. If anything went wrong, he would be known all
over the State of Maine as the Sheriff who burned down his county.

Mack was beeping impatiently from his van, so Nathan shuffled over to the
eager deputy but looked back before climbing in. The Sheriff had gotten his
own rifle from his van, and the old man saw it was the one the Government
had given him with the special military laser-aimed night scope which let the
user see as clearly at night as in the daytime.
The old man glanced at the sky. "Hardly an hour to day-break," he muttered.
"So he won't need that fancy scope much longer… not that it'll do him any
good."

Mack roared away with a spray of grass and dirt in his wake. "Waste'a good
turf," the old farmer grumbled; the young man just grinned good- naturedly.
.p
 Chapter 28

The Sheriff kept a lonely vigil by the radio, checking with the various search
parties, and sensing a rising tension in the air… as though something had
been roused to awareness of their presence and intentions and was
scrutinizing each of them in turn. He shook himself trying to get free the spell
of the old Nathan’s words and fear. "It's gonna turn out to be a grizzly," he
muttered to himself. ”Gotta be.”

It was only a few moments later that a familiar laconic voice came over the
radio. "Sheriff, we got somethin'!"

"That's just great," the Sheriff said. "You mind sharing with me just what it is
'we' got, Hahve?" His irony marked his growing impatience.

The deputy was customarily unperturbed by his tone. "I don’t know, but the
dogs are going crazy. They flushed out some kind’a… Jesus! What a stink!
You can hardly draw a breath here. Worse than a skunk goin' off right in your
face," the voice gasped.

"Give me some idea of yaw location, Hahve," the Sheriff insisted.

"It's moving fast, Sheriff. Comin' yaw way too," the deputy said, choking.
"The smell's lettin' up some as it gets fuhtha away, but theyah won't be no
trouble following its trail with the stink it’s givin’ off. Never smelt nothin'
like it before."

"Keep me posted, Hahve," the Sheriff warned and then switched to

transmission. "Mack and Nathan, wheyah the two of you?"

His radio squawked in reply as Mack's eager voice came on.

"We took up position on Rt 81 where the truck pull-off is with the picnic
tables, Sheriff," he said. The Sheriff visualized the location, plotted various
routes the thing could travel, and regretted he didn't have a thousand more
men to cover the vast area around him.

"Mack, there's just a chance that thing'll head thru the flea mahket and break
out your side. I don't want it crossing ovah route 81 and into the National
Park. He hesitated a moment before speaking the fatal words.

"If you have to, Mack I want you and Nathan to use fayah to drive it away
from Rt. 81. I may send some othah men to help you."

The Sheriff ignored Mack's yelp of surprise and turned up the volume on the
other channel to pick up Harve's dry voice.
"Sheriff," he drawled, "some of our dawgs caught up to that thing."

"And?" the Sheriff demanded.

"It ripped 'em to shreds. Whatever it is, it's big, it’s fast, and it ain't afraid of
dawgs."

"What about tracks, Hahve. You should have some pretty cleyah signs by
now."

"Nothin that makes any sense, Sheriff. It's big, but it don’t make a very deep
track. Like it’s theyah, but it ain't theyah. Some of the men are stahtin' to get
spooked, if you know what I mean."

"I don't," the Sheriff said, grimly. "But I also don't want anyone makin’
contact with it. We've seen it can kill, so just keep herding it. It'll be dawn
soon. When we have some daylight, we'll have a bettuh idea of what wheyah
up against."

Harve's laconic voice answered, "Daylight can't come too soon faw us,
Sheriff," and then he was gone. But a moment later he was back again. "It
did veeyah off, Sheriff. It looks like it’s headin’ past that flea mahket back of
ol' Wilbuh's place."

"Just keep drivin’ it, Hahve," the Sheriff instructed. "But don’t push it so
hahd it turns on you. I don't want to lose any men tonight if I don't have to. If
you can, herd it into that copse of cotton wood past the flea mahket and just
before Rt. 81, Mack and Nathan'll fayah the woods if they have to, to keep it
from crossin’ over into the National Pahk."

There was a moment's hesitation, and the Sheriff could hear the wheels
turning in Harve's head as he calculated the potential danger from such a fire.
Finally, there came a laconic, "Yoah the Sheyif," and he disappeared.

"Yeah," the Sheriff said, equally laconic, to no one in particular. "I am."

He switched his channel. "Mack and Nathan… you there?"

"We're here, Sheyif," came Mack's eager voice.

"It looks like it's headin' towards the grove near 81," the Sheriff informed
them. "I want you to set up a fayah line and have it ready to go if we need it."
There was a moment of stunned silence.

"You shuyah you want us to fayah the whole grove, Sheyif," the deputy
asked in confusion. "The brush in there is as thick as fleas on a hound dog
anyway… and with this dry spell it’ll just about explode into flame."

"Yes, I'm sure I may want the grove fayahd, Mack," the Sheriff roared. "You
want it in writin’?"

"Didn't mean nothin', Sheyif," the youth mumbled.

Nathan's voice broke in. "Might not be a bad idea to fayah all sides of the
grove at once, Dan'l. Boxin' it with fayah could be better'n bullets."

"I'll let you know what to do after I've had the chance to put a few bullets in it
first," the Sheriff said in disgust, feeling that he was the one getting boxed in.
"I just hope all those flea mahket people went home like they was supposed
to," he muttered as he signed off.

.p
Chapter 29
Dawn was just a half-hearted promise in the eastern sky when Benny sat bolt
upright in his cot, gagging and choking. Next to him, her stentorian snores
shattering the pre-dawn stillness, Birdy slept peacefully.

Benny gave her a shove. "Your eff’n dog shit in here," he choked. "Jesus!
Right under my eff'n nose, too."

Birdy's snores never broke step; her barrel shaped body rolled away from his
shove, then returned to its deep depression in the cot. Blissfully unaware of
her Lord and Master’s distress, she slept on.

Gagging, Benny groped in the dark for his Italian stogies and fumbled his
lighter open. She hated the rank stench of the small, black cigarillos… his
'little dog turds` she called them, and never let him smoke them in the tent.
He would show her!

He got one lit and puffed clouds of smoke in her direction. She snored on, her
only reaction to the thickening atmosphere being a rapid twitching in her
nose, which looked, in the flickering light of his lighter, remarkably like a
large sand flea burrowing its way between the two sand dunes of her cheeks.

With his lighter still lit, he inspected the ground under his cot. The dog was
sleeping in the crook of Birdy's arm and nowhere could he find evidence of
its nocturnal elimination. The stench that had awakened him still hung in the
air, refusing to be repelled even by his foul cigar smoke.

"You and your eff'n asshole," he snarled at the sleeper. “Smells worse than a
witchdoctor's armpit!" He tossed off his covers and struggled to his feet.

"Godammit, but I gotta get out’a here 'fore I chokes to death." He left the
stogie in an ashtray near Birdy's face and staggered from the tent.

Once outside, he took a deep breath of the cool, country air… and almost fell
down in a fit of coughing.

"Chrissakesitsevenworseouthere," he gasped out. "All the eff'n cows in Maine

must have the runs."

Only now, he became aware of the pack of dogs at the far end of the flea
market grounds. They seemed to be in the adjacent fields, snarling and
baying ferociously, as though baffled by the barrier of the chain link fence.

"Eff'n mutts!" he hollered in their direction. "Go chase rabbits somewheres

else where people ain't tryin to sleep."

There was a slight sound behind him and he wheeled around. The sky was
lightening now as the sun came creeping upwards over the distant hills. It
cast a flame-red glow onto the dark clouds that ridged the horizon, outlining
them in a halo of blood. Alongside the tent, a large, dark shape loomed up
where, the night before, Benny had left the wooden Indian to stand in silent
vigil over him and Birdy.

Its craggy features were still shrouded in darkness as it brooded, sullenly, like
an fugitive who hears the sounds of pursuit all about him and stands frozen in
indecision, not knowing in which direction safety might lie.

Benny walked up to the dark figure. "What are you lookin at, you refugee
from a fire-place," he demanded, at the same moment giving it a mighty kick
to its midsection.

With a howl of rage the figure suddenly awoke; its eyes flew open, burning
like red hot coals. Huge hands grabbed the startled Benny by his arms, lifted
him straight up and, shook him so violently, that two of his rotten teeth
rattled loose, falling to the ground to skip away among the pebbles under the
display table.

At that moment the pack of dogs found the section of fencing that had been
collapsed the day before and leaped over it, pouring onto the flea market
grounds, howling like ghouls after fresh blood, and came charging towards
the lone tent.

Benny had time for only a single shriek of terror before he was hurled head-
first into the pack of snarling dogs. At first they tore and snapped at him;
then, realizing their prey was escaping, leaped onto and over the table
standing before the tent. The table came crashing down, its plastic covering
splitting open, and spilling shattered glass and porcelain over the ground.
Following their fleeing prey the hounds quickly disappeared into the distance.

Inside the tent even so prodigious a sleeper as Birdy was finally aroused.
Modestly drawing a tattered robe over her ‘Dough-Boy' body, she stumbled
groggily out of the tent.

The day had brightened into a dim light and the disaster it revealed drew a
scream from her capacious lungs. Benny lay amidst the smashed remains of
their table and its river of colored glassware was lying in smithereens all
about their tent.

"You crazy asshole," she shrieked. "Look what you did!"

Dazed, groaning from a dozen bruises and bleeding from a dozen bites,
Benny struggled to a sitting position and stabbed with a stubby finger at the
silent Wooden Indian glaring sternly down at him from its place near the tent.

"It wasn't me, Birdy," he cried. "It was that EFF'N INDIAN!"

.p

Chapter 30

The Sheriff listened to the reports from the crew in hot pursuit of the
'monster' as the men were now calling their quarry, and then headed on an
intercept course past the flea market. His four wheel drive was not deterred
by the thickest grass and undergrowth. He had almost reached the thick grove
bordering the flea market when a huge shape came bursting through the fence
lining the perimeter. In an instant the sheriff’s rifle was in his hands and he
leaped out of the van. Moving quickly he found the broad back of the
creature as it neared the trees. The red dot of light from the laser gun-sights
was on the broad back and he squeezed off two high-powered rounds. The
beast hesitated in its flight, turned to snarl in his direction, and then plunged
into the wood with twenty hounds at its heels. The impact of its eyes as they
found the Sheriff's was as intense as what old Nathan had described and for
the second time in an hour the Sheriff felt the hairs on his head creeping
upward. With his rifle ready he hurried towards the forest. He could hear
dogs growling a little distance in and wondered if the beast was now at bay.
Other members of the posse were arriving now, catching up to their dogs. He
could hear Harve arguing with someone he couldn’t make out in the dim
light.

"I'm telling you I put five slugs in its back and it didn’t stop it, Hahve," the
other man was saying excitedly. "And what about not findin' any tracks, or
blood, for that matter?"

"If theyah ain't no blood, then you didn't hit it," the deputy insisted.
The Sheriff passed them and ran to the point where the creature had
disappeared into the trees. The ground showed no tell-tale droplets of blood.
Nor could his trained ye see much in the way of foot-prints. He remembered
his examination of the ground in the area where the black man had been
killed. There, too, he had been baffled by absence of tracks.

The rest of the men came up to him and stood silently listening to the sounds
of the slowly retreating battle between the dogs and their quarry.

"Hahve, take a squad with you… six or eight men. Start felling trees up
neyah Bob Brown's place where the grove comes up to his cawn fields."

"You gonna fayah the grove, Sheriff?" one of the men asked in astonishment.

"Mack and Nathan are on the other side… off of Route 81. Theyah gonna
staht a fayah line along 81 and the breeze should bring it towahds us. It
should be awhile before that thing heads back this way. I want a perimeter of
fire all around the grove. Pump, or siphon out your gas tanks, but we gotta
staht to throw up a wall of fayah on three sides. That should bring it out to
Brown's farm, an' that's where we'll be waiting with everything we got."
The men were silent, sobered by the realization something was going on that
surpassed their liquor inspired ideas of a jolly time out with the boys, hunting
down some wild animal that had had the temerity to attack and kill several
human beings. Now there was a feeling of a fight for survival between them
and 'it'… whatever 'it' was.

With more discipline then the Sheriff had thought possible the men divided
into teams and headed out to their respective tasks. The Sheriff returned to
his radio.

"Mack or Nathan?" he demanded. It was the stringy voice of the old man that
answered.

"Mack is down at the gas station, makin' them fill up whatever empty drums
and cans they got there with gasoline." The voice hesitated a moment. "I been
thinkin'… 'bout the fayah and the way it could get out'a control, Dan'l… and
maybe it's not too good an idea for you to depend on an old man’s
foolishness. Like as not I was havin' some sort of spell this afternoon, ‘n..."

The Sheriff cut him short, "I put two 375's into its back, Nathan. It staggered
a bit then gave me a look that froze my blood… ‘n kept goin'… ‘n though I'm
the last one as should be sayin' such a thing… 'Thank God' it kept goin' ‘n
didn’t decide to come after the guy that put those two slugs in its back," he
said, fervently. "We didn't find any blood and hardly any tracks to be speak
of," he added, wryly.

Nathan was silent for a few moments, then announced, "Mack is back."

"Then get the fayah started," the Sheriff urged. "Lay a line of gasoline all
along the tree line and set it off. The way the breeze is blowing, it should
pull the fayah back towahds us and drive that thing… whatever it is… into
the fire wheyah settin' heyah." Nathan only grunted in reply. The farmer had
no words for his dismay at his role in setting a forest-fire.

For a half hour the two men worked their way along the highway, meeting
back at their van. "You figure we should wait for a direct awdah from the
Sheriff befoah we start the fayah goin', Nathan?" Mack inquired, anxiously.
"I'm not particularly eager to spend the next twenty years in the State prison
system for obeying an awdah that nevah should have been given. If the wind
wuz to change, we could see that fayah jump 81 and we could lose the whole
National Pahk."

"All the moah reason to staht whilst we got the wind in our favah," was the
old man's reply.

"Yeah I guess yoah right." Mack said, dejectedly. He took his last 20 gallon
drum of gasoline, heaved it to his shoulder, and trudged into the woods with
it.

"Where you be goin'?" Nathan called after him sharply.

"Just gonna set this drum fuhtha in where the thicket begins. If we're gonna
do this we'd better do it right."

Nathan searched in his pockets for matches and couldn't find any. "Hey!" he
called. "I don't s’pose you got any matches?"

The deputy grinned and waved a packet of matches. "Don’t worry about a
thing, Nathan," he answered. "Ol' Mack's got everything undah control," and
he pushed his way in towards a dense thicket.

"Phew," he cried suddenly. "What's that stink?!" At his words a look of

horror came over the old man's face.

"Run, Mack," he cried out. The deputy stood a moment in confusion the
twenty gallon drum balanced on his shoulder. Then a huge dark shape
detached itself from the trees.

As the old man watched in terror the deputy was snatched into the air.
"EEEYAH!!!" he shrieked. Nathan lunged over to the van and snatched the
deputy's deer rifle from its rack behind the front seat. Mack's next shriek of
fear and pain was cutoff in the middle and the old farmer could distinctly hear
the crack of the deputy's back breaking. Quickly he poured five rounds into
the broad chest of the creature, without effect.
The thing flung the deputy's body from him as though it were without weight.
Its eyes sought out the eyes of the old man, but Nathan refused to look at
those glowing red coals. Then after he felt the will of the creature-demanding,
pressing, insisting he look into those captivating eyes. The old man mumbled
a prayer, desperately seeking strength to resist. But the will that opposed him
was ancient in evil and slowly his head was lifting up as his will was being
crushed within his soul. At that moment a breeze parted a cluster of leaves
and a finger of sun-light reached through the trees and glinted on something
metallic. The glitter made the old man blink, momentarily breaking the spell
of those eyes.

It was the drum of gasoline dropped by the deputy. Reacting on instinct, the
old farmer fired several rounds into the metal barrel, and the drum exploded
spreading flames in every direction. Instantly the creature leaped backwards.
The gasoline soaked bushes and trees quickly caught fire. The creature
hesitated a moment in indecision and found the flames licking at its hairy
form. With a howl of rage it beat at the fire with its great arms, then reason
asserting itself once more, it began to run along the perimeter of the grove,
trying to outrun the flames and escape into the forest across the highway.

Too late! Its moment of hesitation had allowed the fire to leap along the
gasoline soaked perimeter of the grove and the breeze was already pushing
the encroaching flames deeper, igniting the thick underbrush, building a wall
of flame no living, or even unliving, flesh could endure.

With a howl of rage it looked southward. Only now did it become aware of
the smoke rising up in the distance from that direction. So! The puny
creatures had set the whole forest ablaze. It looked northward. Here the sky
was still clear. Driven back from the heat of the flames it wheeled towards
the North and hurried deeper into the woods. Nathan, kneeling in prayer,
could feel rather than see the last hate-filled glance it shot at him from those
red, glowing eyes as it hastened northward through the trees. Cringing from
the venom of its hatred the old man began weeping helplessly.

Finally, the heat of the forest fire forced him to stand and retreat back to the
van. Only dimly, as though at a great distance could he hear the voice of the
Sheriff, screaming over the radio.

"MACK, NATHAN! Wheyah the hell ah you two?!"

"Dan'l," the old man gasped. "It got Mack, snapped his back like a twig. I
fayahd the forest and drove it back into it. It doesn't like fayah. It's heading
towahds you. I put five slugs into it and it smiled at me. Must be ten feet tall.
Oh, my God, oh, my God." the old man babbled.

"Nathan," the Sheriff screamed. "What about Rt 81? Will the fayah jump
ovah?" Finally the Sheriff's words penetrated the old man's numbed mind
and the farmer in him responded. He looked slowly along the highway and
then said, "The fire went so fast inwards it didn't even set the bushes to
smoulderin' crost the road."

"Nathan, listened to me. We got it boxed in. We set the woods ‘round
Crippleback Creek goin' and that fire's comin' Nawth. ‘N we fayahd the grove
on this side. So it's got to come out ‘round Bob Brown's place. You come up
there. We’ll need all the guns we can get."

That roused the old man from his lethargy. "Guns ain't no good," he cried.
"Make fire bombs. Get a flame thrower. I saw it beatin' the flames out, so it
can be burned."

"Nathan drive ‘round the perimeter and make shuah theyah's no breaks in the
fayah wall. We got to keep the thing boxed!"

Dumbly the old man nodded, as though the Sheriff could see him, and
climbed into the van. His throat tightened in nausea as he finally identified
the odor of burning meat that had been impinging on his unconscious.
Mack's body was roasting from the heat. Fighting to keep down his vomit, he
drove north fast as he could.

.p
 Chapter 31

"Well we got three sides of this grove goin' up in smoke now, Sheriff. Why
don't we fire the last side and be done with it? The updraft from the rest of
the blaze should draw the flames away from Brown's farm and into the center
of the grove."

"Hahve," the Sheriff explained, "you know what kind of hot-head Bob Brown
is as well as I do. I don't want to get into a gun-fight with him ‘n his sons
over something that maybe can be killed if enough of us are able to
concentrate owah small ahms fire at it. If we fire the Northside before the
trees between the woods and his farm are cut down, the flames will leap to
his cawn-fields, and he'll be burnt out… fields… bahns… and house. Don't
you think any man would fight to the death befoah he lets that happen to
him?"

They stood watching the fire lick up the pools of gasoline and stepped back
from the sudden blast of heat as the thick underbrush exploded into flame.
All up and down the Southern perimeter of the grove men laid matches to the
gasoline soaked brush and retreated quickly from the resulting conflagration.
Now the blaze leaped from tree-top to tree-top, racing inwards, drawn by the
vertical stream of air set in motion by the three sided inferno.

"Let's get up to Brown's place, men," the Sheriff called out and his posse
piled into several pick-ups, rifles in hand. But it was a different crowd than
the mob that had set out before dawn. There were no smiles, jokes or raucous
laughter… only grim faces, determined to see a bitter job thru to the end.
They were all farmers and hunters, they weren’t happy watching part of their
heritage go up in smoke.

The Sheriff and his deputy drove together in Harvey's van. The Sheriff told
his deputy, softly, "It got Mack, Hahve. Ol' Nathan says it ‘bout ripped him
into two pieces."

The van lurched over several deep ruts and Harvey fought the wheel steady.
"Ain't surprisin'," he said, calmly, "seein's how he tore that Negro fella to bits
and ripped that Irishman’s head off."

The Sheriff looked at him wryly. "Don't anything evah get a rise outta you?"
he asked in disgust, "cept someone else’s woman?"

The deputy grinned good-naturedly. "Did get a bit of a turn once when I was
just gettin' inta Mary Sue in her daddy’s barn one morning. This ol' dairy cow
came up, quiet-like and ran its big, rough tongue over my privates just as I
was takin’ the plunge. I was so scared, I yet out a yell could'a waked the
dead, grabbed my pants ‘n lit outta there. Mary Sue told me later her daddy,
who was up in the high pasture, thought a fox had got his prize roostah by the
throat. After that, Vietnam was a joke; and this thing, whatever it is, don’t
hardly rate a raised eyebrow."

The Sheriff grunted acceptance of his deputy's matter of fact attitude and
studied the fire they were paralleling. A few men guarded the perimeter,
beating back flames that occasionally threatened to spread to the fields of
grass. The fire had moved quickly inwards and the once dense underbrush
had been reduced to glowing embers and fine ash. As the Sheriff's van turned
the corner of the grove they passed other men igniting the outer edges of the
final side of the box. The Sheriff's van ran along the fourth side of the forest
and drew up to a crowd of men who waited almost at the center of the un-
burned length of woods.

Simultaneous with his arrival, a dozen other pick-ups arrived and poured out
their cargo of men and weapons. Bob Brown detached himself from the
waiting crowd and stormed up to the Sheriff. They had grown up together,
but there was no love lost between them. The sheriff noticed Nathan's arrival
in Mack's pick-up.

"I don't know what kind's reason you think you got for burning this woods
and cuttin' good trees, Sheriff" (here he gestured at men who had cut down
trees bordering the wood) Brown shouted, "but I'm gonna make sure the
forestry service and the State police know who to ask for explanations."

"Simmer down Bob." the Sheriff said firmly. "You know I would be the last
person to do something like this if it wasn’t the only way."

“The only way to do what, Sheriff? Ruin me?" Brown demanded. "You can't
get me to believe you had to fire 1000 acres of pine and cottonwood for some
mysterious creature that may only exist in your imagination."

"I got a dead deputy, tore in half to prove it's not my imagination that's
runnin' around in those woods, Brown," the Sheriff said angrily. Nathan
came up to them. "I watched it tear Mack in two, Bob," he said, "and I put
five 440's in its chest and all it did was smile at me."

"What makes you think it is a critter, Sheriff?" asked one of Brown’s sons.

"What do you mean, Charlie?" the Sheriff asked.

"Well," the boy said suddenly shy as if he realized that at 18 it wasn't his
place to be questioning his elders… but the Sheriff was the coach of his
baseball team. "I mean… most critters would'a headed for the lake or the
creek when they smelled the smoke and the fire, threatening to cut it off ‘n
all. Instead it lets itself get boxed in. It's not like a wild thing to do that, is all
I meant." he finished lamely.

"Maybe it figured out that we was herdin’ it and that the water would already
be cut off first," the Sheriff suggested.

"That's just my point, Sheriff. That's what I figured too, "the boy said
excitedly. "That's human thinking not animal instinct."

"What do you think it is, Charlie?" the Sheriff asked curious.

"Could be some wierdo dressed in a monkey suit with a bulletproof vest."

"Have to be strong as a gorilla, way it ripped Mack and them othah people
up," Nathan suggested.

"Maybe that's just what it is," Brown said, triumphantly. "An escaped
gorilla… and you burned down a whole damn forest just to catch an over-
grown monkey," he said accusingly.

"You can always grow new trees Brown," the Sheriff said, dryly. "You want
to start growing new sons?"

The fire was sweeping inwards now from all sides and over the roar of its
devouring appetite, they could hear the hounds howling in fear and confusion
as they sought a path to safety.

"Lot of good dogs lost today," Harve observe, ruefully.

Several now came slinking out of the smoky woods, tails between their legs
and casting fearful looks back towards the interior of the forest. Sparks,
bursting from the trees, singed their hides, but their fear of the fire seemed
subdued by another, stronger fear. They slunk whimpering towards the men
who ignored them now as they stared into the grey swirling smoke.

"There's something moving in theyah," the Sheriff called out. “Get ready."

"My God! It's huge!" someone cried out as a vague, dark shape appeared
momentarily in the thickening smoke.

As though it was suddenly aware of them the thing leaped forward with a
roar. Simultaneously dozens of rifles opened fire almost as one and the sheer
force of so many projectiles impacting on it seemed to make the creature
stagger backwards. Yet, although the withering gun fire continued as fast as
the men could pull their triggers, the creature began to advance again.
Someone began sobbing while another voice cried out loudly in prayer.

The swirling smoke parted for a moment and the men now became aware of
two red glowing eyes surmounting the huge, upright shape. The eyes burned
like the glowing coals on which the creature was standing, oblivious of their
heat. And now the men felt the sheer malice of the will that drove the
creature. Fierce… devouring… evil beyond their experience. The gunfire
faltered and then halted as those eyes seemed to melt their power to resist. In
the presence of such a powerful will all other desires was subservient, like so
many candles burning futilely in broad daylight.

Another shift in the winds covered the creature with smoke and hid its eyes
from the men momentarily. As though released from a spell, they were
suddenly in motion. Most of them broke and ran. The Sheriff and Nathan
were the only ones who saw Charlie run forward towards the wood. Brown
himself was kneeling in prayer. The creature had almost cleared the brush at
the forest's edge and the Sheriff called out in warning. Only after it had
already been launched did he see the bottle with a flaming rag stuffed in its
neck. It broke against the creature's face covering it in flame. A howl of rage
shattered the air like the concussion of an artillery shell. Now Brown's other
sons were hurling their prepared projectiles and a wall of flame quickly built
up around the thing.

At first, to the dismay of the watchers, the flames seemed to slide down the
brown hide, running off it like water. But so much concentrated heat and
flame proved too much even for such a hell-spawned creature. First one step,
then another, it fell back into the forest. Someone ran forward, an insecticide
spray unit strapped on his back. From the mouth of its nozzle a strong spray
of gasoline followed the retreat of the monster, barring it from changing its
retreat. With a scream of hate-filled rage, it finally turned, as though it could
endure no more, and fled back into the deep wood where flames from the
other blazes rushed simultaneously in on it from all four sides.

From the men that remained no cries of triumph were shouted. Rather a sigh
of relief ran thru them. Suddenly Charlie shouted and pointed upwards.
“Look at the Christmas Pine," he cried. Deeper in the woods stood a giant of
a tree. Fully eighty feet tall it towered over the lesser pines and cottonwoods:
a forest patriarch on which Brown would mount electric lights at Christmas
time. The Star they placed at its top could be seen for miles around.

Now against a backdrop of clouds of smoke tinted a sickly yellow by the sun
and a dull, angry red by the flames, they could see a dark form climbing the
Christmas Pine. Higher and higher it rose until it didn't seem possible so huge
a creature could scale the tree and not have the pinnacle bend under what
should have been a massive weight.

Finally at the very top, the spire bent threatening to plunge the creature into
the sea of flames that came pouring towards the tree, like the waves of an in-
rushing tide.

Trapped and at bay with no escape, the beast turned towards the men that
stared, spell-bound, and it shook its mighty fists at them. Even at the great
distance they could feel the impact of its eyes pouring our hatred and rage.
Each man felt the malice as something directed at him alone, private and
undying… as though it promised it would pursue them beyond their graves.
They recoiled from that hatred, covering their eyes to hide from the evil they
felt freezing their souls.

So it was that none of them saw the Christmas Pine suddenly burst into
flames, fire lighting its full length like a giant candle. A final, howling,
scream of rage filled the air; keening even higher than the roar of the fire
itself, until, with the abruptness of a snapping bone, it was gone and only the
savage voice of the fire itself could be heard. At last, spending itself in its
own fury, devouring itself until nothing was left, the fire itself fell silent.
Only the vague whispering of falling skeletons of trees and the final crackling
of branches and tree trunks, popping like popcorn as the last moisture in them
turned to steam and burst them open, reminded the watchers of the
destruction they had witnessed.

It was months later, after the fierce Maine winter had come and gone, its
heavy snows melted away, before anyone ventured near the place where a
fragile, solitary spire marked the fiery end of the Xmas Pine.
Only a dozen feet or so remained of its former majesty and towering beauty.
Those first hardy explorers, boys finding their bravery through daring each
other to be brave, poked among the new green shoots just thrusting upwards
thru the snow-softened clay. It was they who discovered the Maine Monster,
as it was now called, had bled after all. Misshapen blobs of lead like clots of
dried blood lay at the foot of the tree, having dripped from above at the time
the creature had perished. They were the bullets the thing had carried in its
body. Almost two pounds of lead was mined from the ashes beneath the tree,
or peeled from its charred wood where it had run down like blood.

But no bones were ever found, nor any remains more tangible than the melted
bullets-unless it was the fervor and devotion with which the survivors of the
demon's destruction spoke their daily prayers.

Even the phlegmatic Harve settled down and to everyone but the Sheriff's
surprise. To Mary Sue's bitter disappointment, he married the preacher's
daughter and became a deacon in the church. All the posse members became
the pillars of their communities, renowned for their good works. And only
their wives knew how often they would wake, white-faced with fear in the
middle of the night crying out, "Don't let it get me. Oh my God! Sweet Jesus,
don't let it get me!"

.p
 PART II: Rebirth

Chapter 32

Harold Feldman sat up in a hospital bed in a private suite, smiling broadly.

Cindy sat on the bed alongside him holding one of his hands in both of hers.
She looked pale and wan and had dark circles under her eyes. Dr.Kalin sat in
a chair where he could simultaneously watch Feldman and his daughter on
the bed while a small, thin woman, with a pretty but intense face and long
blond hair was sitting near the door. She looked like an older version of
Cindy. She was casually dressed, but her clothes were expensive and had a
look of fashion magazines about them. Kalin thought she seemed nervous
and uncomfortable, an observation reinforced by her chain smoking. It was
she who had insisted on a private suite to avoid restrictions on smoking in the
hospital rooms. When you had a suite, you made the rules, costs were no
consideration for her, Kalin knew. She made an eight figure salary in her
advertising company on Wall Street.

Her daughter and her former husband seemed to have excluded her in the
way they sat together and held hands, but their eyes were on her and they
were watching her guardedly as she crushed her cigarettes viciously into a
small metal ashtray on a low table beside her.

"So the Sheriff actually considered me a suspect in the killing of Hope?"

Harold was chuckling at his friend. He seemed to be enjoying the idea that
someone had actually entertained the notion that he might have bodily torn
another human being to pieces.

"Well, whatever his actual ideas were," the psychiatrist continued, "they were
effectively negated when Flaherty was attacked and killed in the same way.
There was a big hunt last night in which they seemed to have burned down
half the forest beyond the lake, but I understand they eventually destroyed
whatever it was… some sort of bear, or ape. No-one seems to be too
definite." Dr. Kalin related this with some qualms of conscience as he
recalled his own diagnosis of his artist friend as a psychopathic murderer.

Feldman shook his head. "If the Sheriff had only understood Master Teshoo's
philosophy, or heard him speak of his love for all creatures bound on the
Wheel of Rebirth, he would have realized how absurd it was to have thought
one of his disciples might destroy life in any form. Why Master Teshoo won't
even let us brush aside an insect lest we harm it in some way."

Dr. Kalin watched the look of contempt curl up the lip of Feldman’s ex-wife.
He had to restrain himself from commenting on the dynamics at work in the
little grouping. After all, he wasn't their therapist and any attempt on his part
to play that role with them would not only almost certainly be rejected, but it
might even be harmful.

"I did explain to the Sheriff your philosophy, Harold," the psychiatrist said.
"His comment as I recall was 'That kind’a thinkin' would lead to uh wahld
with a lot of insects livin' good and a lot of folks livin' miserable'." He
mimicked the Sheriff’s Maine accent as best he could and Harold laughed.
"He also felt the criminal population would be happiest in a world where all
non-criminals practiced non-resistance to evil," Kalin added dryly.

Feldman became more animated in his speech, as he realized he had an

audience for his beloved guru's teachings. He snatched his hand free of
Cindy’s grip and gestured emphatically, waving both hands dramatically.

"That's the very point, Phil," he said excitedly. "Were a criminal to desire
anything of me, I would make him welcome to it. Therefore he wouldn't need
to be violent. Eventually he would see the foolishness of his attachment to
material things, and would turn from his path of crime."

"Unfortunately, Harold," the psychiatrist said pedantically, "many violent

people see violence as an end in itself. They don’t want anything from their
victim except that they be a victim. They need to release their aggression, and
in its release, they feel pleasure."

Bernice said sharply, "And there are other forms of violence worse than
tearing a person’s body to pieces, don't you think Phil? Like tearing their
psyche apart?" She clawed another cigarette out of the pack and lit it with a
match, wasting four matches before she got one to ignite.

There was an uncomfortable silence in which the smile disappeared from

Feldman's face. Cindy took her father’s hand again She seemed the most
uncomfortable with the silence, the psychiatrist thought, and it was she that
finally broke it.

"Actually, maybe the Sheriff got to talk with Master Teshoo anyway, if he
was going around questioning everybody," she said.

Feldman looked at her in surprise, and pulled his hand from hers in alarm.
"What on earth are you talking about, Cindy? Did the Sheriff call Master
Teshoo and speak to him about me?" Dr. Karlin thought he tone was
surprisingly sharp for what was an innocent question.

The girl seemed momentarily confused, as though she had said something she
ought not to have said. "No, no," she stammered. "I mean he may have met
him when he brought back me to our cottage. Or…" she hesitated, "maybe
Master Teshoo had already left by then?"

Dr. Kalin's brow furrowed as he watched the scene before him. It seemed as
though something important was happening but he wasn’t sure what. The girl
seemed confused, but Feldman looked like he was going into shock. The
blood was draining from[dh15] his face and he was looking at his daughter
with growing horror. He swallowed thickly as though his mouth was full of
ashes.
"Teshoo was never at our cottage," he croaked.

Cindy seemed more confused. Tears started spilling from her eyes. "Yes he
was, daddy," she insisted. "Don't you remember when I came into your
meditation room after I… after Jeff and I…?" She stopped speaking for a
moment, overcome with emotion. "I was so ashamed," she said in a whisper,
"when I saw he had been with you been listening to us."

Bernice leaped to her feet. "For Christ's sake, Harold, did you have to
humiliate your own daughter in front of that fake guru of yours? He must be
as sick as you are." She turned to her daughter. "C'mon, Cindy. Your father's
well enough to walk out of here on his own. Let's go. You're spending the
rest of the summer with me."

But Feldman ignored her. His eyes were frightened and staring, like a man
watching his doom steadily tramping towards him. "Oh, my God," he
whimpered. "It wasn’t a dream. It really happened. I created a Tulpa." He
burst into tears and cried out in anguish, "Master, forgive me. What have I
done?"

Dr. Kalin was on his feet in alarm. People were looking in the door, curious
to see what was happening and Dr. Kalin strode over and shut it.

"Now wait just a minute," he said sharply, turning back towards the bed
where Bernice was now standing, her arms around Cindy's shoulders.
Feldman had collapsed back down as though in shock.

"Let's get something straight here," Dr. Kalin continue. “Cindy, you say you
saw your father's guru the other night in your cottage?"

The girl nodded. "He was sitting in the chair next to the altar… smiling at
me," she added with a quaver in her voice.

"Really, Phil," her mother said, "is this necessary? Cindy’s been through
enough, I think, without you adding to her humiliation."
Dr. Kalin ignored her and looked at Feldman. The man was as white as the
sheet he lay against.

"And you say Teshoo was never in the house, Harold?" Dr.Kalin pressed.

"Tuesday nights," his friend said, weakly. "Tuesday is his night to give a
lecture for guests that come to him from the YMCA. That's where he would
have been. I know… I arranged the lecture series for him. Aside from that, he
hasn’t left his sanctum in all the years I know him. He would never have
come here."

The psychiatrist eyed him carefully. "You wouldn't happen to know the
number at the YMCA, would you, Harold?" he asked, finally. Feldman
gestured limply at the wallet that lay on the table next to his bed. Dr. Kalin
picked it up.

"My membership card," Feldman said, weakly. Dr, Kalin looked thru the
cards and drew out his friend's membership card. There was a telephone
number on it and he lifted the phone and spoke into it with the hospital
operator.

“This is ridiculous," Bernice announced. "Cindy and I are leaving you two to
play whatever games you want to together, but we've had enough."

"No, Mother," Cindy said angrily, pulling away from her. "I want to find out
what's going on. I know what I saw. I'm not crazy and I'm not afraid of what
Dr. Kalin will hear. I SAW HIM."

As Dr. Kalin waited he silently approved the girl's show of independence.

'Maybe something good will come out of this after all,' he thought to himself,
'if the daughter develops more strength of character than her parents have.'

“Ask for Rev. Hanley," Harold was whispering. "He's in charge of the lecture
series." The psychiatrist nodded. Feldman’s voice was trembling and his
body shaking. 'What the hell is going on?' Dr. Kalin wondered as he watched
him. 'He’s coming apart at the seams. It’s as if he’s having a full breakdown
in front of us!'
Within a few moments he had reached the Rev. Hanley. He decided to save
time by not making explanations. "Can you tell me, sir?" he said into the
mouth piece, if Master Teshoo will be speaking this coming Tuesday
evening?"

“Oh yes, indeed," a voice answered. "Promptly at eight at his residence so do

be on time. We like to keep our schedule you know."

Dr. Kalin continued immediately, not giving him a chance to hang up, "I
couldn't make it this past Tuesday evening but I heard Master Teshoo didn't
speak anyway so I guess I didn’t miss much."

"Oh, quite the contrary," Rev. Hanley interjected helpfully. "The Master
spoke quite beautifully on certain elements of Lamaism in early Christian
practices. He was quite illuminating over several obscure traditions which
have now been discontinued in our practice, but which I understand the
Coptic Christian Church in Egypt still adheres to."

Anxious to cut off the good Reverend before he began to detail the obscure
Christian practices in question Dr. Kalin asked, "Is there a large enough turn
out that I should come early to be sure of getting a seat."

"Well," said Rev. Hanley, "there was a near capacity crowd for this last
lecture. I had to bring folding chairs in a van just in case we needed more
than the several dozen permanent ones. Of course, there was a large
contingent of Romans who had come to hear how a Lama dealt with early
Christian material. They seem to regard that area as their own private
domain," he sniffed.

"Romans?" the psychiatrist said, distractedly, his mind examining the

implications of what he had just heard. "All the way from Italy?"

"Ah, ha, ha," Rev. Hanley chortled. "Yes… delightful… ‘all the way from
Italy’. Well, I shall be looking forward to seeing you Tuesday then.
Goodbye."
The psychiatrist replaced the phone, puzzled. He had not gotten the answer
he had expected. His glance settled on Cindy. ‘Had she been hallucinating?’
he wondered. ‘Had Hope gotten some sort of drugs into her? She seemed
anxious… true… but not overly so… and certainly not disoriented enough to
be seeing things.’

“Teshoo was in New York," he announced to the room. "Plenty of

witnesses." The girl looked bewildered and her tears started flowing again.

"But I saw him," she insisted. Harold started looking around wildly.

"I've got to get out of here and tell Master Teshoo what I've done," he
croaked hoarsely.

The psychiatrist tried to restrain him. "What have you done, Harold? Tell
me," he demanded. His friend looked at him with hollow guilt ridden eyes.

"A terrible sin," he moaned. "Terrible…"

Dr. Kalin stepped back in confusion. He was having trouble relating to his
friend's words and obvious anxiety.

"Just what is it you think you've done, Harold?" Dr. Kalin asked.

His friend threw off the sheet and struggled to his feet, looking around for his
clothing. "I must get to Master Teshoo and beg his forgiveness," he said.

His daughter and her mother moved away from him, afraid of the growing
extravagance of his passion. The psychiatrist was growing alarmed at the turn
events were taking and he rang the buzzer for the nurse.

Suddenly Harold stood still as though straining to hear a faraway voice. "Oh
my god," he gasped. "It's HIM. They’ve destroyed him with fire and he's
wants me to bring him back."

The nurse entered the room and looked about in alarm. Dr.Kalin hurried to
her and whispered urgently, "Get the floor Doctor at once. Tell him we'll
need 500 ccs of Thorazine, or Phenobarbital."

"He mustn’t get me," Harold wailed. "I won't help him anymore. Not
again…" and with his voice ending on a cracking shriek, Harold Feldman
suddenly froze in his position, like a child caught in the middle of a game of
'Simon Says'. His limbs were fixed and motionless as though the soul within
the body had fled, or else had curled up into a corner within his brain,
refusing to acknowledge the existence of its fleshy shell.

By the time the nurse had returned with the floor Doctor and a sedative,
Feldman was standing as though he was made of stone.

The resident looked at the psychiatrist. "Looks like a classic case of catatonia,
wouldn't you say, Dr. Kalin."

The psychiatrist moved some of the limbs of the figure before him.
Whatever position they were put into they stayed until he moved again them
again. Cindy was looking despairingly at her father, as her mother hugged the
girl to her breast.

Dr. Kalin looked over at them, and said seriously, "Harold’s going to have to
be hospitalized, Bernice… Cindy. He’s apparently had a psychotic break. I
would like the two of you to cooperate with me in getting him committed to
my care. I'll take him to my hospital in New Jersey and give him the best
treatment we're capable of." They both nodded mutely, almost in shock
themselves from the turn events had taken.

"That business he was raving about, Phil," Bernice said, “calling for that guru
of his. Do you think all of that oriental nonsense is what brought this on?"

Dr. Kalin shrugged. "I would like to say it was that simple, Bernice, but I
suspect his interest in the guru is itself a symptom of whatever is really at the
heart of this…" he gestured at his friend whom the nurse had lowered into a
chair. The artist's face was blank.

"It's as though no one's at home inside him," Cindy said in a whisper.

"C'mon Cindy," her mother said. "We can't do anything for him right now.
Dr. Kalin will take good care of him." She led the girl away. Dr. Kalin went
to her and spoke softly in her ear. "It might be a good idea to have Cindy see
someone, Bernice. She's been through too much herself these last few
months. I’m assuming Harold's illness didn't start in this room." The woman
nodded tensely. The psychiatrist had not wanted his advice to sound like an
accusation, but he could see from the rigidity of her shoulders that she was
taking it as such. 'Well,' he thought guiltily, 'I'm partly to blame, too. Mike
saw this coming in five minutes more clearly than I did in the last few
months. That comes from being too close to a situation.'

He turned back to the other Doctor. "Let's start the procedure for
commitment," he said wearily.
p.

Chapter 33

Terry sat slumped over the kitchen table, her head cradled in her arms. A
half dozen photographs of her and Jeff were scattered around the table top.
She was alone now. Her friends, Chickie and Robin, had finally ended
another day of consolation and commiseration.

It was they who had noticed, a month earlier, the small item in the newspaper
describing Jeff's death in a 'hunting accident'. Telling herself it had to be
another Jefferson Hope-her Jeff had never hunted anything but fresh quail-
Terry had made half a dozen phone calls until the Sheriff’s office had
identified her Jeff and described his death at the claws of a grizzly bear. He
informed her the county had buried the little that remained of Jefferson Hope.

"Not enough left for a regular burial service, ma’am, if you get my meaning,"
he had said. She had gotten his meaning and it had unleashed a fresh torrent
of tears.

"Tried to call you ma’am," the Sheriff said, "but your phone was unlisted.
Sent a letter to the P.O. Box we have listed as his address, but didn't get an
answer."

Her friends had helped her thru the intensity of her initial grief, but she
ultimately came to realize she had to face her future alone. Yet, in her mind,
the future did not extend beyond the necessity of a trip to Maine to make sure
Jeff’s grave was adequate. Yes, she owed his memory that much… to see to
it he had a decent stone over his head. As his common law wife, she had the
right to do that, surely.

There was a rustling sound in the corner where a pile of pizza boxes were
carelessly strewn. Roaches cavorted gaily among the refuse of the meals her
friends had provided and forced on her.

One large fellow, bolder than the rest, peered over the rim of a tub full of
bones left from a "Chicken Charlie's Choice Wings and Necks in Sweet and
Sour Sauce' special." Even the insolence with which he openly stared at her
did not rouse her to grab Miz Betsy from the table in front of her and hurl it
at the creature.

Finally, the roach disappeared into the recesses of the Chicken Charlie
Special's bucket, emerging a moment later with a large crumb clutched in its
mandibles. It pranced off, merrily twittering its antennae, certain the woman
sitting so quietly represented no threat to Roachdom, and convinced that
rumors of human hostility were greatly exaggerated. After all, hadn't this one
provided handsomely for their meals?

Terry felt a great void within herself, against which the words and support of
her friends were impotent. She had not realized fully the extent to which she
had rebuilt her life around Jeff. Leaving the streets, getting a job at the 'crazy
house', enrolling in night school, and trying to speak proper English, were all
steps she had taken so her life would align with his.

It had never mattered to her whether his book made money and they became
rich. She'd have been content to live modestly on her salary and savings and
let him continue to write to his heart’s content even if he never sold anything,
as long as they were together.

Now it was all over. What was the point of even going up there? He was
dead; her life was finished without him. All that was left was for her to stop
breathing and that was simple enough. She fingered the knife in front of her
and snapped open the bright blade. Miz Betsy would open her up nice and
easy, and her life would run out just a few weeks after it had ended. It was
just a matter of catching up, was all.

Even as her despair was hardening towards resolve, and her hand was closing
over the cold steel of the knife, there came a tentative knock at the door. Her
first thought was that Chickie, or Robin, had forgotten something and had
come back. Or maybe they had decided she shouldn't be left alone. As she
hesitated, her resolve to end her life wavered then flickered out. "Ain't no
hurry,” she sighed and slipped the knife into her pocket. Her movements
were lethargic as she moved to the door and threw it open.

"Terry Wilkins?"

Terry found herself frowning at a balding, middle aged man, nervously

turning his hat in his pudgy, sweaty hands. His face was round and red.
Droplets of sweat, glistening in the light of the hallway's solitary light-bulb,
rolled over the furrows and into the valleys of his wrinkled brow. They slid
down his cheeks, unraveling themselves into thin ribbons to festoon his jowly
throat. The dark hat band was itself encircled by a darker band of sweat
stains.

She decided at once he was no cop. He looked more like a salesman, but
whether he was selling himself, or some hustle, she wasn't buying. She
started to close the door, but evidently this salesman was used to having
doors slammed in his face.

Indeed, he prided himself on his quick reading of the 'slamming reflex', the
modern form of that primitive reflex preserved from our club swinging
ancestors- the 'roll a large stone in front of the cave entrance' reflex. He slid
his foot in front of the door the instant it began to shut.

Terry's frown became a scowl. The trauma of Jeff's death and her weeks of
anguish had left her as tense as a green hooker on her first night out. The
despair she was feeling had at its core an anger against Fate… Life…
whatever it was that had deprived her of her chance for happiness with Jeff.

That anger now welled up in her, and was translated into a fierce joy. This
fat white turd hassling her was a heaven sent opportunity to rid herself of her
pent up rage and she luxuriated for a moment in the wealth of choices open to
her to do him serious bodily injury.

Should she start by burying her shoe in his groin and then carve her initials
on his fat cheeks? Or should she scoop out his slightly bulging eyes with her
thumbnails before slicing his slimy tongue into pepperoni pizza topping?

Reading the murderous impulses playing across the woman’s face, the fat
man hastily uttered what he hoped were passwords of safe conduct into and
out of enemy territory.

"I was a friend of Jefferson's, Terry."

The woman lowered the foot she had slightly raised in preparation for the
kick that would have flattened his genitals into small, round pancakes.

The fat man continued quickly, "I'm Morris Tobias, Terry, and I've been
looking for you for weeks, but I didn't know your address. Jefferson may
have mentioned me as his literary agent. I'm the one who gave him $500 to
help him with his writing."

His voice quivered as he gave a half sob and slapped at imaginary tears with
the five little sausages of his right-hand, peering carefully between them to
see if his grief had properly registered on this ferocious creature. He had
taken in the raised foot and the oversized thumbnails and he could see the
violence seething just beneath her surface.

He knew he had been close to getting the beating of his life, or maybe even
the beating of his death. That thought made him shudder, which was just as
well, for Terry was only half convinced by his sob of grief- the shudder gave
it an actor’s verisimilitude.

In a sense he did feel genuine grief, prompted by the prospect of permanent

damage occurring to his precious flesh, and the apparent loss of his $500.

"He was a great genius," Tobias moaned unctuously and bowed his head in
sorrow. "He will be missed by all who recognize and honor those whom the
muse has touched with her golden caress."

Terry stepped back in awe, her mouth dropping open. Here was someone else
who could talk like Jeff. She had thought he was unique and didn't know
other people like him really existed. She swung the door open, invitingly, and
Tobias slithered past her into the apartment.

Terry shut the door and sat down, indicating another chair for him, but he
preferred to stand, and, turning his hat rapidly in his hands, he followed up on
his initial penetration of her defenses.

"Those of us who knew and respected Jefferson’s genius would like to honor
his memory with a monument to his talent. Namely, we would like to publish
a book of his poems and writings so the world can see for themselves what a
loss we have all suffered by his untimely death."

Terry was startled for a moment. Of course! Jeff's writings! All those
notebooks. How could she have forgotten? They were a link to him better
than the few photographs she had. He had read her those poems and stories.
Her grieving over his death had driven them from her mind, but now she felt
a desperate need to hold them in her hands, to read them, to recall his face
and his voice, as alive as when he read to her. The notebooks contained his
words and his inspirations. She had to have them!

"You do have Jefferson's notebooks, don't you, Terry?" Tobias asked

anxiously. His slimy tongue crawled into view a moment to moisten his thick
lips.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Tobias…"

"Call me, Morris, my dear. Jefferson would have wanted us to be friends.”

"Well, Morris, then… Jeff always took his books with him wherever he
went… in case he wanted to make changes to somethin' he already wrote,
you know?"

Tobias was clearly startled at this news and stared for a moment vacantly into
space, forgetting the woman.

"Then that cornball Sheriff was lying. I thought his eyes looked shifty," he
murmured.

"You been up there already?" she asked. "What kind'a tombstone did they
give my man?"

"Ah… yes, my dear. As soon as I heard of the tragedy, I rushed northward to

determine the veracity of the rumor. Unfortunately it proved to be true…
much to the sorrow of me and my associates."

He moved a droplet of sweat towards his eye so it would trickle down like a
tear-drop.

"As to tombstones, how could it be adequate? Jefferson deserves nothing less

than the world should know of the genius that has passed from us. I can
understand your sorrow for the man, but think of how much greater is the loss
of what the man accomplished. We simply must recover those notebooks, if
we are to build a monument to his memory. Perhaps you can find a way to
convince the Sheriff to turn those notebooks over to you… so Jefferson's
memory can live on."
The woman sniffed noisily. "I guess I can. Half them poems are about me,
anyways. If I don't have a right to them, I’d like to know who does," she said
passionately. "Ain't no reason for the Sheriff to keep ‘em. Lest… lest…"
Here her voice faltered.

"What is it?" Tobias asked, anxiously.

"Lest maybe the bear tore them up, or maybe ate them if they was covered
with his bl… blood." She tried to stifle her sobs.

"Bear?" Tobias asked, blankly. "What bear?"

"Why the bear that tore poor Jeff up to pieces. What bear do you think I'm
talking about?" she said, and her voice choked with tears.

Tobias gave a short laugh. "Is that what they told you? That’s very amusing."

It was a tactical mistake… the part about it being amusing. In an instant Terry
had leaped off the chair and onto his chest, bowling him over. She took his
necktie and choked him with it while the point of Miz Betsy dug into his
throat. Gasping for air, he lay on the floor, pinned by her body and long legs.
A trickle of blood leaked out from below the knife point and ran over his
dirty collar.

"Ain't nothin' ‘amusin' 'bout Jefferson Hope and how he died that I know of,
little, fat, white-man," she snarled. "But if you knows somethin' I should
know, you better spit it out whilst you still got lips to spit with."

"It was only a literary expression, dear girl. Nothing was meant personally, I
assure," he gasped. The tie was loosened a little and the point of the knife
retreated slightly.

"I am still waitin' to hear somethin' ‘amusin', little, bulgey-eyed, fat man."

"Ah," he said. "’Bulgey-eyed’! That's precious. Quite original, too." The

knife blade dug in again and his eyes bugged even more, commencing to roll
from right to left as though looking for a way out. There was none.

"Wait!" he squeaked. "That wild animal baloney was just a cover story they
put out… to cover up the fact that Jefferson was murdered." The knife
retreated again and the tie was released. "Murdered?? How…? Who…?" she
demanded.

“Somehow word got out about the… ah… researches Jeff was doing for his
book. Some guy… an irate father… went crazy and cut him all to pieces.
Then he knocked off another guy, too.

Terry sat back in shock, releasing him from her grasp.

"Who?” she demanded. "Who killed my Jeff?"

"Some nobody… an artist type."

Terry gasped. "Feldman??"

"Yeah that was it. He has a little blonde girl and Jeff got into her. The artist
type found out about it and snapped clean in two. They have him in a rubber
room somewhere in New Jersey."

"Where??" she shrieked at him, waving the knife in front of his face.

"Uh, I dunno," he squealed, his eyes rolling after the knife. “Some little town
in Jersey somewhere," the deputy said. "One of the cabin owners is a shrink
and has a big hospital, private-like. They put him in there."

Suddenly, Tobias slapped his forehead with the five sausages of his left hand.

"Jeez, that's why they're hiding the notebooks. They'll need them in case
there's a trial. They keep him in the looney bin a year or two; then cop a plea.
‘Mental duress’, ‘uncontrollable passion’, ‘temporary insanity’… that kind of
thing. Shit! Ain’t the law disgusting?"

Terry sat on the floor, stunned, as Tobias struggled to his feet. "What you
talkin' ‘bout, man?" she demanded when his words finally penetrated.

"The books! The friggin' notebooks!" he howled. "Once they’re used at a trial
as evidence, then the whole thing comes out into the open and that's the end
of it."

"You ain't making sense, my man, and that’s putting me back into a cutting
mood,” Terry snarled.

Irritably, Tobias explained, "There was a politician up there… real ambitious

and big time. Jeff was sockin'it into his wife and his daughter. An' there was
doctors and lawyers, too. Jeff was working his way thru all their womenfolk.
There was plenty of money to be made off those suckers by keeping those
notebooks out of print. Now it's too late. If everything’s gonna come out at a
trial, that’s the end of it. Who’s gonna pay to keep somethin' quiet, if
anybody can read about it in the morning papers?"

"All of the sudden you ain't talking so literary anymore, man. Terry said,
suspiciously. ‘Keeping them out of print', you said. You trying to say that you
wasn't never intendin' to publish Jeff’s book as a monument to him?"

Tobias edged towards the door, barking a short harsh laugh. "Only[dh16]
monument that nigger earned would have to be as tall as the Washington
monument and shaped like a cock!"

He shook his head in wonder. "Who'd believe a tough hooker like yourself
would fall for a pitch like I gave you. ‘Monument'! 'Genius'! Just goes to
prove anyone can be sold anything if the package is wrapped in the right kind
of wrapping paper."

Still sitting on the floor, Terry flipped the knife she held in the air, catching it
by its blade. Her arm shot back as Tobias ripped open the door. Ducking, he
plunged thru as the blade thunked into the wooden frame where his ear had
been a moment before. Terry followed his flight down the stairs with her
ears, but made no attempt to go after him as he scurried out of the building.
He was right, after all, she reflected, as she rose slowly to her feet, crossed
the room and began working the knife back and forth, carefully, to dig the
blade out of the wood.

They had been fools, she and Jeff… thinking… dreaming of the good life
they were gonna have after his book was published. Just two more blind
beggars, groping for the end of the rainbow; thinking they had found the gold
in the pot only to plunge their hands into boiling oil. Well, she had warned
him those white folks would tear him to pieces, and sounds like that’s just
what they did.

That's the way things were in this world, and this world was the only one
there was. Idly she drew the knife lightly across her wrist. Might as well get it
over with… let all the shit run out now and be done with it, she told herself.
The brown skin parted and a trickle of blood welled up around the blade's
edge and dripped onto the floor.

'No sense in bleedin' all over the floor', she thought. ‘Only bring every roach
in the buildin' out to crawl over me'. The thought made her shudder and she
moved quickly to the bathroom.

'Yeah', she told herself. 'Lie in the tub with the shower running and it'll wash
all the blood away. 'No mess that way.'

She turned on the shower and climbed into the tub. She took Miz Betsy and
prepared to make a deep cut in her wrist, when it seemed to her she heard a
harsh whisper of her name. Sharply, she looked up, but only her reflection in
the mirror was there, looking at herself with great, sad, sunken eyes… eyes
that had seen the world and knew it was bad.

"Stupid, ol' Nigger whore!" she told herself, and she wept in bitter despair.
Thru the window panes of her tears her image in the mirror wavered and
flowed, like a T.V. picture gone bad. Then she blinked and the picture
cleared, but it was no longer her face looking out at herself… it was
Feldman’s! He was all smiley and friendly… full of joy and sunshine… she
could almost hear his voice talking of Love and Brotherhood. A whisper
tugged at her mind… 'He killed your man but he's gonna' go right on shuckin'
and jivin' along with all that ‘Love and Brotherhood’ crap… smilin' and
smilin' away.

Once again the anger that lay at the roots of her despair bubbled up like blood
from a cut vein. Her lips compressed as she watched the image of Feldman
slowly fade into her own. Only now the face that looked back at her didn't
look defeated. It was taut with rage.

She freed her wrist from the knife's keen demand. A resolve was taking hold
of her. There was one more thing she had to do before she could let her life
run off down the drain. She had to make sure that smiley, little man ended in
as many pieces as he had cut her Jeff into.

She washed the blood from her wrist in the water of the shower, turned it off
and bandaged her torn flesh. As she left the bathroom, she glanced into the
mirror. She hardly recognized the reflection she saw there as herself. Hatred
pulsed like a physical force from it, filling her with a sense of power, firing
her will to a hardness of steel. She exalted in the demonic intensity of the
hate. Hate was power! Only hate was stronger than life… stronger than
death!

Yet, when she was leaving, had she glanced back, she would have been
startled to see her image still floating in the mirror. Then, slowly, it began to
change. The skin color lightened, became more yellow… the eyes began to
slant… the hair to whiten and thin in long, wispy strands… until finally the
wrinkled face of Master Teshoo looked out of the mirror. In every way it was
the Master's face; each wrinkle was in place and unguessable years of age
were revealed in its shrunken form.

But, if it was Master Teshoo, why was he suddenly laughing? And why did
eyes look so fierce… so wild… so evil?
.p
Chapter 34
"How do they call you, gal?" Miz Andrews asked her.

"Teresa," Terry answered. "But I prefer 'Terry'."

"Hummph", the old woman retorted. 'You ever work in a place like this
before," she asked, skeptically.

"I have two years’ experience," Terry told her, "but it was mostly clinical
work."

"Clinical! Ha! That's awful fancy talk for someone who's goin’ to be wipin'
shit out of dummies' ass-holes," the old woman guffawed. "You sure you're
in the right buildin', chile?"

Her tone was ironical, but behind its roughness, Terry could sense a
sympathetic person. She had the feeling she could like this rough old woman,
if she could forget her purpose. But friendships were life and her purpose was
death. They were mutually exclusive. Her reply was very carefully framed.

"Well, I'm hoping my assignment in the brain damage ward is only

temporary. Dr. Kalin promised me a transfer to the clinic as soon as an
opening becomes available."

"Hummph, you sure talk educated," the old woman said. Then, dropping her
voice to a whisper, added, "for a gal that’s worked on the streets."

Terry started in shock. "Ha!" the old woman chortled. "Don’t do no good
trying to fool o' Miz Andrews. I seen everythin' an’ I've heard everythin' ‘n
I've done most everythin' I’ve seen an’ heard. I'm older'n half the buidin's in
this place, an’ some ‘o them go back to b’fore the Revolutionary War."

Then she lowered her voice again, confidentially. "But if you’re tryin' to live
better, gal, you got nuttin' to worry about from Miz Andrews. On'y you gotta
change the way you walk. I was watchin' you come 'crost the yard 'n your
hips was twichin' more th'n you wants 'em to, if you tryin' to keep your past
buried."
Terry's face had revealed the extent of her consternation, and she retained
enough suspicion of people in general to be alarmed at the old woman's
accurate guesses. But a sudden uproar in the day room next to the office put
an end for the moment to any further discussion or thoughts on the subject.

Miz Andrews leaped up at the sound of the commotion with the spryness of a
much younger woman. Without pausing to investigate the source of the
ruckus, she stooped and grabbed a towel that had been soaking in a bucket of
water sitting near her desk and hurried out, grabbing Terry by the hand and
dragging her along.

"Best you come with me, gal, and meet yo’ new family.” The woman ran thru
folding doors and burst into a scene out of bedlam. All around a huge open
area, patients (inmates would be a better description) sat or crawled along the
floor. Attendants were busy handing out full trays from food carts to several
patients who seemed more alert than most of the others. These then hurried
among the more mentally challenged, distributing trays and in some cases,
starting to feed their less fortunate companions, which basically amounted to
stuffing as much food into their mouths as they could without asphyxiating
them.

A huge giant with a short, blond crew-cut and what seemed to be almost a
monkey's face, strode among the most severely retarded, hitting them and
ripping at their clothing. He stood almost six and a half feet tall, was muscled
like a weight-lifter. And now his simian face was contorted even more by a
maniacal rage. Miz Andrews stopped short of this monstrosity and snapped
the wet towel in the air. It sounded like a rifle shot. Everything instantly fell
silent. The giant stood there, head hanging, shifting his weight from foot to
foot, and muttering under his breath, unintelligibly.

"Elroy Hodges!" Miz Andrews shrieked. The giant flinched as though struck
in the face.

"Who tol' you to start bustin' up all these dummies?" she demanded. The
giant looked up, sullen, but with echoes of fright in his eyes.

"Somebody shit hisself, Miz Andrews an' I'm tryin' to find out which one it is
'cause I gotta clean him up. It's my job," he announced, proudly.

"I knows it be your job, you fool, 'cause I'm the one that give it to you. But I
never said nuttin' 'bout beatin' or bustin' em. So you lighten up, you hear."

The giant nodded mutely. Miz Andrews glanced quickly about, then pointed
an imperious finger.

"That Willum over there, he's the one for sure. I can smell him from here."

She had indicated a fat dwarf squatting in the corner and garbed in ill-fitting
khaki overalls without shirt or shoes.

Her eyes swept the room and alighted on a troll- like creature, trying to look
inconspicuous under a table. "An ‘Emmanuel, he's the other," she declared,
positively.

The giant hurried over to the dwarf, picked him up in one huge hand and
tucked him under his arm. The dwarf's head hung down, drool dripping from
his grinning lips. But as the giant approached Emmanuel, the troll creature
tried to run. A huge hand leaped out and cracked him across the head,
slamming him across the floor and into the wall.

Blood began pouring from his split head and his nose, as Miz Andrews
leaped foward, her towel slashing and snapping. The giant cringed before her.

"I didn't mean it, Miz Andrews," he bellowed at the top of his voice. "It was
a'cident. I'm sorry."

"I'll learn you 'bout a'cident, you fool," she shrieked. She whirled the towel at
his face and he began blubbering as though she were flaying the skin off of
him. The dwarf still tucked under his arm, gazed off vacantly into the
distance, chuckling and grinning at nothing in particular.

Terry thought she would be sick from the whole scene… partly from fear…
partly from horror. The little black woman hardly came up to the giant's
chest. He could have crushed her with one blow.
"He should'na run, Miz Andrews. He should'na," the giant blubbered. "It was
his fault."

"I'll teach you whose fault it was, you big fool, you," she shrieked at him.
"Now I gotta write up a report 'cause you split open Emmanuel's head. ’N
you know what Dr. Kalin's goin’ to do when he reads it?"

The giant began to whimper more loudly. "He gonna tell your parents not to
come visit you and take you ridin' in their big car, that’s what."

The giant burst into tears, and the dwarf, still drooling under his arm, burst
into tears, too. So did Emmanuel, still bleeding on the floor.

"Now, you take them two dummies upstairs and clean 'em up. Th'n bring 'em
to me so's I kin fix Emmanuel's head. Then you feed 'em, 'n afterwards, I’ll
see what I'm gonna do with you."

The giant snatched up the troll and lumbered toward a flight of stairs. As he
started to climb, he paused to turn back as though to say something else. The
wet towel flashed in the air and lashed like a whip. He turned and fled.

She ran to the foot of the stairs and called after him.

"An' don't you beat up on them no more, or I'll take away your clothes an' put
you on the porch naked, like I does with Blind Howard."

An affirmative bellow answered her from upstairs and she turned, grinning,
to Terry.

"That monster could grab me, one leg in either hand, and make wish with me,
just like something you'd pull off a turkey," she chortled, and waved the
towel in the air.

"But he's scared as sin of me an' this little towel. An’ that’s what keeps him in
line."
"Don't they keep him on tranquilizers?" Terry asked.

"Hummph," Miz Andrews commented, revealing her estimation of the

efficacy of tranquilizers. "He don't hardly take them half the time." She called
over to one of the white suited attendants.

"Daryl, go up and check under Elroy Hodges' pillow and mattress to see if
he's been hiding his medicine 'stead of taking it."

"OK. Miz Andrews," he answered and started away.

She called after him, "Even if you don't find anything, I wants whoever gives
him his medicine to stan' there an’ watch him take it from now on."

"OK. Miz Andrews, “he answered again, hurrying off.

The little woman turned to Terry and walked her back towards the office.
"That big boy's gettin' too aggressive. Won't do t’ have him start bustin' loose.
Ain't enough men in the whole hospital to restrain him, if he does."

When they were reseated in the office, Miz Andrews studied Terry closely.
"You was scared in there, gal. I could sense it. But you didn't show it. You
stayed cool, but it wasn’t the cool you get from working long years with the
dummies, like I has; an' it wasn't just the cool of the streets, neither."

Pausing, she leaned toward the younger woman. "It was the cool of 'I don't
care what happens to me'.

Terry sat silent under the old woman's scrutiny. "You got some powerful
hurtin' an' hatin' goin' on inside of you, chile, 'n don't bother sayin' 'yes' or 'no'
'cause it don’t signify; I knows what I sees."

She smiled a kindly smile and Terry felt for a moment she could love this old
bundle of ragged, wrinkled skin and bones; but she checked the impulse
almost as it was born. Her hate was too important to her.

"I'm not pryin', chile. I just wants to give you some advice. If you is workin'
with the dummies, or with the crazies, you got’s to be alert all the time. I seen
plenty 'o times when one of them goes berserkin', sudden-like, and before you
knows it, he's atop another patient, bitin' 'n chokin'. Or maybe it's you he's
bitin' 'n chokin'. You got’s to be lookin' sharp every moment."

Terry sat silently. "Hummph," the old woman commented. "You is dug so
deep down inside yourse'f with yo’ hurtin' 'n yo’ hatin', that maybe you ain't
got room for no one else. But look'a here, gal, you be workin’ the floor, then
maybe my life, or another worker's 'long with your own, is in your hands.
You nurse your private grievance if you want, but not while you’re workin'
the ward. 'Cause if you're a second late spottin' trouble, then maybe me or
someone else is gonna get kilt. 'N old as I is, I doesn't want to die with Elroy
Hodges chawin' at my throat, or yankin' off my arms."

'Do you really think he's strong enough to do that?" Terry asked, reflectively.

"Gal, I seen him pick up a car and throw it over on its roof ‘cause the ice-
cream fell off his cone and got so dirty even his stupid self wouldn't eat it.
An' that’s not half as angry as he can get if he's not takin' his medicine."

She hesitated a moment, looking keenly at the younger woman.

"Lookahere, Terry, “she said, sharply. "Sometimes it happens a young hot

gal, like I thinks you is, takes a look at Elroy Hodges and gets to wondering
what a giant like would look like in his altogether, and then gets to thinking
she could be ridin' on top of the world if she could be ridin' on somethin' that
big. But, Gal, let me tell you somethin'. That giant there ain't nothin' but a big
over-sized baby. An', like a baby, he don't know what he's doin' half the time.
He might take it in his head one day to bash your head open just to see if it's
full of sawdust like the baby-doll someone gave him once."

"Don't worry, Miz Andrews,” Terry reassured her. "I don't have that kind of
curiosity."

"Best you don't have, gal. You kin be good to these dummies and they'll be
good to you. You can even love them for what they are… like a dog or a cat.
Most ain't got more sense than a dog or a cat anyways. You can give and get
uh'fection from them just like they wuz your pets. But don't forget-like any
other pet, they can turn real nasty real quick… then you better watch out."

"You won't have to tell me twice, Miz Andrews,” Terry assured her.

"Hummph,” the old woman said. “It’s plain as day you got some ideas of
your own and places in your mind you won't let anyone look into. Well,
what’s to be will be,” she sighed.

"Anyway, you don't start official til tomorrow, chile, so you can go and walk
around the grounds, if you want, and I’ll see you here tomorrow morning."

"No, I think I'll take a drive into town and see what small-town living is
like… probably a drag,” Terry said, boredom in her voice.

"You want to sharpen up your act, gal," the old woman said shrewdly. "You
forgot you wrote in your application ('n prob’ly tol' Dr. Kalin, too) you
wanted to get away from the big city… 'Tired of trash lyin' in the streets and
walkin' in the streets' was the way you put it. You gonna stay around long,
you best remember that you was happy to get to a small town… not that this
one is a drag, as you'll fin' out soon enough."

Terry was flustered for a moment, but then realized that the old woman hadn't
threatened her, but for some reason had warned her; she was grateful,
although still suspicious of Miz Andrews' motives.

"O.K. Mamma", she answered, lightly. "I'll watch what I say and who I say it
to. Seem's like sound advice.” Then she stood up and left quickly.

The old woman sat looking at the empty chair for a while after Terry left.
"Hummph,” she said half-aloud. "My advice may be sound, but my head can't
be;’ cause if it were, I’d get up out of this chair and go right over to Dr. Kalin
and have a talk with him 'bout that gal."

She hesitated a moment. "But somehow I got the feelin' she's gonna be
trouble whether she's workin' here or not. Mayhap, it be best to keep her here
where I can watch her."
A commotion erupted from the adjacent room and she leaped out of her
chair. Ripping the wet towel out of the bucket of water by her desk, she
darted through the door, whirling and snapping the towel as she ran.
p.
 Chapter 35

Terry drove slowly over the winding country roads. She considered her
progress to date, as well as the problems she still had to overcome. True, she
had gotten a position in the hospital, but she was no closer to Feldman than
when she had been in New York. If he were in a closed ward security could
be very high. Yet, such security was designed to keep the patients inside, not
to prevent someone from outside joining them; so gaining entrance might not
prove to be too difficult.

Still, it would be better if she could get assigned to the private security wing.
She wondered if there really would be an opening there soon, or if there were
just stringing her along because they needed some fool to mop up shit in the
dummy ward. Well, she had done grunt work a good part of her life, all she
needed was the patience to wait for her opportunity, however long it might
take.

She began to think about how to kill the artist once she succeeded in getting
close to him. While it was true, as the old lady had uncannily perceived she
no longer cared about what happened to her, still, she didn’t want to spend
the rest of her days in a prison cell.

Her thoughts strayed to the giant, Elroy Hodges, and she had a sudden vision
of him tearing the limbs off Feldman… plucking them off one by one and
tossing them away like a lover casting 'she-loves-me-not' petals into the air.

The idea excited her so much, she cried out in fierce joy, stamping the
accelerator in her exuberance. The small car leaped forward and she had to
whip the wheel hard to keep from overshooting a sharp curve in the road.
For one wild moment, she headed sideways, uncontrollably, towards a line of
trees, but, as though a guardian angel lent her strength, Terry straightened the
car out of its sideways spin and slammed on the brakes. The wheels grabbed
hold with the tires screaming in protest and came to a careening halt at the
side of the road, half off the shoulder.

She was not frightened by the near accident, and if her heart was beating
faster, it was not because of her narrow escape. It was because the image was
so bright and clear in her imagination of the death waiting for Feldman, torn
limb from limb, just as Jeff had been. She began laughing in a high, keening
cackle. It was not a pleasant sound.

After several minutes, she calmed down and resumed her drive and her
planning. She decided she would have to cultivate the giant, not in itself
difficult, she felt. The problem would be to bind him to her in a way that
would not excite the suspicions of Miz Andrews. The old woman was sharp
eyed and looked deep into people. Perhaps it would be better if she thought
Terry's interest in the giant were strictly a search for new sexual kicks.

For that matter, she considered, sex was the best was to control the giant, so
she could deflect Miz Andrews’s suspicions and win over the patient at the
same time, and in the same way. A few sexual favors and he would be ready
to follow her anywhere and do whatever she requested of him. When the time
came, she would cut off his medication… give him placebos, which would let
his natural aggression build up to the proper level for what she had in mind
for the little artist.

Again she began chuckling to herself. All those clever white folks! They
could kill her Jeff… cut him all to pieces and blame it on some wild bear…
then hide the killer away for a few years in a 'country club' hospital.

Well, Jeff had written a poem once about the angel guarding the entrance to
the Garden of Eden having to be black, cause only black folk are capable of
understanding and dispensing 'Devine Vengeance'. She would be his
'avenging angel’; she would show the murderers what real slaughter looked
like.
Her wild laughter drowned out the sound of the motor as she sped away. So
enraptured was she by her vision of murder, she did not notice the sound of
merriment hanging in the air for a moment after she had ceased laughing.

Did it not sound somewhat like the voice of kindly Master Teshoo? Then
why was there in that sound such a strong flavor of evil?
.p

Chapter 36

Terry worked several weeks at the building for the brain-damaged and
retarded patients; conscious all the while of several pairs of eyes on her
almost all the time she labored among the residents there.

Aside from the men of the staff who tried to get friendly with her, she was
acutely aware of the eyes of the giant, Elroy Hodges, greedily watching her
every move, his lust for her like a rain cloud threatening to burst at any
moment. But equally watchful were the sharp beady eyes of Miz Andrews.
Terry was careful to ignore the giant, giving him no encouragement, but also
giving Miz Andrews no reason for suspicion. Terry had tremendous respect
for the old woman’s perceptiveness and wanted to run no chances of her
catching on to Terry's plans.

Still, the more she ignored Elroy Hodges, the more the giant seemed to dog
her footsteps the hours she worked in the building. He was like an eager dog,
trailing after her, anxious for the slightest chance to do the most menial
chore. If she needed a wet towel to wash a dirty patient, Elroy Hodges ran to
fetch it.

Miz Andrews watched all this with a skeptical eye, but Terry lost no
opportunity to ask when the transfer would come through to the clinical ward.
She seemed so eager to be out of the retardation unit, that even Miz Andrews
was fooled by her apparent lack of interest in Elroy Hodges.

"I guess we'd better get you out'a here, “the old woman told her one day.”
That fool of a dummy, Elroy Hodges, is got the notion that you're his one 'n,
only. He's gonna end up knocking your head in one day jest to show you how
much he loves you."

"Now, Miz Andrews,” Terry protested,” you know I've never given him any
encouragement. I even try to ignore him as much as I can."

"I knows that chile, an' I ain't faultin’ you, none. But… maybe you don't
know it… that fools been takin' to standin' outside your apartment buildin'
lookin' up at your window like some moon-struck calf, hopin' in his dummy
heart just to catch sight o' you."

"Really!” Terry said, shocked… but well aware that whenever Elroy Hodges
was allowed out of the unit to buy candy at the hospital store with the money
his parents left for him, he made a bee-line for her building and stood gazing
up at her room.

One of the other attendants had taken to ribbing Terry about the attention she
was getting from the big, slow-minded youth and Terry had told her coldly,”
I would hate for Elroy Hodges to hear that some certain person had been
poking fun at him, and laughing behind his back at him… and a worker at the
hospital, no less… who should know better. I'd hate to think what he might
do if he were to learn that person's name… "

The woman had gone white as a sheet and her lips had trembled as she said
hoarsely,” You gotta be kiddin', Terry. Tellin' that retard a story like that
would be like signing my death warrant. He goes crazy if he thinks you're
laughin' at him."

Terry smiled sweetly. "Perhaps it would be better if there were no stories that
might come to his attention. That way we could all sleep a lot sounder."

After that Terry was given a wide berth by the other workers, but that was the
way she wanted it. The less attention focused on her, the better the chances
she had to execute her plans.

She had the feeling that time was running out. There was no telling when
Feldman would drop his act and Dr.Kalin would pronounce him cured.
Although she could still kill him, even were he to leave the hospital, she
would have no chance to do it the way she had decided upon.

She was determined to have Feldman ripped apart from limb to limb by the
giant. He had to know the same terror and agony that her Jeff had known…
nothing less would quench her searing thirst for vengeance. After that,
nothing mattered. Prison… even execution… were incidentals, if only she
could preside over the little, smiley man's death. She’d see how much he was
able to laugh when his arms and legs were being torn off!

Occasionally, she would see Feldman, being led about on the hospital
grounds by attendants. If they let go of his arm for a moment, he stopped
walking. He was still playing the role of the catatonic so carefully, Terry
began to doubt her fears he would be discharged before she could transfer to
the clinical ward where she could get at him.

Then she overheard two psychiatrists at lunch discussing a patient who had
suddenly recovered.

"It's the episodes that had the sudden on-set which we invariably find
reversing themselves just as suddenly," the doctor had said, and his colleague
had agreed.

Terry's heart had grown cold with fear. She could see Feldman smiling as he
walked out the door, a free man… not that he had much to fear. That Sheriff
wasn't investigating any murder and he certainly wasn't looking for Feldman.

But… perhaps the artist didn't know that… or perhaps his lawyer advised him
to go through the charade just on the chance, at some future date, someone
might reopen an investigation into Jeff's death and come up with Feldman’s
name. This could be a precautionary maneuver… just in case.

If Terry could only get transferred….

Finally, the day came when she arrived at the retarded ward to find Miz
Andrews waving a pink form at her.

"It came through today, Terry. Startin' tomorrow, you’re over at Clinical. Jest
one favor I got to ask of you… "

Terry waited patiently, hiding her exaltation, but also suddenly suspicious.
Had the old busy-body somehow found out about the duplicate key she had
made for their unit's front door? But Terry had taken the precaution of driving
out of state on an off-day to have the duplicate made, so they'd be no report to
the hospital.

"This Saturday’s the annual picnic," Miz Andrews was saying, “an' we're
going to be hard put to deal with all these dummies outside on the grounds.
Keepin' them from fallin' into the lake and drownin', or into the barbeque pit
and roastin's, gonna take a lot of help.

“So I was wonderin'… seein's how you're off Saturdays anyway, if you'd step
over and give us a hand with the dummies? Can't give you no over-time, but
I'll make sure your name gets put on the prayer list at the Abyssinian Church
where I goes."

Terry laughed, partly in relief, partly at the notion of old biddies praying for
her while she only wanted to commit a murder and then die herself.

"Sure, I'll help out, Miz Andrews. And you make sure the ladies at the church
say Teresa. HE might not know who Terry is."

"You kin mock all you want, chile," the old woman declared, solemnly. "But
there ain't no power like the power of prayer."

But Terry wasn't listening. Her mind was already over at Clinical, deciding
which how best to spirit Feldman out of the ward to where they could be
alone.
.p
 Chapter 37

Terry's first day on the Clinical ward was spent being introduced to the
patients and reading short summaries of their case histories. She steeled
herself for the moment when they would lead her to Feldman's bedroom and
introduce them, but they walked past it. She saw the little artist thru the open
door, sitting in a chair being spoon fed by one of the attendants.

Seeing her glance into the doorway, her guide told her, "No point in
introducing you to that one, Terry. He's totally catatonic… doesn't move
without someone telling him to put one foot in front of the other… won't
even chew food, so they feed him baby food and he just swallows it when
there’s enough in his mouth to trigger an automatic swallowing reflex."

"Gee," Terry said, innocently, playing her part. “I'd like to see the case
history of that patient… he sounds interesting and unusual."

Her guide frowned. "Actually, I don't think we've seen the work-up of this
patient yet. Dr. Kalin has been handling him on a private basis. Rumor is
they're friends and Dr. Kalin wants to make sure he gets individualized
treatment from just one or two people. So the rest of us kind of ignore Mr.
Feldman. He has a private nurse, except at night, when he’s asleep… if he
really ever sleeps."

He lowered his voice confidentially. "Whenever we do bed checks at night,

and we open his door, he's always sitting there in his chair, eyes open. Never
says 'boo', but if he sleeps, I’ve never seen it."

Terry smiled inwardly. 'They got it set up sooooo nice,’ she thought, 'but here
I come to upset the apple cart.'

She cast one last longing look at Feldman. "Soon", she promised in a
whisper, then hurried after her guide to view the next patient.

The next several days passed with no further contact with Feldman. Of
course, Terry could have simply walked into his room and stuck her blade in
his heart, but that was not the scenario she had planned. Simple murder was
not her goal. She wanted to be sure Feldman experienced all the anguish,
pain, and terror that Jeff had endured.

The day of the picnic came and Terry's plans had ripened to maturity. Each
day she had taken files to her room, read them in the evening, and returned
them at night, after the patients were asleep and the night nurse had made her
twelve o’clock check of the ward.

Terry had smoked a cigarette with the night attendant, joked a bit, and taken
more files to read.

"You sure love them case histories, honey," Cheri, the night attendant
remarked. "Me, I leave thru that door, I don’t remember nothin' 'bout these
poor folks here till I get back the next night… an' I don't wanna remember
nothin' neither. Bad enough I gotta sit here wide awake all night, smellin'
their 'oozers' an' prayin' the daylight comes 'fore they done gassed me to
death."

Terry laughed… not just to feign sympathy, but because she knew Cheri was
only waiting for Terry to leave before she would fall soundly asleep and not
wake until the sound of a key being inserted into the outer door would waken
her. As for smelling the patients all night, well… the other attendants had
warned her not to sit down wind from Cheri. She was probably gassing
herself for that matter.

"Bein' new," Terry explained," I gotta catch up on who the patients are an'
what their problems are."

"Whu' for?" Cheri chuckled. "You gonna unscramble their brains and
straighten them out?"

Terry laughed. "The day workers have a lot more contact with the patients
than you night people do, so we have to be more aware of what make them
go 'tock' when they should go 'tick'."

Cheri shrugged her shoulders, hoping Terry would take the files and leave.
She was so sleepy she could hardly keep her eyes open. Working all day at
one job, snatching a few hours’ sleep, then hurrying to this one was leaving
her with her eyes permanently crossed from fatigue. Even so, she was barely
making ends meet. When would Joshua find another job so they could get
married proper? Or was he only stringing her along like her mother warned
her. Cheri breathed a prayer of thanksgiving when the tall girl's key turned in
the lock as she let herself out. Settling herself in her chair, she promptly fell
asleep. She had a built in sixth sense that would automatically awaken her at
five minutes before every hour so she could call into central nursing for the
building check. Then she would murmur into the phone, “Everythin' quiet,”
and slip immediately back into peaceful sleep.

Terry, listening outside the entrance door heard Cheri’s snoring begin almost
as soon her key had turned in the lock, and smiled grimly to herself. She had
worked one night shift with the other attendant and knew she slept the night
away, although how she always woke up to make the phone check was
impressive. But, no matter… her trap now was set and baited. Tomorrow
night it would be sprung.
.p
 Chapter 38

The Saturday of the big hospital picnic was clear and hot, just the kind of day
the attendants loved. No worry about rain spoiling things for the patients,
thus making them irritable, but not hot enough to cut down on the amount of
activity the patients could engage in, making everyone’s job a lot easier.

At the picnic Terry worked with the patients in the retarded unit, conscious
that Elroy Hodges eyes never left her. Neither, for that matter did Miz
Andrews'. As usual she ignored him, but she was always aware of where he
was, and where the little old lady was who kept such iron control of her staff
and charges.

Terry worked close to the grove of trees ringing the hospital grounds.

When the moment came, as it seemed inevitable whenever the patients were
out of the confines of their building, that someone fell and managed to crack
their heads against a rock, which may have been waiting there a thousand
years for that purpose, several attendants including Miz Andrews rushed to
the stricken patient.

"Leave it to Willum to find the only damn rock in the whole field to bang his
fool head on," the old lady crooned to her patient, her hands already busy
wiping away blood with a wet towel (she was never without one of those) to
assess the damage.

"Hummph," she announced. "You done busted that rock to pieces with your
hard head, Willum. Now I got to patch it up again before Dr, Kalin wants to
know who busted this rock all up.”

The other attendants chuckled, admiring the deftness of her old fingers as
they made a butterfly bandage and closed the scalp wound. In a few minutes
things were back to what passed for normal in that place and Miz Andrews
made a routine sweep of the area to make sure none of her charges had
wandered off during the excitement. It took her only a few seconds to realize
that the huge Elroy Hodges was gone. And so was Theresa,’ call me "Terry"
', Wilkins.

"That fool done dragged off that gal into the woods," was her first
assessment, and she prepared to raise an alarm. But a moment later, her
shrewd mind realized Terry would have cried out if something like that had
occurred.

"What has that fool girl gone and done?" the old woman muttered to herself.
She hurried to where Terry had been working, looked about as though
sniffing the air, then silently plunged into the dense woods and disappeared.

At the moment everyone had rushed to the stricken William, Terry had stood
up and looked at Elroy Hodges and smiled. Then, abruptly turning, she had
stepped into the trees and disappeared. The giant had hesitated only a few
seconds, till he realized she wasn't coming out again, then he lumbered in
after her. Within moments, he was swallowed by the shadows under the trees.

Terry slowed her walk so the big, brain damaged resident would have no
trouble spotting her. Her white uniform flashed like a bright light in the
darkness of the woods when patches of sunlight danced over it.

Terry knew exactly where she was going, for she had scouted the area before
until she had found just the place for a secluded interview with Mr. Hodges…
a small thicket a little off the path.

High bushes were clustered around a small open area at their center, just big
enough for a couple of people to stand in, or a couple to stretch out in.
Several used condoms hung in the bushes where they had been carelessly
flung. From their age Terry realized the existence of this hidey hole had
either passed from the memory of the current workers at the hospital, or the
swain whose retreat it was, wasn’t having any luck getting any recently.

Whichever, Terry slipped quietly into the bushes and waited as Elroy Hodges
stumbled along. She waited till he was abreast of her. The idea that he had
lost her was only now flickering to life within his dull brain, when she hissed
at him, almost at his elbow,
"Elroy Hodges, what're you doing here?"

The giant was not smart enough even to be surprised at her sudden
reappearance, Terry noted… but that was alright. She didn’t need him to be
smart, just strong.

He swayed from side to side on his big feet, like ruminating elephant. He
hung his head, abashed.

"I ain't doin' nuthin'."

"Don't lie to me," Terry pressed him. "You were followin' me, weren't you?"
The big man remained silent, staring at his shoes.

"That's all right, Elroy Hodges," Terry said in a low voice. "I wanted to talk
to you anyway. You can help me. Come in here a minute."

She took him by his arm, her fingers barely able to get a good grip on the
huge muscles, and drew him into the arbor. He followed dumbly where she
led.

"There's a man that's botherin' me," Terry told him when they were out of
sight of the path. "He keeps tryin' to make me be nice to him,"

She paused while the import of her words slowly penetrate his skull. An
angry scowl spread over his simian features and the muscles of his jaw
tightened till it looked like he was hoarding walnuts in his cheeks. His big
hands balled up into fists.

"Where is he, Miss Walker. I'll bust him for you," he bawled out.

"Hush up, Elroy Hodges," she warned. "Miz Andrews can hear a fly crap in
her sleep. She'll come runnin' straight here, you keep hollerin'."

Terry fumbled a key out of her pocket. It had a yellow tab on it. "You take
this and hide it, Elroy Hodges," she ordered. "When I tell you to come, you
wait until everyone’s asleep, and unlock the door and let yourself out. After
you’re out, you lock the door again."

"Why?" he asked.

She thought of trying to explain that if someone saw the door open, they
would realize something was wrong and would check patients, but decided
he'd only forget the explanation anyway.

"Just do what I tell you, Elroy Hodges," she insisted, and he nodded, mutely.
"When you're outside and you've locked the door behind you, you walk
where it’s dark so no one can see you and you come to the gymnasium. He
told me I gotta meet him there, or else he'll hurt me… bad."

She made him repeat her instructions, word for word until he remembered
them. She wasn't sure he would remember for very long. ‘No matter’, she
thought. If he doesn't show up she’ll carve Feldman up herself. But he'll
remember she assured herself… and to make sure… Terry stepped close to
the big man.

"You help me against this bad man, Elroy Hodges and I'll be nice to you."

She reached out a hand and found the large mass at the base of his loins,
squeezed several times, and rolled it in a circular motion. The retard's face
tightened and he reached out for her, but she lightly danced away.

"Not now," she teased him. "First you gotta help me fix this bad man so he'll
leave me alone, then I'll be nice to you."

The front of his institutional uniform bulged, and for a moment Terry was
tempted to see what one that big looked like. She felt a hotness fire up her
own loins, but, steeling herself, she realized she could control the monster
more easily by arousing him only, and not by releasing his tensions
immediately.

Partly to resist the temptation to strip away his trousers and 'ride on top of the
world' as Miz Andrews had put it, she darted to the edge of the arbor.
"You remember what I said, Elroy Hodges, and you come when I tell you,"
she urged him, then turning she left quickly.

A triumphant grin on her face, Terry was too preoccupied with her thoughts
of revenge to see the slight figure hiding behind a tree alongside the path.

Miz Andrews had spotted Terry coming in time to get out of sight of the
hurrying attendant, and now, she walked on up the path Terry had just quit,
her curiosity aroused even more than her suspicions.

She was passing by the grotto hidden in the bushes when she heard a grunting
sound. It reminded her of her childhood on a farm in the south, hearing wild
hogs grunting as they rooted in the ground for yams.

She found the place where the bushes parted and cautiously looked in. Elroy
Hodges had his huge penis in hand and was rapidly approaching a climatic
conclusion to his violent onanistic activity. With a bellow like a bawling bull,
he sprayed his seed onto the bushes that formed the grotto and then collapsed
exhausted and panting, to the ground.

Miz Andrews watched him for a moment, then, sniffing, she frowned
slightly, as though something in the air offended her sensibilities.
Cautiously, she retreated back down the path and returned to her groups of
patients.

Terry was there playing games with some of the more alert residents. Miz
Andrews watched her for a while and then shook her head. "What has that
fool woman been up to?" she wondered, "gettin' that big dummy all roused
up like that, she’ll end up gettin' herself kilt."

When Elroy Hodges returned, sullenly, to the picnic, Terry ignored him
completely, although, Miz Andrews noted, the big retard followed her
everywhere with his eyes. When one of the other male attendants once
stopped and said a few words to Terry, Miz Andrews noted how the giant's
hands slowly closed into fists and he began lumbering toward the couple,
"Elroy Hodges!" the old woman screeched. "Get over here and help me get
these dummies back to the buildin'."

The big man hesitated, cast one more glance towards Terry, and saw the
attendant had now moved away from her. Only then did he turn and trudge
reluctantly over to the wizened old woman.

"An' mind you don't bust none of them, walkin' them back,” she shrieked at
him, as he set off with a half a dozen of his fellow patients.

When he was well on his way, she breathed a sigh of relief and again shook
her head sadly. She would have to think all this over and consider what was
best to be done. Now she was more certain than ever that Terry was up to
something at the hospital… but what?

Well, whatever it was she was playing with lives when she fooled with that
Elroy Hodges… hers and others, too. She would have to go, but should Miz
Andrews speak to the director, or deal with her personally? That was the
question.

And… what was that faint odor of decay she had noticed when she had spied
on Elroy Hodges in the grotto? It had smelled like a little piece of death…
probably just a dead cat, she decided… no business of hers.

Chapter 39

Dr Kalin was reaching for his phone, when there was a tap at his door. In
answer to his called out, "Come in!” he was delighted to see the Reverend
Kenneth Pennington standing in the opened doorway. Not only was he a
Professor of Religion and Personality at the Wesleyan Seminary in nearby
Hinton, but he was and had been for thirty years, the hospital’s chaplain.

He waved the chaplain to the over-stuffed chair by his desk. They had been
friends from the start of their association together, which was the three
decades they both had been in their respective positions.
Pennington was tall and lean with the wiry look of an athlete. A mass of
silver hair framed his head like the halo of a saint, although, as he sometime
joked, a lesser saint… one of the silver, not the golden variety.

He limped noticeably as he moved toward the chair. An auto accident years

earlier had cost him his right leg, but his acceptance of its loss was typical of
his calmly humorous outlook on life.

His comment as they fitted him for his prosthetic was, "Now I can empathize
with both men in the old Persian saying, ‘I wept because I had no shoes till I
met a man who had no feet'. If I ever needed any more proof that the Lord
wanted me to be a counselor to the shoeless and footless, this is it."

He was ten years older than Dr. Kalin… in his early sixties, and the
psychiatrist envied him his full head of hair, white as it was. Dr. Kalin had
started losing his when he was still in his twenties. The Chaplain had a
surprisingly soft voice for a man as big as he was. His hands completely
covered Kalin's when they shook hands. But he had learned early on people
were intimidated by his size and he had gentled his voice to reassure new
contacts of his peaceful intentions.

"I'm surprised you're here today at all, Ken," Dr. Kalin remarked. "Saturday's
usually your golf day isn't it?"

"What kind of a hospital director are you?" the Chaplain teased, "to forget the
big hospital picnic that comes once a year."

Dr. Kalin groaned. "So, that's where everyone is. I've been so caught up
Feldman's case, everything else slipped my mind."

The Chaplain raised an eyebrow. "That's the fellow in N8… your friend I
believe… have there been any new developments? As I recall his catatonic
state was pretty well unresponsive to treatment."

The psychiatrist shook a cigarette out of his pack, then remembering the
Chaplain's aversion to smoking, let it lie, unlit, on his desk. "As a matter of
fact I was reaching for the phone to call you when you knocked. I felt the
need of an older, though no wiser head… particularly one with your specialty
in religions.

The Chaplain waved a self-deprecating hand. "Before you praise my

knowledge and then prove my ignorance by asking a question I can't answer,
how about you tell me what this is all about?"

The psychiatrist looked at him fixedly. "Ken, what do you know about the
eastern religions?" he asked.

"You mean, yogis, Zen Masters, Lamas and the like?" the Chaplain asked.

"I've just been reading something in Feldman’s guru’s religious system," he

said, gesturing towards a book that lay open on his desk. The chaplain leaned
over and picked it up. "Tibetan Lamaism" he read, aloud.

"Yeah!" Kalin grunted, sourly. "What you're looking at there, Chaplain

Pennington, is, basically, one of the largest collections of fantasy material
I've ever read. It rivals anything I ever got from the most severely disturbed
psychotic. I think it goes a long way in explaining Feldman’s catatonic
episode."

The Chaplin frowned slightly. "I'm not too sure of that," he said, cautiously.
"I mean… if you look past the externals such as orange robes and sleeping on
nails, and the like, you’ll see there's a completely different orientation
between eastern and western religions. The eastern religions glorify
subjective religious experience in a way that is totally alien to any normally
functioning westerner. If your patient is manifesting delusional material of a
religious or quasi-religious nature, it's more than likely he was a psychotic
who picked up a certain set of religious delusions because they helped
explain his symptoms, rather than cause them."

"What do you mean, 'glorify subjective religious experience'? the psychiatrist

asked.

"I mean that a yogi takes his subjective experience and objectifies it in a way
totally foreign to our western minds. He goes into a trance and sees Lord
Krishna. The question does not occur to him, 'Was it really there?' 'Was Lord
Krishna inside me or outside me?' He simply accepts what he saw as Lord
Krishna… end of discussion. In the same way… in his trance states he has no
sense of time, therefore he says ‘time is an illusion’, ‘it is not real’.

"You, or I, on the other hand, if we read a good book, or a movie and become
engrossed in it so that three hours later, we come out of it and see that the
hand of the clock has moved, in a psychological sense, time has ceased to
exist for us… but we don't conclude from that 'time is an illusion… not real’.
But the eastern believer believes just that… as well as other similar
extrapolations from his subjective experience to the 'real' world. Any
westerner… that is, someone with a typically western rational upbringing
who began to identify with an eastern religion because it allows him to
explain his hallucinations as genuine religious experience… is probably
already on the way to psychosis. The eastern religious teachings weren't the
cause, just the final attempt to hang on to reality in some form or another."

Dr. Kalin reflected a few moments. "Still," he mused, "there should be a way
of rendering some of these religious frauds more harmless… some sort of
licensing that would weed out the more harmful and deluded types."

The Chaplain grinned, mischievously. "Be careful, my boy. You’re over

stepping the fine line between Church and State with that suggestion."

"This is serious, Ken," Dr. Kalin said, sharply, and the Chaplain blinked in
surprise and sat up a little straighter, watching his colleague intently.

"This religion of Mr. Feldman's seems to have made a strong impression on

you," he suggested.

The Dr. looked at him sourly. "What's this… a counseling session?"

The Chaplain grinned and settled back in his chair. "You’ve just proved my
point, Doctor. If you keep up with that tone, they’ll decide you have some
deep rooted serious problems that can only be loosened by electro-shock
therapy… or by a few hours in the snake-pit."
Kalin crushed the un-lit cigarette he had been rolling about on the desk, and
sat back, grimacing. "Yeah, well" he said, "I guess you're right about having
something on my mind… and you're a good enough friend, Ken that I can
talk it over with you." He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. It’s not
just the Lama… it's also my son, Mike."

"Is he back from Israel?" the Chaplain asked. "I haven’t seen him if he is."

"Yeah, he's back," the Doctor growled. "He'll be back here in a few days after
visiting with some college friends and professors about a new project he
starting research on. But if you saw him, you might not recognize him. I
thought he was in Israel doing some special research on battle trauma for the
Israeli government at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Turns out he's been
studying religion with some singing rabbi celebrity there. Now, Mike… he
calls himself Micha-el now, by the way… looks like his great grandfather
used to, with a beard down to here( he gestured vaguely at his chest area)
prays three times a day, prays even over a glass of water and before eating
anything, and would rather die of starvation than eat a slice of bacon. And
this from a boy who couldn't pass a Chinese restaurant without his stomach
short-circuiting!"

The Chaplain laughed, but Kalin went on without pausing. "I don’t know
where we went wrong. Maybe I should have taken him to synagogue every
now and then and gotten it out of his system early. If he had had a little
religion when he was a kid, maybe he wouldn't have gone off half-cocked
into this… this fanaticism."

"Hmmm," murmured his friend. "Well, you can hardly expect me to agree
that religion is something you can get out of your system. My whole
professional life is dedicated to the proposition that religion is one dimension
of all of life’s activities." He gave a short self-deprecating laugh. "I’m getting
started on one of my lectures, and that's not what I wanted to do. If you want
to hear the rest of it, drop by some day to one of my classes. Actually," he
reflected, "you haven’t talked about the one central fact which is common
both to your son, Mike, uh… Micha-el… and your patient, Harold Feldman."
"So, what's your diagnosis, Doctor?" the psychiatrist asked, mockingly.

Pennington grinned good-naturedly and said in the same mocking tone,

"Easy, Chaplain, your Freudian slip is showing." He leaned forward and said
seriously, "I'm not going to address the religious elements in all this because I
think they're secondary anyway in both Mike's case and Feldman’s. At least I
would guess they were, so far as you’re concerned anyway. What's eating
you is the Rabbi and the Lama… two miracle workers, who, despite the
difference in their methods, puts all of three of you in the same business, i.e.
healing, changing people, and making them feel better."

"I try to help people so they'll end up independent of me, or of any other
'healer'," the psychiatrist snapped. "These fakirs… they're trying to increase
the dependency of their followers on them… which is a hell of a big
difference in my book, Ken."

"And that's exactly what's eating you, Phil. Your son would rather be
dependent on his Rabbi and your patient on his guru than to be independent
through your help. They would rather 'serve in Heaven' than take the
‘freedom in Hell' you’re offering them, as it were. And if that truly is the
case, then each in his own way represents a kind of failure for you. Your son
chooses the wisdom of a religion you’ve rejected, binds himself to a
charismatic figure who is the antithesis of yourself, which is another slap in
your face; while your patient chooses a witch doctor to effect his cure, which
is still another slap at you and your profession."

Dr. Kalin jumped up and began pacing back and forth. "Insight is supposed to
bring relief from repressed energy which has been seeking expressions thru
neurotic symptoms," he said in annoyance. "I think your analysis is sound
and… you're absolutely right. I do feel I've been slapped… in both my
professional and parental faces. Now that I see the truth of all that, I'm
supposed to feel better. In point of fact, I feel worse. Now I am really angry
at that kid of mine. He didn’t just reject me, he betrayed me by latching into
this Rebbe… a relationship which is the exact opposite of everything I tried
to bring about in him. Dammit, I'm his father. Is he trying to tell me I didn't…
don't love him enough, and he still feels the need for an older man's love and
affection, so he's found this Rebbe?"
"Calm down, Phil," the Chaplain said easily. "Remember, I’ve known you
and Mike… eh, Micha-el… ever since Joan died. The kid does love you and
you gave him plenty of affection. But he's his own man now, and I trust him
not to give up any of his own independence. But he's redefining your
relationship. He’s choosing an identity different from yours and waiting to
see how you react to it. If you reject it, you're rejecting him, too. Treat the
whole thing with humor. After all, he may just have found a genuine spiritual
genius in this singing Rabbi, and it's always good to have one of them in the
family."

Dr. Kalin walked over to an aquarium that stood on a shelf. It had no fish in
it. Instead hundreds of flies buzzed around the interior. Opening a little door,
the psychiatrist allowed a few to escape and they flew across the room to the
window, perhaps seeking the outdoors. He flipped a switch on the wall and a
low hum sounded. Instantly, the flies flew directly to the source of the hum, a
grate set into the wall. There were two flashes and they were gone,
incinerated.

He turned back to the chaplain with a sheepish grin on his face. “I don’t
know why, but seeing the Electronic Venus Fly Trap work always has a
calming effect on me.”

His friend grinned. “You’ve reestablished order in your world and reassured
yourself that the ‘law of cause and effect’ is still operating.”

The doctor moved back to his desk and sat down. He began to chuckle.
"That’s a valid point, Ken. I needed reassurance about the laws of the
universe after reading some of the nonsense this old fakir is preaching. It's
priceless. Reincarnation, super human powers. If these miracle workers have
such powers, why don't they use them to feed their people, instead of coming
hat… or turban… in hand to beg from us in the West? Perhaps you could get
Feldman's guru to come here to give a lecture at the seminary. Better yet, get
him and the singing Rabbi together for a debate… that'd go over big with
your students,"

The Chaplain smiled. "Maybe they'd surprise us and we'd find out there isn't
much difference between spiritual spokesmen on that level."

"Of course, there isn't a big difference," the psychiatrist insisted. "That's my
point! Basically all these fakir types are the same… no matter what the
difference in window-dressing might look like. You should here some of the
stories my Zaide… that's 'Grandfather' to you… used to tell me about the
Rebbe in his town… the miracles he used to do. All the people worshipped
him like he was the Almighty Himself. And I'm sure this Lama's followers
are the same way."

He jumped up and started pacing again. "You know, I just got an idea for a
research project on fakirs and their followers. You think you could find me a
couple of graduate students in your 'Religion and Personality’ program who'd
be interested? I can probably get some solid government funding if I can
frame it the right way. How about 'Potential for Subversive Activities by the
Followers of Cult Leaders'?

"You're right, Phil. The boys in the Pentagon would love it, but the witch
doctor might put a spell on us,” the Chaplain said, grinning. "Now c'mon
outside to the picnic and I'll buy you a nice hot-dog with all the trimmings"

The psychiatrist held the door open for his friend. "Goniff! Thief!" he joked.
"You know the hotdogs are free to staff."

"Oh," said the Chaplain, "in that case, I'll buy you two!" They exited
laughing.

.p
 Chapter 40

Miz Andrews sat at a small table in her room. Her surroundings were simple,
almost Spartan, with plain furnishings and few decorations. Several pictures
of Jesus adorned the walls, but otherwise there was little in individuality to
set her quarters off from any other hospital workers dwelling. Everything was
clean and neat, however, but it was not so much the neatness of compulsion
as it was of poverty. What little salary she earned went to the African
Apocalyptic Church in town.
Now she sat hunched over her table, her bible open before her, turning the
pages slowly, as though searching for an inspiring verse.

She mulled over again and again the question as to what to do about the new
girl, Terry. "O'cos I ain't passin' judgement on her," she murmured, glancing
half guiltily at one of the pictures depicting the Good Shepherd tending his
sheep. "Ah'm the first to admit my own past ain't too pure, Lawd, and ah iz in
need o' yo’ salvation much as anyone, I guess." She wrinkled her already
wrinkled brow in concentration. 'Cause if it were just a question of purity of
the girl's past,' she reflected, 'it wouldn't make me no 'never mind'. But there’s
the patients to be thinkin' about. And what's she doin’ messin' with that Elroy
Hodges? She's playin’ with dynamite, thinkin' it won't explode. She don't
seem to realize that giant is dangerous. He's dangerous enough even when
he’s heavily tranquilized and now he's started hidin' his medicine again, and
not takin' it, he's worse than ever.

‘With Terry provoking him sexually’, she thought, ‘he could explode at any
time. People could get killed.’ She really hated to do it, but she had to talk
with Dr. Kalin. Terry would have to be fired. Just having transferred her was
not good enough. Not to punish her, they was the Lawd's business, and Miz
Andrews would be the last one to point a finger for someone else to go to the
eternal fire. ‘But she done lit dis fire in Elroy Hodges huhsef’ she said out
loud. She mentally argued with herself further ‘even though she's been
transferred to another ward, she still on the grounds and the giant would be
sure to seek her out… perhaps with dire consequences’.

No, there really was no choice, the old woman decided. She only hoped Terry
would not end up back on the street. That would be a terrible thing to have on
her conscience, the old woman reflected, sadly. But she had an obligation to
protect the staff and the patients. "Sweet Jesus, help me to find the best way
to handle this," she breathed in a half silent prayer. But even as she said the
prayer she felt her inclination hardening into a resolve to confront Terry in
front of Dr. Kalin and have her sacked. Her head ached from her
concentration and from the tension of her inner conflict. ‘Got some Darvon's
or some such thing in the medicine cabinet,’ she told herself. ‘Best take two
before I see Dr. Kalin.’ She got up and moved to the bathroom. A slight
sound from behind her made her whirl around sharply. There was no one
there, but suddenly it seemed colder in the room and a chill ran down her
spine. ‘Gettin' old at last,’ she thought. ‘Hearin' things that ain't there; gettin'
chills on hot summer nights; soon I'll be seein' things that ain't there and
they'll lock me up in the rubber room with some of my dummies. Best take
some of those pills and go to bed. I can call Dr. Kalin in the morning fo’ an
appointment.’ She flicked on the light in the bathroom and wrinkled her nose.
"Some kind of bad smell" she murmured. "Must be the plumbing cause the
bathroom's spotless," she decided after a quick inspection. The patients who
did the cleaning in the hospital grounds always took special care to do their
best work in Miz Andrews’s apartment. Not that they feared her dreaded wet
towels… no one could remember her actually hitting a patient, even a violent
one, with one of the towels she snapped around so ferociously. But they
cleaned her apartment with such care because they loved the gruff old woman
who had been at the hospital longer than anyone could remember.

On the wall over the bathtub hung another picture of the Nazarene. It was one
of Miz Andrews' many eccentricities that she kept a picture of her savior in
such a place. Word had gotten to Brother Daniels, the preacher at the
Abyssinian Apocalyptic Church of her sacrilege and he remonstrated with her
one day.

"It's an impure place, Sister Andrews," he sniffed. “Our Lord and Savior
should not have to look upon us performing our bodily functions.”
She snorted in derision. "He's the one that created us with all the parts we got,
Brother Daniels," she retorted. "If He didn’t want us to use 'em, He should'a
left 'em out. And if He did want us to use 'em, ain't no reason for Him not to
be watchin' to be made sure we usin' everything just the way He wanted us
to."

As she opened the mirrored door to the medicine chest, she glanced at the
reflection in the mirror of the picture of the Nazarene with its serene face and
calm eyes. Only now the eyes seemed to be glowing red! She wheeled around
in shock and stared at the picture. But the eyes were the same lustrous brown
color they usually were. She shook her head slowly. "I knew it," she said
sadly. "Now I'm seeing things, too. Maybe it is time to take that pension they
been trying to force on me."

She fished two capsules out of their bottle and screwed back on the cap,
replacing the bottle in the cabinet. She filled a glass with water and threw the
capsules in her mouth. As she began to drink she closed the door to the
medicine cabinet and her eyes widened in fright. Once more the eyes of the
painting were glowing red, only this time they burned more fiercely and, it
seemed, were filled with a hatred she could feel. She wheeled about in alarm,
but still the Nazarene was smiling benignly at her. She swallowed the water
automatically, but the pills refused to go down and stuck in her throat.
Choking, she turned back to the sink to refill the glass, but froze in horror, the
glass slipping from her nerveless fingers to smash into a thousand pieces in
the sink.

Now, too late, she understood. It was not the eyes of her savior that were
glowing, but the eyes of his reflection in the mirror. Her throat spasmed,
tightening in fear around the capsules that refused to be swallowed. Gasping
for air, she watched in terror as the face in the mirror flowed and melted,
transforming into a horrible visage, hate-filled, lusting for death… a distorted
ape-like thing with red eyes that glowed with an unholy light that thrust into
her heart, burning like hot knives, sending radiating pain up her left arm and
along her back until she slowly slipped, still choking, to the floor.

The red eyes gloated over her and words seem to form in her mind: "I've
come too close to allow you to interfere with my plans now, woman. I will
live again!"

Her face slowly froze into her death mask and she was hardly aware of the
foul smell filling the air. As her life faded, so did the bestial reflection in the
mirror until only the sad smile of her savior looked out of the glass to comfort
her soul as it fled away from the horror of her last
moments.

Three days later, at her funeral, almost all the patients and staff of the hospital
gathered on the lawn behind the African Abyssinian Apocalyptic Church
because the crowd was too great to fit inside. There they heard Brother
Daniel speak of the miracle "by which our beloved Miz Andrews, years
earlier, (and against my own counsel) had hung a picture of our Lord in her
bathroom. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, my friends! He moved our
dear sister to hang a holy picture of Him in an unholy place because He knew
that years later she would lie under that picture, choking on pills, dying of
heart failure, and the final vision her blessed eyes would have would be of
Him! Just as for certain, the first thing she saw on entering paradise was His
Holy smile. We can rejoice that her last moments were happy ones with her
savior smiling over her, waiting to clasp her to His eternal bosom-and let us
all say, AMEN."

They all echoed his 'amen'-only the workers who found the body and the
undertaker who prepared it for burial, wondered why such a peaceful end,
should have contorted her face into such an expression of horror that it raised
goosebumps on them to remember it.

.p
 Chapter 41

Terry's delayed the execution of her plan because of Miz Andrews’s death.
Everyone at the hospital was too upset by the old woman's departure and that
threw off routine and made success doubtful even though her final
preparations were completed and she was ready to put her plan into action.

By the third day after the funeral, the night attendants had swapped their last
stories; finally talking themselves out about the little old lady who had been
part of their lives for so many years… and began to resume their usual
patterns of behavior. Terry decided it was time for her to avenge Jeff’s death.
Her little VW with its distinctive license plate, 'ROACH', was gassed up and
ready to go. She had a second license plate with a non-descript number to
switch to just in case the police issued an alert for her car.

She saw Elroy Hodges at the candy store and told him to use the key she had
given him after the eleven o'clock bed check by the night staff. She only
hoped the big man wouldn’t blab his secret to anyone. She had no worry
about him leaving the building quietly. She knew the two night staff, and that
they could hardly wait for the lights to go out before they found themselves
an empty bed to share. They would be oblivious to anything less than a riot
until six o’clock in the morning.

That night, Terry sat as usual sharing a cigarette with Cheri, the night
attendant on the clinical ward, watching her eyes grow heavier with incipient
sleep. Finally, when Terry was sure the woman could not keep her eyes open
even another minute, Terry wished her good night, rose and left, turning her
key loudly in the lock but with the door ajar, so she could open it whenever
she wished without using her key.

Outside, the night was deep and dark. Clouds obscured even the minimal
light of the moon, all of which was made to order for Terry's plans. After ten
minutes wait, Terry stole back into the clinical ward. Cheri slept soundly, her
mouth hanging open and copious snores pouring forth. Terry passed the
nursing station as silently as a shadow.

She moved down the hall to Feldman's room and opened the door, stepped
inside and silently closed it behind her. The light of the small flashlight she
brought with her, found him awake in his chair as usual, his eyes staring into
emptiness.

Terry pulled off his slippers, afraid the sound of him shuffling along might
awaken the sleeping attendant. In his socks Feldman could shuffle all he
wanted, he would make no betraying sound. He was already dressed in slacks
and a light sweater, so she simply took him by the hand and pulled gently.
Without resistance he rose to his feet and stood waiting. He would not have
sat down again until someone had come and pushed him down.

"Dr. Kalin wants to see you," Terry whispered in his ear. Now even if he
were suspicious, he couldn't drop his act without the attendants and other
patients learning it was an act. Holding his elbow to steer him, Terry shut off
the flashlight, opened the door and looked out. All was silence. Together they
moved across the floor. Some patient stirred and Terry's heart froze. The
danger was that the attendant would sense something amiss even in her deep
sleep and awaken automatically to check on it[dh17]. A patient coughed and
Cheri shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her snores abating. Steadily Terry
moved toward her, guiding Harold Feldman by his arm. The patient settled
back to sleep and the Cherie’s shifting also ceased as her snores resumed.
Then Terry and Feldman were at the door. Two steps more and they were
outside.
She moved as quickly now as she could without making the little man
stumble in the dark. Outside she didn't dare chance a light as the hospital
grounds, being a State hospital, were periodically patrolled by the State
Police. But she knew the way, and moved swiftly, always choosing pathways
that led into areas surrounded by bushes, their foliage hiding the two walkers
from other eyes that might be abroad in the night-time.

As they passed the building for the brain damaged and retarded patients Terry
wondered if Elroy Hodges had made good his escape. But she would not
know until she reached the gymnasium. If he hadn’t made it, well, she would
just have to go it alone. It would-be less fun, but the result would be the
same… Feldman would die.

She wondered what he was thinking. Probably worried, but not willing to
give up his play-acting when it was just possible Dr. Kalin really had sent for
him. She wondered how long he would try to keep his act going. "Hope he
doesn't try to spoil my fun," she mumbled aloud, "by trying to hold out till the
end… still playing the dummy. I want to hear him beg." Then, realizing she
had spoken aloud, she glanced at Feldman to see if he understood. His face
was still vacant as he reflexively placed one foot after the other and walked.
They had passed most of the buildings and were heading to the end of the
playing field where the gymnasium was situated.

The field was flat without obstacles so Terry increased her pace, afraid the
moon would come out while they were in the open. She needn't have worried.
As though some power that could control the weather favored her project, the
clouds hung before the moon, unmoving… just hanging there apparently until
she reached the building. Then as though an unseen hand that had restrained
them was now unclasped, the clouds resumed their nocturnal sojourn across
the sky. The moon came out just as Terry looked across the field. A huge
figure was rapidly crossing toward her. She grinned fiercely. "That would be
Elroy Hodges… right on time," she chortled, quietly. Everything was going
beautifully.

She led Harold inside into the large gymnasium, and left him standing as she
went to pull a chair away from the wall. She set it in the center of the hall.
Feldman waited patiently where she had left him and sat down obediently
when she led him to the chair and pressed him into it. Terry began giggling at
the way he was continuing his act. "You ain't figured it out yet, baby?"
she[dh18] asked, in a cajoling tone. She heard a sound behind her at the door,
and grinned at Feldman. "There's someone who wants to meet you. I'll be
right back. Don't go away."

Terry stole quietly to the outer door and opened it. Elroy Hodges was waiting
impatiently, shifting from foot to foot. She closed the door behind him after
he had lumbered past her.

"He's in there, waiting for me," she whispered.

The giant stiffened and his jaws worked in anger. She could see the effect of
his days without medication. Saliva drooled from his lips when he drew them
back into a snarl. His arms jerked and twitched, and his huge shoulders were
so bunched with tension, they threatened to split his shirt. She pulled him to a
stop before the door to the recreation hall.

"You wait here,” she ordered. "I'm gonna give him one last chance to save his
soul, but if he bothers me, I’ll call you, an’ you can bash him. Then the Devil
can come and take his murdering soul, if he wants to."

The giant just nodded dumbly and stared at the closed door.

"Just don't make a sound until I call you,” she commanded him, then slipped
thru the door, leaving it slightly ajar, and returned to her waiting victim.

"You figure it out yet, honey?" she asked him again. "You figger out who I
am and what's goin' on here?"

Her voice was soft and silky with the teasing sexuality she had used so
effectively on the streets. She mused his hair playfully, but he only sat,
unmoving and unmoved.

"You do pretty good, honey,” she told him with frankness and admiration.
"I've watched you close these last few weeks, an' if I didn't already know
about you, I'd never have guessed. But see, I talked to the bulgey-eyed fat
man, and I talked to that fat pig of a sheriff, but it's all there in Dr.Kalin's
files, anyway. So you can hide from the rest of the world and from the
police… not that they're lookin' for you… after all, you only killed another
nigger. An' you can wait a year or two, then dance your way outta here
'cured'… and you can go on enjoyin' yourself, talking your trash about peace
and brotherly love… you and that bitch daughter of yours. But meanwhile my
man is dead… forever. The best thing that ever happened to me… sliced up
like a hog at slaughter time."

Her voice rose now, almost to hysteria as she launched into her tirade and she
could hardly keep her hands off him. Fighting for control, she panted for
breath as she glared at him. But he never moved, sitting as silently as ever…
not even blinking his eyes.

When she spoke again, her voice was trembling with an insane rage that she
could barely control.

"Let me tell you somethin', Mr. Frozen Whitey," she hissed at him. "You're
actin' pretty cool now… but you'd better know you ain't foolin' me one bit. So
it don't signify if you keep on with your play actin', cause either way you
gonna die… here and now. I'd like it better if you'd scream and beg for
mercy… did he scream and beg, my Jeff?" she asked and her body shook
with a wrenching sob.

Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled out her switchblade and flicked it open.
She held the blade up before his eyes, but she could hardly contain her fury
when his eyes refused to focus on it and he looked right thru the knife.

"Maybe you think I'm bluffin' ‘cause if I cut you up the way you did my Jeff,
they'll send me to the electric chair or gas chamber, or whatever they use here
in New Jersey… but don’t think that way, honey, cause I don't care about no
gas chamber. I may do myself after I do you, anyway. Why not? Ain’t got
nothin' without him no more," she mumbled.

"Or maybe I'll hire a good Jew lawyer and he'll convince them I was crazy
and they'll stick me in here for Dr.Kalin to work on for a few months. Then
they'll let me out like they was gonna let you out." She paused in
expectation, but still he did not react. She stepped back from him, her eyes
narrow as she studied him for some sign he had heard her threats.

"No, I ain't gonna cut you up, honey," she said. "That would-be too good, too
easy. Now, you faked the way you killed my Jeff pretty good, just cut him a
little and ripped the rest of the way so it'd look like a… a… gristly bear did it,
or some such thing.

"But I got me a better plan. There ain't gonna be no doubts about how you
died, cause I got me a friend who's gonna do the hard work for me. He's
gonna pull your arms and legs off, and, if he gets stuck, I'm gonna be here
with Miz Betsy… to slice you enough just to keep things moving along."

She turned and gave a low cry. The door swung open and something moved
from the shadowed entrance into the light.
.p

Chapter 42
Harold was aware of everything that was happening around him. Events were
crystal clear but remote, as though he was looking at things thru the wrong
end of a telescope. Even the emotions of those around him seemed to be
clear, but faint, like a light bulb burning under many layers of cloth.

He remembered the woman from having talked with her and Hope for two
hours about the Master’s teachings of love and brotherhood. He knew she
was enraged, perhaps even insane, and he heard her threats, as well as her
reasons. Yet he withheld his fear of her threats, because behind his fear, he
could also feel 'HIM'… demanding, begging, threatening; promising wealth,
power, whatever Harold wanted; pressing him to will once more the creation
of a Tulpa, a new form for T’fang to inhabit as he[dh19] ravaged the world.

He could feel the power the demon was feeding into him… lending him
strength for the new act of creation. Energies surged within him in bursts of
power, demanding release and expression in the form of a new Tulpa. And
his own mind and soul, having once been shown the way to such an act of
creation, hungered for it.

Part of him knew the promises of reward from T'fang were empty. The
demon would torment him endlessly for daring to refuse its demand to be
recreated. It desired a new body for its existence and would promise anything
to achieve it. But Harold had his own temptation: the feeling of power that
had been released in him when he undertook the creation of a Tulpa[dh20]. It
was true he had fashioned his mental image in the form of his beloved Master
Teshoo. He had no idea that, once created, the Tulpa was an empty vessel
open to be the abode of whatever demon could inhabit it first; and who would
then defend it against any other demon who might challenge it.

The materialization of the first Tulpa had required of the little artist a
supreme effort of will. Driven by his fury over what he felt was his daughter's
'betrayal' of him with another man, and fueled by his own repressed lust for
her; tapping into depths of rage fired by fierce racial hatred he had denied in
himself; coupled with the power unknowingly supplied by T'fang; he had
found the strength for his act of creating a mental being and giving it life,
though it left him so spent of vitality, it almost had cost him his own life.

Now, he knew he could recreate another Tulpa with hardly any effort of will.
A single thought would be enough. It was as though the way had already
prepared and a new Tulpa was waiting in the shadows of his mind to step
forward, full-blown, into the world.

And so, his only chance of thwarting T'fang was to remain in the state of
deep meditation known as the No-Mind state. Passive… aware of everything
going on around him, but not reacting to any of it… not even to the maniacal
threats from this mad woman. Let her cut his throat and be done with it; that
would be best.

As a matter of fact, if he had had the necessary physical strength, he would

have gladly torn Jefferson Hope limb from limb. In a way, since the Tulpa
was his creation, he had himself accomplished the black poet's death.

Yes… if she cut his throat, it would be only a just punishment, and would
atone, in part at least, for his desire to do murder. As Master Teshoo often
said, 'Just is the Wheel… knowing not mercy nor forgiveness… only
inevitability.'

Death would also be a way of escaping the haunting knowledge of his lust for
his daughter and her present disgust for him. And finally, he would escape
the demon clutching at his mind, numbing his will, trying to possess him in
order to force him to recreate another vehicle for its reincarnation.

Now the woman's words drew his tiny fragment of attention to the shadows
near the door. Something was moving forward… something huge. For a
moment his heart faltered and he thought the Tulpa had already been reborn.
Had his attention somehow wavered for a moment, and his unconscious
mind, in that moment of inattention, already recreated it?

"Elroy Hodges!" the woman was crying, "come here!" Her eyes were fixed
on Harold and they shone now with a sudden and fierce glee as they saw a
flicker cross his face… registering his growing apprehension of this new
threat… she[dh21] had finally gotten to him!
There was a shuffling sound in the darkness and a shadow deeper than the
rest detached itself and moved forward. It was a giant… yes… but, as Harold
noted with relief, it was not his giant… the monster of his nightmares. He
could see this giant's eyes were almost devoid of intelligence, but the
monkey-like face was contorted with rage, and drool dripped copiously from
its slack, half-open mouth.

Now the retard's huge hands were reaching for him, the fingers hooked into
claws, poised and ready to snatch him up, and the woman was cackling like a
witch.

"We're goin' to tear you limb from limb, Mr. Nice man… Ice man," she
howled. "Not no fake way like you did with my Jeff! The real thing! My
friend here's gonna grab an arm in one hand and your head in the other, and
then I'm gonna make a wish… and guess what that wish is gonna be."

She waited a moment, but the little man was silent, only now his eyes were
rolling towards the monster who had paused at his side, as though waiting a
sign from her.

"Well, since you ain't guessin', I'm gonna tell you what it is." She giggled.
"I'm gonna wish that arm comes off and not your head. ‘Cause if your head
comes off first, you’ll be dead too fast and I don't want that. No, siree! So, if
it looks like your head might be comin' free first, why I’ll just give that arm a
little slice at the joint with Miz Betsy here and I'll have started me an arm
collection. A nice little right arm… a white arm… a right white… white right
arm. Then, I'll get me a nice little left arm to go with it."

She brandished the blade in front of his eyes and chortled when she saw his
eyes focus on it.

"Now, I know that cuttin' you to help get that arm loose is kind'a cheatin' on
my wish," she said, in mock apology, relishing the growing terror in his face.
"But," she cried aloud, "I don't care!" and she cackled like a demonic child…
or like a childish demon.
Then, like a tightly wound spring suddenly released, Harold leaped up and
darted toward the window.

"Go bring that fool back, Elroy Hodges," she snarled and the giant lumbered
after him. Harold clawed at the closed sash, but it was unyielding. Before he
could turn to flee again, a heavy hand clamped on his right bicep and he was
spun around. One massive hand was twisting his arm, and now the other
clutched at his throat, almost cracking his larynx in the strength of its grip.

He could not even choke out his fear and pain.

"Let up on his throat, Elroy," the she-demon ordered. "I want to hear him
when he starts beggin' for his life."

She screamed into the little man's face, "Did he beg, eh? My Jeff? Did he beg
for his life?"

Harold's lips moved wordlessly, and the woman fell silent to enjoy the pleas
she expected to hear.

"Maybe he'll make us an offer we can't refuse," she whispered in a mocking,

confidential tone to the giant at her side.

But to her frustration, the artist was only whimpering. ”He’ll get free… you
don't know what you're doing… he’ll get free."

Terry laughed aloud. "You're doin' good, my man,” she said, joyfully. "Your
lyrics don't make much sense, but I loves the tune you're singin'. Now let's
have it just once more from the top. Elroy here'll just squeeze your neck a
little harder and yank on that arm some more and you keep singin' that tune,
only this time I wants to hear some different lyrics… somethin’ about 'mercy'
and 'pity'… an' the love of Jesus… ‘n a whole lot of other things you didn't
show any of for my Jeff… my man!" she finished with a sob.

"Oh, you think you’re so slick, you big white folks. You… the Sheriff… Dr.
Kalin with his nice big hospital. Kill a nigger and laugh about it all the way to
the country club… and[dh22] if anyone asks 'how come?', just tell 'em how
the nigger raped a white girl and deserved what he got, an' anyways, her
poppa done lost his head and wasn't responsible for what he done. You all
make me SICK!" she screamed.

"Elroy Hodges! Rip me off one of that murderer's murderin' arms."

The giant let out a savage roar and lifted the little artist into the air by his
neck as he twisted his right arm in a wide circle.

"Master[dh23]!" Harold shrieked. "Master Teshoo! Save me!"

And in his mind, he pictured the kindly, concerned features of the old Lama.
But even as the face and form materialized in his thought, the wrinkled,
yellow skin flowed and darkened into a hideous mask of evil, like some low
form of gorilla or other anthropoid… not human, but human enough to mirror
in the red flames of its eyes the evil that burned so hotly in its soul.

"What you waitin' on Elroy?" Terry demanded. "Make that right arm four
inches longer than the left one an' do it now!"

But the giant seemed frozen, as though held in a spell. Now, in Harold's
mind, the orange robes of the old Lama seemed to waver and lose form. It
lost focus and form… it was not yet real… still existing only in his mind…
something was lacking.

The pain in Feldman's arm lessened and his mind cleared slightly. The
receding physical agony was replaced by an even stronger feeling that welled
up suddenly from within him… HATE! The daughter-raping nigger had
gotten what he had deserved! And so will these bastards! Let them torture
him and laugh at the little wimp, eh? Well… who’s laughing now?

"You got the epilepsies, boy?" Terry muttered as she stepped foward to peer
into Elroy Hodges eyes. They seemed dull and unfocused, as though he was
listening to distant music. Puzzled, Terry snapped her fingers in front of his
face.

Starting slightly, as though suddenly waking up from a nap he didn’t know he

had taken, the giant said, irrelevantly, "Smells like he shit hisself, Miz Terry."

Elroy sniffed the air. "Miz Andrews don't like it when someone shits hisself,"
he explained to Harold. "An' I don’t like it neither cause I gotta clean it up…
so I busts 'em in their faces, so they won't do it no more."

He knotted a great fist and prepared to hurl it into the little man's face, as
Terry laughed ecstatically. This was better than she hoped for.

But, beyond her laughter, she seemed to hear other laughter… more chilling
to the blood than her own maniacal hysteria. And suddenly she could not
breathe for her nostrils were assailed by an acrid, burning stench, like the
rotting flesh of a thousand unburied corpses. Even Elroy Hodges paused in
his punishment of Harold and coughed.

In awe he said, “That's the worst shit I ever smelt, Miz Terry."

Now they became aware of a shuffling sound from the shadows. Harold had a
Deja vu. Only minutes before, from deep within the same shadows, the
monstrous Elroy Hodges had come shambling out to torment him. Now there
was something else moving there. It was huge, dwarfing even the giant that
still gripped his neck. And it emitted an odor of gangrene, of flesh melting
and dissolving into foul gases; of bones rotting to dust. It laughed again, and
the blood of the three humans froze in their veins at the malice that resonated
in that laughter.

Terry slowly turned towards the shuffling sound, shifted her knife, holding it
by its blade, poised for a throw. Her eyes widened when she took in the
monstrous shape moving toward them. Before she had fully comprehended
what was approaching them, her arm flew back and she hurled her precious
'Miz Betsy'.

The blade flew true, but the thing came on. In the light of the dim bulb above
them, she could see the knife protruding from its chest. Images of every
Voodoo creature that had ever haunted her dreams flashed thru her brain, but
none of them was comparable to the thing that now ripped her blade from
deep in its flesh, careless of the way it tore the gash into a gaping wound. No
blood flowed, though the flaps of flesh fell apart, revealing the inner being of
the creature, an inner being that was pure emptiness! It was as though the
flesh was wrapped around a deep black void. She raised her eyes and looked
into that grotesque mask of a face and began to wail somewhere deep inside
herself.

"I trust you are eager to join your poet," a voice spoke, and it took a moment
to realize the well-formed words had issued from the misshapen thing in front
of her. She stared in fascinated horror.

"You have sought long for the one who slew him for whom you felt what has
pleased you to call 'love', though his feelings for you had more to do with
your free apartment and your earning power than with anything else."

He reached out a hand that could have easily held two basketballs and closed
it over her head.

"You sought the truth of how he died; now I will show it to you. And may the
pain of your death feed me, as did the agony of his. You shall gain your
knowledge at the same moment you go to join him in Hell."

Another huge hand held her body still as the first slowly turned her head until
it had revolved half way around and faced Elroy Hodges, still dumbly
holding Harold. A creaking sound hung in the air as Terry's neck began to
crack. The brain damaged giant dropped Harold, forgotten, to the floor where
his head bounced with a sharp ‘crack’. The artist’s eyes went blank.

With a sigh, almost, it seemed, of relief, the monstrous thing relaxed his hold
on the girl and waited the coming of the other human.

"Do you love her so much, Elroy Hodges? Perhaps I should make you a gift
of her head."

Again the creature began to twist the girl's neck, but this time he turned her
head toward him so he could see her death throes.

The joy in its flaming red eyes was pure… undiluted with thoughts of
revenge or guilt. It knew it was doing evil, and reveled in it. Terry's shriek of
agony was like a fragrant bouquet to a wine connoisseur. It drank in her death
throes as though elated and invigorated by them.

Then the bauble she had received from sister Laylah was pulled free from her
blouse and the monster paused as his eyes took it in.

"Ku'tufu," he murmured. "You are under the protection of that self-important

fool… and I am too newly born to risk a battle with him which would only
waste my precious energy."

Regretfully, he released her and she fell to the floor. "You, then, I must let
live… for now… until my marriage to this form is complete. But I shall not
fail to seek you out, have no fear… for I will not so quickly forgive the insult
of your futile blade in my precious flesh."

The monster turned his gaze towards the equally monstrous Elroy Hodges.
As though held in a spell, the brain-damaged man had waited while the Tulpa
was giving his attentions to Terry. Now that the creature was turning towards
him, his limbs were unfrozen, as though they suddenly released from a
binding enchantment. He rushed forward with raised fists.

"Don't you hurt Miz Terry," he bellowed.

Pommeling the huge thing before him, Elroy forced it back a step by the fury
of his attack. But the beast only laughed at his efforts. Easily brushing aside
Elroy's blows, the demon heaved him into the air and held him suspended by
his arms as though crucified on an invisible cross.

"Since you are such an ardent lover, Elroy Hodges, I confer on you the 'death
of the plucked daisy'. It is my gift to the lovers of the world."

With a sudden yank, it tore one of the unfortunate man’s arms from its
socket. The giant gave a howl of terrified agony, answered by a howl of pure
glee from the demon.

"He loves me!" the monster chortled. Then another yank and the second arm
was torn free by its roots. "He loves me not," the demon howled.

Unconscious now from the pain, Elroy Hodges hung limply from the
monster's grasp, blood spewing from the empty sockets where its arms had
been. Almost regretfully, the demon lifted the silent lump of flesh and gazed
at it as though gauging its capacity for revival and further suffering. Then,
almost as an afterthought, it grasped the retarded man's legs in either huge
hand and yanked them apart.

With a rending, sucking sound, the torso split up the middle, spilling guts and
spraying blood pumped by the still beating heart in every direction. Finally,
like a child done with a broken plaything, he tossed aside the rent flesh and
turned to Feldman. The little man was lying there, unconscious from the blow
to his head.

"You shall come with me," the Tulpa said. "I will not harm you… yet.
Indeed, your life is sacred to me until mine own is knit into the bones and
sinews you have provided me… but once my incarnation is secure, I shall
find a fitting punishment for your stubborn refusal to obey my will and
restore me to this plane of existence.

"Yes! For refusing to call me to life immediately, once the accursed fire had
destroyed the flesh of the first creation, I shall find a method of torture which
will make you count his death," here he gestured with a taloned hand at the
pieces of flesh strewn across the floor, "as blessed, an ending of torment
greatly to be desired."

With these words, and without a glance at Terry, he tucked Harold under his
arm like a big doll and strode away into the darkness.

Terry sat in shock, unmoving and without conscious thought. It was only
when the rising sun threw some light into the room, revealed ants swarming
over the raw flesh on the floor, and roaches crawling out of Elroy Hodges
gaping mouth, that she lurched suddenly to her feet.

Retching dryly from an empty stomach, she staggered out the door. In the
early morning hour, the hospital was not yet awake, and so she reached her
room unseen. Once there, she mechanically stripped away her clothes,
covered with the blood of the slain Elroy Hodges and showered, scrubbing
herself until her flesh was raw.

Her numb mind could not focus on the events of the evening. She could not
comprehend what had transpired. One thought had hold of her now. She had
to flee back to New York… to the Voodoo woman Sister Laylah. Perhaps she
could she could tell her if the nightmare had really happened… or if Terry
was now as mad as the patients she had been taking care of. As she left the
room, she felt a moment of panic. What if it had changed its mind and
returned for her. She fingered the amulet around her neck. It had saved her
once, perhaps it might work again.

Her eyes rolling whitely in fear, she ran to her car. The driver’s door stuck as
usual and she almost wept with relief when she finally yanked it open. The
popping sound it made reminded her of an arm being ripped from its socket.
Weeping from terror and remorse she climbed in and started her flight to
safety.

.p

Chapter 43

Sister Laylah sat hunched over in her chair in her darkened room, looking old
and shriveled, as though her energy were being[dh24] slowly sucked out of
her, leaving her only an empty husk. In her hands she held a crystal globe that
glowed with a soft, yellow light. She had been staring into its depths for
hours now, feeding her strength into the crystal to power its far seeing eye,
keeping her mind a total blank to assure that those she observed would not
have reason to suspect they were being watched.

Finally, she withdrew her concentration from the globe and its glow began to
subside and fade. She sat back, gasping in deep breaths, slowly regaining the
strength which for too long had been draining out of her. Never before had
she gazed into the all-seeing globe for more than a few minutes, but necessity
and fear drove her. She sat for a while with her eyes closed in silent thought,
shaking her head slowly, like someone seeing children playing in traffic, but
too far away to do anything more than cluck her tongue at the inevitable
tragedy.

"Foolish… foolish girl," she murmured, her thoughts on Terry for whom she
had nurtured a secret hope that at last she had found a disciple with real
promise, someone to receive her secret craft before she became too weary of
this life and moved on to another plane of existence. "Tha' canna' run far
enough that his hand canna' snatch tha' back at whatever moment he
chooses… and me, also, if he turns his mind to learning who hast given tha'
that charm."

Again she shook her head, mournfully. "To live so long only to end with his
claws rending my flesh… better to quit the flesh now and be gone before his
strength is grown full."

She was stronger now and her eyes, which had closed from weariness now
suddenly snapped open.

"Perhaps there be a way," she mused to herself. “This evil one may have
blinded him in some way, but the Old One most certainly still lives, else I
would have received some word of his passing from the lesser demons. True,
they be great liars, but news of that sort, they are always eager to bring."

The Old One had looked in on her only once, when he first took up his vigil
in this city, and had decided she was harmless… as she was… usually.
Certainly, she was no threat to him, and his concern was surely only with the
two great, evil ones that were a threat to this plane of existence. And now one
of the great ones had broken through and returned from the void, and the
ancient sentinel was either helpless or, even worse, oblivious to it.

And if he were bound? Well, there was most likely nothing that she could do
for him. A power that could bind one of the Five Mighty Ones was hardly
likely to be thwarted by the likes of her. After all, it was not for her to
interfere in the wars of the great ones, whether on the side of good or evil. If
she could survive long enough, perhaps she would someday herself be a great
one… after all, is that not the reason one begins the study of magic and
arcane spells… to become one of the great powers? Perhaps even the greatest
of the Great. But right now, that was not important. As long as she left the
Old One in his ignorance, the evil one would eventually defeat him and then
she would perish, also.

"But if the Old One has been bound," she pondered, "even were I to succeed
in freeing him, perhaps he would still not suffice to defeat T’fang and I will
only have doomed myself to an earlier end by putting my hand into this
battle, when withholding it might earn me a few more breaths of life."

She considered the situation again. It cannot be that the Old One is bound,
she decided. Were he bound T’fang would not have been as cautious as he
has been, avoiding a battle with Ku’tufu… hiding himself from all eyes. But
if he is not bound, then he has been blinded, which might be worse since it
means the evil one has tricked him and may prove to be the stronger of the
two. Yet if I do not aid him, T’fang would gain supremacy and then turn his
attention to me, for I interfered by giving that foolish girl the charm that
thwarted his plans, however temporarily. His vengeance could be terrible.

She reluctantly admitted to herself that in order to help the Old One, she
would have to leave her sanctum because, if he had been blinded without his
knowing it, then it must also surely be the case that he was surrounded by a
Spell of Vigilance. Were she to try to penetrate such a powerful spell by
magical means to reach towards him, the evil one who had set the spell would
become aware of her and that would be certain disaster… for her, most
assuredly, if not also for the Old One. She must find out what was the truth of
the matter… she could not afford to be ignorant or she would herself be
trapped here under his evil dominion. She must protect herself, even if she
could not further protect Terry.

She shook her whole body now, like a dog newly emerging from a detested
bath. "Trapped I be, whether I act, or forebear.”

Slowly she got up, her body reluctantly straightening itself, as though
unaccustomed to being upright on her two big feet that were encased in turn-
of-the-century button-up shoes. She was surprisingly tall when she finally
worked herself erect, almost six feet, appearing firm fleshed and full busted.
She was old, but her age could not be guessed at, for her skin was smooth and
unwrinkled. Her hair was black, with one long wave falling over her right
eye. When she wanted to, she could appear decrepit, but she could equally
give the impression of vigorous youth.

Her clothes were old fashioned, antique, in fact… black silk dress with full
skirt and several petticoats underneath. A chatelaine hung loosely about her
waist and there were several small pouches suspended from it. She took an
old bag from the dresser near her. It was made of strings of glass beads, hand
sewn onto embroidered silk, and covered with flowers made of multi-colored
beads. A long fringe of beads hung from it. It was so well preserved, it
looked almost new, but, then, it had not been out of the apartment since such
beaded bags were in vogue… in the previous century.

There was a slight jingle of coins as she handled it. It never occurred to the
old woman that the coins were all obsolete, but, no matter… whomever she
handed one to would have no choice but to take it. But they wouldn't lose in
the transaction, since the old coins in it were as new and shiny as on the day
they were minted. Any collector would have paid well to add them to his
collection.

With one last deep sigh and a lingering glance around the room she had not
left for nearly a hundred years, she finally quit the apartment. She didn't
bother locking the door. It had been a long while since anyone had attempted
to enter without her permission. The last fumbling burglar that had tried still
sat in a mental hospital, gibbering and babbling, his mind blasted away by her
warding spell. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t release him. If she
were forced to quit this body, she decided she would free him from the spell.
After all, it didn't do to leave such spells untended. If it were still active when
she departed this plane of existence, someone who knew how to do it could
use her own spell to pull her back.

She descended several flights of stairs with her big feet clumping noisily
inside their boxy black button up shoes. On one of the landings she passed a
neighbor coming up, laden with bags of groceries. She remembered the
woman vaguely. She had come once a while ago to Sister Laylah carrying
a[dh25] sick child. The fever had been very high and the mother, weeping
had said the doctors had called it by some strange sounding name and had
pronounced there was no hope. It had been a simple spell, she recalled, and
the woman had been properly grateful.

She seemed now strangely older and greyer, Sister Laylah thought. Perhaps
the child was still a burden to her.

"How is the little one?" she asked, cheerily. “Has the fever returned to plague
him again?"

"N… No… bless you again for his life," the woman stammered in confusion.
Her gratitude was as fresh and as genuine as her amazement. Should she tell
the old witch woman the 'little one' was now a grown man with teenage
children, one already big with her own coming baby? She watched in
wonder as Sister Laylah stomped past her. 'Who had ever heard of Sister
Laylah leaving her apartment? Was the building going to fall down?' She
hurried inside to call her neighbors. By the time Sister Laylah reached the
street, a chain reaction of phone calls and alarms hollered from windows and
fire escapes resulted in hundreds of heads protruding from doorways and
opened windows to watch her
progress.

When she emerged from the building, she blinked at the strong sunlight, then
marveled at the amounts of people, cars, and trash that were to be seen
everywhere. And such a variety of people… all colors and nationalities it
seemed. Well, no matter what their origins and outer forms, people were still
only people… unless of course, they were wizards, witches, or warlocks…
then they were much more than they seemed to be. Fortunately, there were
precious few of them around these days… if the spirits and minor demons
could be trusted.

And in this matter, perhaps they could be trusted. After all, this world was
becoming increasingly mired in materialism and almost all memory of magic
was being forgotten. That was why she had always found it so comfortable to
live here. There was very little in the way of competition and she hadn't had
to worry about attacks and defenses for a long while.

Sister Laylah stood a moment and looked around. She saw many curious eyes
regarding her, but most were full of respect, some of fear, and none showed
any power of consequence. There were many souls here totally bound up in
their earthly struggle for existence. Poor little moths, she thought, dancing
around the flame of knowledge, singing their wings in its heat. Only by
plunging in would they learn their destinies. But that took courage, she
sighed. Few indeed ever would find that much courage. And so they danced
and fluttered, but had nothing to show at their lives' ends for all their
suffering. So be it.

She sensed a mind seeking hers. It had no knowledge, only hunger. She
looked behind her and across the street. There he was, leaning against the
building that looked as though it would fall down if he stopped propping it
up. She found his eyes with hers, and he looked away. No courage, she
thought, disgustedly. He wants to rob me, but he cannot even look me in the
eye. She probed for a few moments in his mind, seeking his memories. He
was called 'Weasel' by his associates. He lived by robbing the helpless, she
saw. Like a weasel, he liked sucking the eggs of unprotected nests.

But a weasel is a fierce fighter at need, she thought, and this monkey is not.
Why, he fears even me and looks for someone not so tall or solid looking.
Well, well… she mused, perhaps we'll lend him some courage. It may not
help him, but he'll suck no more undefended eggs for a while.

When Weasel looked her way again, she had shrunk down and shriveled to
an ancient crone. He blinked, not believing his eyes for a moment, then
grinned lazily.

"That’s more like it,' he told himself. ’Could'a sworn that ol' bag lady was
bigger and stronger lookin' a minute ago. That damn 'Crack' muss be startin'
to crack my brain.'

He pushed himself away from the wall he had been propping up. It did not
collapse. He sauntered across the street towards her, hands in pockets, still
slouching.
"Hey there, Mama," he sang out to her. "You runnin' off 'you ain't even laid
no bread on me for watchin' you safe across the street."

He saw the old crone give him a bleary-eyed look which suddenly grew full
of fear, as she watched him advance on her. His grin grew broader. This was
his kind of game. Just steer her over to the alley, away from all these damn
fools hangin' out their windows, 'n see how much she had left from the
Welfare in that old pocket-book. Damn if that pocketbook didn't look like it
would bring five bucks over to the Sunday flea market.

He took her by her bony arm and started to move her off the street. She went
unresisting until they reached a large puddle left from the morning's rain
shower. There she stubbornly stopped and refused to budge. Weasel
squeezed the arm in his grip, trying to grind his fingers into the bone. Doesn't
do no harm to put a little hurtin' to them, he had always counseled his cronies.
Little pain goes a long way in gettin cooperation from them senior citizens,
he would lecture with a grin.

"You let her be, you fool!" a voice as raucous as a crow’s shrieked at him
from a window above. The old woman mumbled some nonsense while the
one above continued crying at him, but now her words sounded jumbled and
made no sense to Weasel. It gave him the jitters that people weren't 'mindin'
their own business the way they should and be buttin' into his dealins'.' He
half decided to release the old woman and let her go on her way when she
whispered in his ear, "Oh, no, my little monkey weasel… it's much too late
for that!"

He looked at her sharply, and was startled to see that she looked much bigger
and broader now, the way she was when he first caught sight of her.

"Wha… wha chu doin'?" he demanded. He tried to pull away, but his fingers
seemed stuck to her arm now and he couldn’t let go. "Wha's happenin?'" he
asked in a panic.

"Nothing at all," Sister Laylah said, cheerily. "I'm going to give tha a gift; one
that all men desire… to know their future. Tha would'st like to see what
becomes of tha, would’st tha not?" she asked, rhetorically. "Well, look tha…
look tha well."

The rain puddle in front of him seemed to grow hot and a mist almost like
steam began to rise from it. Weasel could not tear his eyes away from it. At
first he saw only the tops of the buildings reflected in it, but then it became
suddenly clearer and he saw a mound of earth, freshly turned. Slowly the
picture darkened and he found he was looking into the earth itself. He could
see a figure with vague outlines which slowly came into focus until he could
see it was himself. He was lying in a dark place inside a plain, unadorned
box. He was naked, with his eyes closed. It was as though he was looking
through the ground into a coffin, like Superman with his X-ray vision.

His dark skin had a greyish cast to it and seemed to grow greyer even as he
looked at it. His hair and fingernails were growing longer as he watched them
and the scant flesh of his thin body looked like it was rapidly falling in, as
though he were watching a speeded up film showing the effects of decay and
putrification in a corpse… his corpse.

Slowly he sank to his knees next to the small pool of water, his eyes wide and
staring in horror at the decay he saw before him. It was him lying there, dead
in his coffin under the ground and he was seeing it, as plain as though it were
on the Tee Vee. He felt his stomach start to heave, but Sister Laylah would
not give him even that release.

"Tha would’st know thahn fate" she chuckled at him. "It is the same as all
men. But to know it truly may lift tha up somewhat, despite tha cowardice."

And as she spoke a silent scream built up in Weasel. He could see his corpse
in the rain puddle before him heaving and rippling as though it were
possessed by a restless spirit which would not let it lie in peace, but must
break free. And as he watched… his eyeballs bulging from his head in
terror… the mouth of his own corpse fell open and a torrent of small, white
worms poured out of him, writhing and roiling over his chest in an endless
cascade of horror. Then the skin of the abdomen swelled and split open and
another hoard of worms came squirming out. With his mind breaking, Weasel
watched as the dead eyelids suddenly flew open and the hollow, glazed eyes
stared at him, slowly bulging and swelling like small balloons until finally
they too split and burst, spewing out the twisting, writhing small white
worms that now seemed to fill the rain puddle.

"The flesh is all you know and believe in and this Corruption is the common
end of all flesh," he heard Sister Laylah chuckling again at his ear. "The wise
understand it and do not fear it; indeed, therefore they seek the things of the
spirit. But tha be far from wise, little Weasel monkey," she whispered. "Yet,
who knows… tha may’st yet learn this wisdom before the sun has dried up
this puddle and freed you from the spell."

"Indeed tha may'st," she added, chuckling still to herself, and she stomped off
on her way, while Weasel stayed, kneeling next to the rain-puddle, his lips
working soundlessly, and his eyes full of madness.
p.
 Chapter 44

Sister Laylah approached the area of the Old One's abiding place as
cautiously as she could. Even from a distance she could feel the first delicate
tendrils of the spell surrounding the house where the great wizard dwelt. It
was a subtle spell… one far beyond her own power to accomplish. There was
tremendous power in it, she felt, but so fragilely woven that no single strand
of it was sensible to the mind’s eye. Only if one were already aware of it,
might the filaments be made visible. Yet she knew that the slightest magical
impulse impinging against a single strand of the web would alert the evil
thing that was holding the ends of all those strands.

Still, it was curious that one as powerful as the Old One was could not sense
that he was surrounded by a spell of such potency. With her mind completely
still, in a discipline called the 'no-mind' state, she ascended the worn
sandstone steps to the huge brownstone residence of the Old One. As she
neared the door, she felt a weakening of the all-pervasive webbing that had
been so enveloping on her approach to the house.

'It does not reach the entrance' she realized. 'That was how the Old One was
kept in ignorance. He never departs his residence even as I have never, until
now, departed from mine. The spell only warns the watcher at the other end
should the Old One seek to leave his sanctum. Perhaps we have cause to
hope, after all,' she told herself as she rang the doorbell.

And as she touched the door, she realized there was another reason the evil
one's spell stopped at the entrance to the old one's sanctum. The door itself
was filled with a spell of such potency she almost cried out at the power she
felt ripple along her arm when she came into contact with it. It was well she
had approached in the 'no- mind' state. Had she blundered into such a
powerful spell and provoked its defenses, she could have been blasted out of
the seven planes and into the Void! The sooner she was quit of involvement
with such powerful beings, the happier she would be. She would deliver her
message and leave them to their own struggles for dominance.
When K'fahn answered a few moments later, Sister Laylah looked him up
and down, assessing him immediately. "No power," she sniffed, disdainfully.
"It was not tha that cast such powerful spells… a servant, I see… and a
money hungry one, too. Tis well the brothers took you into the lamasery as a
child, else tha would ha made a pretty thief. Now you have only the desire,
but none of the skill."

She pushed past the startled K’fahn and hurried into the sanctuary of Master
Teshoo's residence. She was right, she thought with relief. There is no taint of
that warding spell within the premises… only outside. It was sealed by the
spell bound into the door. Then the evil one may not have seen her approach
the house and enter, if the spell was attuned only to magic spells, or perhaps
to the old one himself. Perhaps she might survive these dangerous
machinations after all.

"The Master cannot be disturbed by the likes of you, woman," K’fahn was
protesting vehemently. It was not proper for him to lay hands on any female
since he was under strict vows of celibacy, but he was so annoyed at the
woman's audacity at entering without permission (as well as at her accurate
perception of his lust for money) that without thinking he laid hands on her
arm and tried to drag her towards the outer door.

The next moment he felt an extraordinary sense of lightness in his being, a

feeling of insubstantiality. He looked down and to his horror saw he was
slowly floating upwards. He thrashed about, trying to move himself towards
the mantel over the fireplace to grab hold of it and stop his ascent.

"The likes of me…" the old woman chuckled. “And how wouldst the likes of
tha know what was the likes of me, my little monkey?"

"Master!" K'fahn cried out in terror.

"Be at peace, K'fahn," Master Teshoo said, calmly, from the doorway. He
gestured and his disciple slowly sank towards the floor as Sister Laylah
prostrated herself before the old Lama, making obeisance by patting his feet
and murmuring words of praise.
Master Teshoo frowned down at her. "You abuse my disciple, but praise me,
Sister Laylah," he said, sternly.

"The wisdom of the one is as worthy of praise, as the impudence of the other
is of abuse, O Great One," she murmured, still prostrate. "But it is neither for
praise nor for abuse that I have left the peace and quiet of my own sanctum
for the first time in one hundred years and journeyed here to see you, O
Mighty One." She deliberately left the obvious question of why she had come
hanging in the air. Even the greatest of the great are still curious. Perhaps that
curiosity would save her from being chastised by the Old One for her own
impudent behavior in his sanctum.

Master Teshoo folded his hands before him and looked down at the shrewd
face now raised towards his own. What he saw was an old and moderately
powerful spirit, almost unchanged from what she was some years ago when
he first arrived in the city and looked in secretly on her. She was one of those,
like himself, who preferred to move slowly through the currents of Time and
thus Time moved almost as slowly for her as it did for him.

His own reason for remaining a voluntary prisoner on this low plane was a
charge that had been laid on him and which he had accepted willingly for the
good of all sentient life. She, no doubt, also had her own private reasons for
lingering here. It was her business and there had been, until now, no reason
he knew of to interfere with her.

But something had happened to bring her here to him. He was curious as to
why the witch had decided to leave her sanctum. He could read some urgency
in her, although she was closing her mind to him so he could not read her
deeper purpose without forcing her mind open. There was no need for such
violence, since he could sense she was going to reveal her purpose
voluntarily. She seemed a playful spirit at heart… but capable of serious
purpose, as well.

"Daughter," he said to her, "will you not end this game you are amusing
yourself with and state your purpose in coming here? Or at the least, open
your mind so that I may read what you hide there?"
Now that she had come to the very crux of the matter, Sister Laylah was
suddenly frightened. She was about to enter into the wars of the great ones of
the universe and she knew she could be crushed so completely and ground so
finely the particles of her being might never be able to realign themselves
into her own identity.

Teshoo for his part saw at once the fear that flashed through the old witch and
grew alert. Was she planning a mystical attack on him after all, he wondered.
Yet he sensed no evil in her… some foolishness, perhaps, but no evil
purposes. He watched her every move closely.

For several moments she struggled with her self-doubt until the crisis passed
and she straightened up and walked resolutely past him to the front door.
Now, he wondered if she were simply now going to take her leave and let
him puzzle for another hundred years over her behavior. Instead, she flung
open the front door and beckoned the Lama forward.

"Look tha then at what passes before your blind eyes, Great One, but cast no
spell nor call forth any power at all lest tha doom me for having brought tha
this warning."

Teshoo hesitated. Now her fear was so tangible he could smell it in the air.
Strange, he thought. One at her level should have[dh26] put aside all petty
fears. Was it possible he was mistaken about where she stood within the
seven realms of power? If so, he posed questions to himself, why does she
urge you to promise not to call forth power? Was it to leave you defenseless
against whatever waited outside the front door?

He would not make any rash promise, he decided. His responsibility was too
great to allow him the luxury of a mistake.

She understood his decision as he stepped forward and became even more
agitated. "So be it," she almost wept. "Have mercy on me, then, Great One,
and at least give me time to hide myself before the struggle commences."

"What troubles you, daughter?" he asked in a kindly voice and stepped

forward to her side. He raised his gaze from her trembling face to the street
and frowned. Was the woman mad after all? There was no cause for alarm
without his sanctum.

Sister Laylah was thunder-struck. "How is it that you cannot see what I who
am not worthy to untie your sandals can see?” she cried in alarm. "Does his
power so surpass yours that he can blind you and also hide from you the fact
of your blindness?"

"Of whom do you speak, daughter?" Teshoo asked, his own alarm growing in
measure with her agitation.

"I dare not even think his name, O Great One," she whispered.

Teshoo frowned. After a moment's thought, he said, "Then speak no names,

daughter. Let me merely see through your eyes this danger which so terrifies
you."

She licked her lips, nervously. "Aye, Master, perhaps it is the only way, but
again I urge that tha mak'st no spells until we have closed the door and sealed
away that which is without."

Teshoo's eyes narrowed. 'Again she desires that I leave myself unprotected,'
he thought. 'Is it she who conceals the danger within herself… ready to strike
as soon as I am defenseless?' Resolutely, he called up his power, readying it
to counter any threat, but holding it in check deep within himself. She nodded
her head in approval, sensing the compromise he had determined upon. It
might suffice if his nerve held. Slowly she lowered the defenses she had
erected to seal off her mind into the no-mind state and allowed him to enter,
to see through her eyes.

"Ahhh!" he cried in alarm and for a moment she sensed the power rising in
him, but only for a moment. Almost immediately he regained control and
drawing her back he closed the door… its own spell instantly raising a barrier
to seal off his sanctum from any power from outside.

Inside, he clapped a hand to his forehead. "Blinded," he cried. "I have been
blinded." He turned to the trembling Sister Laylah. "Put aside your fears,
daughter. You have already earned rich reward for having brought this
warning which freed me from his spell. Now, earn even more by sharing all
that you know of my enemy."

He had the power that could compel her cooperation, she knew, but the fact
that he did not exercise that power gave Sister Laylah confidence. If he was
so sure of himself still, then perhaps the evil one did not surpass his
strength… or perhaps he would call forth others of the five Great Ones to aid
him in his task.

"Nay, daughter," he said, reading her thoughts. Now that her defenses had
been dropped, her passing thoughts were as an open book to him. "I will not
receive help in combating him whom you are wise not to name for he hears
his name whenever it is spoken anywhere in the seven realms, unless
powerful spells are first cast to prevent his hearing it. But the others you think
of have their own trials at this time. Thus did my enemy deem the time ripe
for this attack. Now tell me all you know and have seen that I may see how
completely he has woven the web of his design."

And so she told him of Terry and of Jeff and of the first Tulpa created by his
disciple, Harold, and of its fortunate destruction by fire. But now Terry had
freed the evil one again and a new Tulpa had been created.

"And I have been sitting here blind while the very evil I have lived these
thousand years to combat has been twice freed from the Void and loosed
upon this world!" Teshoo reproached himself.

"It used thahn disciple, this Harold, to penetrate thahn defenses," Sister
Laylah observed.

"Ah, yes," Teshoo agreed. "It was shrewdly done and difficult to combat…
for one's disciples are already deemed trustworthy and not subject to
continuous scrutiny. But enough… I must raise doubt in his mind and
perhaps force him to hasten his plans before they are ripe. I must make him
know that I am now aware of him. If he hastens, perhaps his foot will stray
from his path, and he will err."
He closed his eyes a moment, and his face became taut with concentration.
When he finally opened his eyes, beads of sweat had begun to dot his
forehead. “It was a mighty spell for it extended not only around, but also
above and below my sanctum. However, I have unwoven his spell and his
web is dissolved. Now he knows I will come in pursuit. I must travel swiftly.

"Daughter!" he cried as he turned to her, "I salute you. If I survive, I will

reward you by opening new ways of power to you… such as I deem you are
capable of absorbing without damage to you."

She prostrated herself before him, slowly and creakily, as though suddenly
feeling all the years of her great age. "I will forego gladly thahn promise of
power," she said,” if only tha defeat thahn enemy before he turns his mind to
devise a proper punishment for those who have helped tha in thahn battle
with him," she said sourly.

Teshoo smiled grimly at her. "Almost ten centuries I have awaited this
coming of T'fang. It was foreseen that after long ages in the outer Void into
which we thrust him, he would devise a means of return so that one of us
must be here to combat him. I was elected among the five of us to stand
against him. Now he has already been defeated once in his quest for rebirth…
and through no power of my own.

"I tell you, daughter, the universe itself stands against such evil ones. They
have no place here. And even were victory to be granted to them, it would be
temporary."

"Aye, temporary," she muttered, "but long enough for him to rend our spirits
asunder and to feed the scraps to the lesser demons that attend
him."

"Return to your sanctum, daughter. I go to the battle,” Teshoo cried, and in

the blinking of an eye, he was gone.

Sister Laylah shook her head. She was not particularly short-sighted, but the
Lama had already passed beyond her ability to sense him without her globe.
The power needed to transport a body so far, so fast, was enormous. It would
have taken her a night gathering her strength to attempt such an effort. Even
then, she might have needed to make some bargains with lesser demons to
augment her own sources of strength. But to one of the Five Ancient Ones, it
was only child’s play. Yet his enemy was also ancient, was he not? Indeed,
some say at the beginning of all things the number of the Ancient Ones was
once seven, and that all were good, benevolent spirits, but later, two fell into
evil.

One thing the old witch was sure of; she wanted no first hand instruction in
such matters -especially not from one of the two that fell into evil. Indeed,
she would do well to hurry home now and watch the struggle within her
crystal. If things went badly, she would at least have some chance of escape.
She hurried from the house to descend the stairs. 'And lose tha no time by
playing games with the monkeys', she told herself, sternly. 'Tha shalt go
cloaked in darkness.'

When she reached the busy street no one saw anything more of her than just
the suggestion of a shadow flitting along the sunbaked pavement.
p.
 Chapter 45

Terry drove almost blindly, her eyes blinking back tears of remorse mingled
with terror. As distance from the hospital began to lend some sense of safety,
she was able to calm herself enough to reflect on the events of the last few
months.

It was clear now she had gotten it all wrong about Jeff’s death. Now she had
seen the Voodoo thing that had killed him… and the way it had ripped apart
her poor dupe, Elroy Hodges, was probably the same as it did to Jeff. Sister
Laylah had prophesized Jeff would die in blood and screams with no one to
hear and no one to help… and that surely was the way it had happened to
him… and almost to her, too.

Somehow the little artist was tangled up with that Voodoo, but he hadn’t
wanted to call it back. She had forced him to do it by threatening him with
Elroy Hodges and with her knife. Probably that little fool had been playing
around with Voodoo and had somehow summoned that monster-thing up and
now couldn’t get rid of it, she guessed, shrewdly.

Sister Laylah had told her once Terry's nightmares about Voodoos trying to
get at her were really things on the other side trying to use her to get back to
the land of the living. Maybe Feldman had had dreams like that, too, and had
succumbed to the promises that thing had made him. They always made
promises.

But none of that mattered now. She had been saved by the amulet Sister
Laylah had insisted she wear. Gratefully she fingered the grotesque little idol
dangling at her throat. She had to get back to Sister Laylah and tell her what
happened. It could be the Voodoo thing would still want to come after her for
stabbing it with her knife… not that it had done any injury to that blackness
inside it. Also, when the remains of Elroy Hodges body were found, when
Feldman’s disappearance was discovered, and when her own absence was
noted, the police would be doing some very simple arithmetic. For sure, they
would come looking for her. With luck, she had just enough time to get to her
apartment in New York, clear out her few things, and disappear back into her
old life.

'Once submerged in that river flowing ceaselessly thru the streets and alleys
of every large city, they'll never be able to find me.' She shook her head. "I'm
starting to think the way Jeff used to talk," she sighed.

Another thought occurred to her. 'Suppose that Voodoo thing decided to get
whoever it was gave me the charm that saved my life. He'd be coming after
Sister Laylah next. ‘I got to warn that old witch woman.'

The thought filled her with a greater sense of urgency and she stepped on the
gas, but almost immediately had to swerve to avoid running into a blob of
orange that had materialized on the road in front of her.

As she fought the car to a standstill, she realized there had been a face in that
orange blur… a yellow, wrinkled face.
Some instinct or intuition spoke clearly in her mind. That had to be Feldman's
guru… the one the artist had tried to get her and Jeff to visit!

She didn't realize she had shifted into reverse and was backing down the road
until she was suddenly abreast of the orange robed figure and peering up into
his wizened features thru the window on the passenger side. She rolled it
down.

"You gonna get yo'se'f kilt, poppin' up in a body's face when they's drivin'
along, old man," she said.

He ignored her remark. "Sister Terry," he said, softly. "You now must help
me destroy what you helped bring into the world of living beings."

Terry's eyes widened, then crossed slightly as the horror of the night's terrors
fluttered back into her memory.

"Man," she said, thickly, "that Voodoo thing went one way and I’m goin' the
other just as fast as this little Beetle can take me."

"You cannot hide from him," the Lama said sharply. "Once his power begins
to expand, he will hold sway over all the land’s inhabitants. He will summon
you to an accounting of your deeds, and you will have no choice but to offer
yourself up as a sacrifice to his lust for blood, pain and death."

Terry trembled at the doom pronounced in his words and fought for her usual
bravado.

"Man, you are some cheerful, old chink, ain't you?" she muttered, then,
pushing the door open, added grudgingly, "You better get in if you wants a
ride. Can't set here all day. We got us a monster to catch."

Silently, the old Lama slipped into the seat beside her. He gave no
instructions, but Terry found herself starting the car and turning it around on
the highway, retracing the route of her flight. She seemed to be following
mental promptings which told her hands when to turn the wheel to leave the
highway and what small roads to take to reach a destination she was
beginning to guess with growing apprehension.

They had reentered the hospital grounds from the rear and had pulled up
alongside the small park with its fish pond and flower beds. There was a
figure standing in the midst of the flowers beds… a strange figure Terry
realized with a sinking heart. It was dressed in black and was so heavily
bearded Terry didn't realize until it turned toward them, that it was a young
white man.

There was a black and white striped shawl over his head and he was rocking
and swaying back and forth with his eyes closed, chanting softly in a sing
song language that made no sense to Terry at all.

The Lama sat quietly watching until the young man sat down and slipped off
the shawl. Only then did Terry see his left sleeve was rolled up and a long
thin black strap was wrapped around his arm. As she watched, curious, he
unwound the strap from his arm and then removed a little box on another
strap which had been sitting high on his forehead, almost buried in the curly
black hair. She had not noticed it before and she shook her head in dismay.

“Man, an ex-hooker runnin' from a Voodoo is just as ordinary as you can

think of compared to what's runnin' loose around this place. Chinks in orange
bathrobes, hippy honkies dressed in black wrappin' themselves in straps and
beach towels! Monsters poppin' yo’ arms out and makin' wishes with your leg
bones ain't nothin' unusual in this place, no siree. What’s comin' next?"

The old man silently opened his door and stepped out. Terry felt a
compulsion to do the same. Against her will she found herself walking at the
Lama's side as they approached the young man.

He was folding the shawl as they neared him, and as he slipped it into a blue
velvet bag he seemed suddenly to become aware of their presence. He looked
up sharply, but there was no fear in his eyes as he took in the black woman
walking with the yellow man.

A flicker of recognition was on his face as he smiled, almost shyly, and said,
"You're Mr. Feldman's guru, aren't you? I dreamt about you this morning just
before I woke up. You were saying that you needed my help. I’m Michael
Kalin."

"I am Teshoo Lama," the oriental announced. "I have called you to me resist
a great evil that has come upon the world."

The young man glanced from the Oriental to the Negro woman with a
quizzical look. She shrugged her shoulders. "Don’t look at me, man. I just
been recruited, myself."

The old man looked steadily at the young one. "You have devoted your
energy to spiritual advancement," he said, finally. "But this advancement is
only valid if it enables you to oppose evil beings that would subdue all wills
to their own. What power you have gained must be put into the services of
the weak lest that power, by its very nature, turn upon you and draw you
away from your higher goals."

Michael nodded, thoughtfully. "That's Cabalistic teaching, also. I don't

suppose you've studied Jewish mystical teaching," he said, doubtfully.

"All true paths lead to the Truth," the old Lama intoned. "All true teachings
are one. The followers of different religions are like men who start to climb
opposite sides of a mountain. At first the distance between them is very great.
But the higher they rise, the closer to each other they become… until they
reach the top. Then they see there was no distance between them after all."

Terry crossed her arms in impatience. “Now that you two done found each
other," she said, "I'll be moving on."

Michael looked at her, quickly, his trained listener's ear picked up resonances
of fear and jealousy in her voice. He wondered what her involvement with
the old man might be. Disciple? Employee? She seemed to look at the old
lama with devotion. But the Master Teshoo’s voice was stern when he
addressed her.

"You cannot escape the consequences of what you have begun. They will
return to you unless you do what you can to undo the damage. He will haunt
your dreams until you are driven to despair and to beg for the release of
death. But death will not release you. His vengeance will pursue you beyond
the veil of death until his lust for your pain is glutted."

Terry was shaken by the Lama's tone and his words, but her reawakened
courage was too strong now to fade away at the first echo of danger. She
smiled jauntily at Michael.

"He lays a lot of cheerful jive on you til he's got you convinced you're better
off throwin' in with him then in goin' off on yo' own."

"But, just what is it we're supposed to be doing?" Michael asked, perplexed.

The Lama gathered his orange robes about him and sat on the bench.

"Time is short, but it is important you understand fully the quest we are
pursuing”, he said. "My disciple, and your father’s friend, Harold Feldman,
has succeeded in creating a mental creature which has been seized and
usurped by a life-force… a soul… ancient in evil… named T'fang. This
T'fang desires to live again in the world of flesh, but will not risk being
reborn… for even the most advanced spirit may lose much of its memory and
power when it reenters the world as an infant."

Mike nodded, his face eager in agreement as the Lama’s words were in
harmony of what he had learned from Jewish lore.

"And so it was that T’fang lent strength to Harold to create a Tulpa and now
he has possessed this Tulpa. Already he has begun what will be a long line of
murders and depredations."

Michael blinked in sudden realization. "So that's what Harold was hinting at
in Maine when we spoke and he called himself another Maharal!"

He answered the puzzled looks of the Lama and Terry by explaining, "One of
our Jewish mystics: the Maharal of Prague, a master of Cabala… Jewish
religious mysteries… created a being of mud and thought - a golem- which
served his will. He used it to protect Jews from persecution by the gentiles.
Supposedly it is still waiting somewhere to be reawakened when the Maharal
is reborn. Harold hinted he might be the reincarnation of the Maharal. Now I
understand what he was getting at."

He looked at the old Lama and shrugged. "I don't know what I can do to help
destroy this thing," he said. “I certainly don’t have any power like the
Maharal -to create or destroy, I mean."

The Lama held up a thin hand and Michael fell silent.

"You have belief and faith," the old man said simply. "Your father would not
accept such a story as I have told you… not even the possibility of such a
thing occurring."

Mike grinned, "That's for sure. Dr. Kalin's ideas of scientific research is
limited to researches in this world that he can measure by electronic changes
in the nerves, not spiritual changes that can only be measured in a man's heart
or soul."

"Even these can be measured," the old Lama said, confidently. "Someday the
men of science will find the means to make such measurements, but still they
will talk of energy levels and positive and negative charges, as though people
are only more complex machines. The truth they will not except is that all life
is one… the machine in its own way is alive as the saint… on the most
fundamental level."

Again Mike was nodding agreement. "God is the Ground of Being of all
things… so everything is alive in Him," he murmured. "That's also
cabalistic."

The Lama rose fluidly and seemed for a moment to be testing the air for a
scent.

"Enough," he cried. "The ether begins to vibrate from T'fang's growing

power. I can sense him more plainly now."
p.
 Chapter 46

Terry looked around her uneasily, half expecting to see the horrific figure
come lumbering towards them from the trees.

"I need your help in finding this Tulpa… and Harold Feldman… so the
danger can be removed. You are from this area. You shall help me discover
T'fang's hiding place. For though I sense his presence in the ether, he, in turn,
has sensed my pursuit of him and has hidden himself… near at hand, to be
sure, but so cleverly I am unable to sense anything but the vaguest of
vibrations in the ether."

He turned and gestured to the black woman at his side. “Sister Terry will
assist us as she is able -her vehicle will transport us- also she desires greatly
to be avenged on T'fang for his slaughter of 'Myjeff', her beloved."

Terry's face tightened in remembered anger and fear. She grinned self-
consciously at Michael.

"He forgot to mention one other thing. I'm the type that's just gotta be where
the action is - even if it kills me."

“There's one thing I don't understand, Master Teshoo," Michael said, turning
to the Lama. "Why should this… Tulpa, take a chance by remaining in this
area? Why shouldn't he just pick himself up and leave? If he knows you're the
around here, pursuing him, why should he wait for you to find him?"

"I can help answer that one," Terry interjected, "’cause I seen that spook! An’
if you had, Mikey, you'd understand too. No way could he get too far without
someone spotting him pretty quick. He's big as a gorilla and looks much
worse[dh27]." She shuddered as at some private recollection of horror.

"An' the smell that sucker gives off-it's worse than when the city was diggin'
up the streets in the ghetto once and shut off the water for three days. The shit
was piled ass-high in the toilet bowls. Man! That was rank! But this
Voodoo… when he came up behind me, it smelt like all them toilet bowls
had been emptied into that room. My nose started twitchin' an' I knew
somethin' bad was goin' down before I ever turned around an' saw him
standin' there."

She fingered the charm around her neck. "If it hadn't been for this voodoo
amulet Sister Laylah gave me, he have plucked my head off'n my neck like I
was a scrawny chicken… like he did to poor Elroy Hodges… an' to my Jeff,
too, I know now."

The old Lama shook his head gravely. "Do not depend on your charm to save
you again, Sister Terry," he told her. "For he was newly reborn into his Tulpa
flesh and much weakened by the trauma of incarnation. He did not dare risk a
confrontation with even so minor a demon as Ku’tufu, the demon of your
charm.
"But even as we speak here, he is gaining in strength, and soon the fusion of
his spirit with the flesh of the Tulpa will be complete. Once he is wedded to
the flesh, he will be indestructible. No weapon will harm him for he will be
able to recreate immediately such of his flesh as may be damaged. Neither
fire nor heat will touch him any longer. He will laugh at flames such as those
that severed him from the previous Tulpa form which Harold created in
Maine."

"Then what are we doing here?" Michael asked in alarm. "If we can't hurt
him anymore, how can we do any good by letting him get his hands on us?
We should be trying to get someone to call out the army."

"Their weapons will be as useless as toys against him in a short while…

indeed they may become his willing followers, eager for the enslavement of
all the world for the gifts he will promise them of power and treasure."

The old Lama shook his head as though to discard his dark thoughts. Then his
eyes took on a distant, far-seeing look. “But his transmigration is not yet
complete," he said softly, “and therein lies our cause for hope if we act
swiftly."

"How can you be sure?" Mike asked.

The old man smiled grimly. "Were it complete and were he in possession of
his full power, he immediately would have sought me out to destroy me."

He pondered in silent thought for a few moments as the two young people
looked around the garden uneasily, wondering if perhaps the demon were
lurking nearby.

"For now he can have only one real fear," the Lama mused, "and that is that
some harm might befall Harold before his union with the Tulpa is totally
completed. Harold is still the weak link in the chain of power T'fang is
forging. For… remember! The Tulpa is Harold's creation, usurped by T'fang
to provide him an incarnation without the loss of memory and power entailed
by genuine rebirth. If Harold could find the strength, he might still be able to
dissolve the Tulpa's flesh… cell by cell, hair by hair… and un-home T'fang.
Fending off such dissolution would sorely tax the demon's power and leave
him vulnerable to attack from any number of weapons."

"Weapon's?!" Terry said, blankly. "If my charm ain't no good no more

against him, then what weapons we got, Master Teshoo?"

"I will not speak of this yet, lest he learn enough to defend himself," the old
man said, cautiously. "Let it suffice to know that his calculation of our
purpose in seeking him out will be that we wish to destroy Harold before
T'fang's possession of his new body is complete. He knows that as long as
Harold lives, his incarnation in the Tulpa can continue until his strength is
such he no longer needs Harold, alive or dead.

"But… he measures all men by his own lust for power and life; thus he will
calculate we have come to kill Harold-for that is the only sure way to expel
T'fang from the Tulpa. Yet to expel him is only a temporary good; for sooner
or later he will find another willing tool who will seek to help him live again
to savage mankind.

"Therefore our way is clear," he declared, resolutely. "We must seek to do

what he will not expect… to weaken him so much he will lose his hold on the
Tulpa."

"Will that kill him?" Terry asked, hopefully.

"No, daughter, one cannot destroy a being as powerful as T'fang. But if we

weaken him enough he will be unable to resist the universal law of rebirth;
and, if once he can be forced back onto the Wheel of Rebirth, he will start his
existence as the meanest of beings. Thus, his threat to the world will be
eliminated."

"You mean he'll be reborn like a snake, or a spider?" Mike asked.

"Nay, for these are already advanced life forms. Indeed, our greatest danger is
that if he sees defeat is near, T'fang will take refuge in one of these common
creatures and hide from us, biding his time until he can regain his strength
and catch us unawares. But if he can be forced back onto the Wheel of
Rebirth, he will start his new incarnation in the form of a virus or bacterium.
Thus reduced, he will be stripped even of his memories and evil inclinations
and begin his new spiritual evolution like a blank piece of paper. After a
million years of rebirths, he may at last, evolve into another Teshoo Lama, or,
perhaps, another T'fang."

They were all silent for a few moments with their private thoughts. Finally,
Mike asked, "One thing I don’t understand. The Golem always remained in
his original shape and no evil spirit ever took him over. But if Harold started
creating a double of you, Master Teshoo, how is it the Tulpa became so
misshapen and evil in appearance?"

"And in smell!" Terry added with a shudder.

"Harold's Tulpa was corrupted," the old Lama explained, patiently. "There
are ways of warding a Tulpa so that which is evil may not enter in. Had I
known of my disciple’s foolish efforts to create a Tulpa I might have written
into its flesh certain spells which would have prevented its corruption."

"Yes," Mike said, excitedly. "That must be it. The Golem had the word 'Emet'
written on its forehead."

"An' what do that mean?" Terry asked.

"It's Hebrew for 'Truth'," Mike explained.

"Truth," the old Lama repeated, thoughtfully. "Yes, that would have helped to
ward this 'Golem', as you name him, but it would not have sufficed. Even
T'fang is 'True' in his own way, as is his attempt to circumvent the law of
rebirth. For such circumvention is part of the law. And our struggle against
T'fang has its own 'truth', too. But such 'truth’ will not protect us against
T'fang's anger should we fall into his hands," he warned.

"Well, I know one thing, Master Teshoo,” Terry said plaintively. "You say
you hope he won't figure out what we're up to; for sure he won't figure it out
from me, ‘cause I sure as hell still got no idea at all as to what we're trying to
accomplish."

The Lama explained, patiently. "He will believe we have come to kill Harold
for that is our safest course, Sister Terry. If we succeed, we will exile him
once more to the abyss where he must bide his time til he finds a new vehicle
for entry into this world.

"But when we kill Harold and the Tulpa also is destroyed, rendering T'fang
once more homeless, we will be condemning Harold to a terrible punishment.
For his soul will be dragged down into the abyss by T'fang… there to be
tormented by him in his rage for ages without end.

"In the abyss there is no time… no past or future, only the eternal NOW.
Such will be Harold's fate if he dies before the union of evil spirit and unholy
flesh have been completed. For T'fang will seize his soul and bear it away in
anger and frustration. This is the risk of those who create a Tulpa," he added,
grimly.

"Well, if we ain't gonna kill that poor sucker when we find him with that
Tulpa thing, just what are we gonna do?" Terry asked in exasperation.

"Not this, at least," the Lama said, firmly. "That we would purchase our
safety at the price of eternal torment for a fellow creature. All who are on the
Wheel should have compassion for their fellow travelers… those who share
the cycle of rebirth with them."

"Then what will we do, Master Teshoo?" Mike asked.

"I will engage T'fang while the two of you try to assist Harold in dissolving
the Tulpa. It may be when T'fang is forced to turn his attention to me, he will
free Harold from his compulsion. Once freed, my disciple may be able to
undo the Tulpa."

"What… what if T'fang is too strong, Master Teshoo?" Mike asked,

hesitantly. "Could we help you in some way?"

"Here, Master Teshoo," Terry said, reaching around behind her neck. "Take
my charm. It stopped him once. He was afraid of it last night. Was it only last
night this nightmare began,' she added half to herself. 'It seems like forever.'

The old man chuckled. "Did you not listen to me, Sister Terry?" he asked.
"Ku’tufu is a minor demon… no more a match for T'fang then a fly would be
to an elephant. Indeed, the fact that he hesitated to take your life due to this
charm fills me with hope. His strength must have been greatly diminished if
he hesitated on account of fear of Ku’tufu."

He looked thoughtfully into the distance. "Perhaps resisting the flames which
consumed the first Tulpa in Maine sapped his strength more then I imagined.
Thus may he be more easily bound." He hesitated.

"And yet… I know him of old, for we were brothers together, ages ago, in the
study of magic and arcane spells."

Terry and Mike looked at each other in amazement at the old man’s words.
He seemed oblivious of their wonder.

"He is ancient in evil," the Lama mused, "subtle enough to lure me into a
trap, as he has lured others, ensnaring them to their destruction in years
past… leeching from them their power as a spider sucks the juice of the other
insects, adding their strength to his own.

"So was Harold seduced… for he saw in the Tulpa he was creating only the
reflection of his beloved teacher… myself. T'fang held himself hidden…
lending strength to Harold, who thought it was his own power that was at
work… and shielding from me the slow creation taking place so I remained
unaware of T'fang's new attempt to reenter this sphere of existence.

"Once the Tulpa was fully formed, T'fang revealed himself to Harold, but by
that time it was too late for him to oppose T'fang's will. Only by chance, if
chance we should call it, was the first Tulpa destroyed. Then Harold resisted
his call to recreate another Tulpa, but now T'fang was aided in his struggle to
crush Harold's resistance by your efforts to seek revenge, daughter,” he
chided Terry gently.
"So it is that Life is beyond the fore vision of even those who deem
themselves wise. This is our chiefest sorrow… that all our efforts towards
good are so easily turned towards evil. The Jesus Lama spoke to his disciples
of love and brotherhood. They, in turn, have bathed the world in blood in his
name. The Moses Lama passed on a great Law of spiritual purification, but
his followers 'purified' the land thru the murder of its inhabitants."

Mike raised a protesting hand to explain that the ancient Israelites only
destroyed those so corrupted in their human sacrifice and licentiousness that
their redemption was beyond hope, but then thought better of getting into a
political discussion and said, simply, "What can we do to help?"

"If I cannot bind T'fang and add my strength to Harold’s efforts at dissolving
his creation, you must flee with him to some place where either distance, or
strength of fortification, will shield you… at least long enough for Harold to
make the attempt to undo the mischief he has brought about."

"But what about you, Master Teshoo," Terry cried out, desperately. "We
can’t leave you there with that thing. Maybe he'll snatch you off with him,
like you said he might do with Feldman!"

Terry surprised herself with the depth of her feeling for the old man. Since
she had first seen him a short while ago, she had felt an opening within
herself towards him. It was as though he were some long lost relative she had
only heard vague reports of, who suddenly appeared one day and became all
she had left of her family.

The Lama smiled benevolently at her.

"Your compassion for this flesh is heartwarming, daughter. But we must risk
what needs to be risked. You have confronted the being that T'fang has
become with his possession of the Tulpa, so you know something of the evil
he represents.

"Consider the countless millions who will suffer if T'fang with all his power
is set free amongst them in an indestructible body. His lust will have no
limits, and he will find many eager for his service."
"That's for sure, “Terry said. "I know plenty'a folks that are like him already
on the inside, though maybe they don’t smell quite that rank… usually."

She reflected silently a few moments, then sighed sadly.

"I guess my Jeff was a little like that Tulpa thing, if truth be known. The way
he was always goin' after the girls… he[dh28] didn't care who he hurt…
always had his excuse ready - his great literary masterpiece," she said with a
tone of bitterness. "Just his reason to do what he wanted to do anyway, which
was grab some more young white pussy."

Mike kept silent, respecting her anguish.

"Daughter," the old Lama said with compassion, "to see our ignorance is the
beginning of wisdom."

And so radiant was the warmth of his forgiveness, she felt an immediate
lightening of her spirit.

"But," he added, ominously, "the Wheel of Rebirth is just. ’Myjeff' has

already been reborn… as a female… and not on this plane of existence. The
suffering he inflicted on females in his life will redound to him through many
rebirths as a female, until he has suffered as he caused others to suffer, and,
through his own suffering, has learned compassion for the pain of all living
creatures."

He rose abruptly. "Now let us begin our search," he said and strode off.

Following the Lama, the three of them hurried to the little green V.W. and
got in. As usual Terry's door stubbornly stuck and she had to climb in from
the passenger’s side.
p.
Chapter 47

Mike sat beside her in the front and the[dh29] Lama sat alone in the back.
She twisted around to look at him. He sat with his eyes closed, but he sensed
her glance and ordered, “Begin to drive slowly thru the hospital, Sister Terry.
If we pass near his lair, I will sense him and then we will consider how best
to approach him."

Terry shrugged. "I'm all gassed up and ready to go, Master Teshoo. But I
gotta tell you, we're bound to be stopped by the first cop that sees my car.
They had to find Elroy Hodges' body by this time and with me not showin' up
for my shift, they're bound to be lookin' for me."

"Drive on, Sister Terry," the Lama said, calmly. "None will mark our
passing."

They drove slowly past each building in the hospital. And no-one so much as
glanced at them. In fact, Terry often had to stop when patients wandered in
front of the car, as though oblivious of the presence of the green V.W.

There were many police cars around the gymnasium, but Master Teshoo
lingered a long while there in hope of finding a trace of the path the Tulpa
took in its flight with Harold. There was nothing. Finally, reluctantly, he was
forced to tell Terry to leave the hospital grounds. The Tulpa was not there.

"Our search lies outside now. We must travel the countryside."

Terry's hands turned the wheel in response to the guru’s silent promptings
and they began a slow circuit of the roads surrounding the hospital.

Mike had looked at Terry sharply when she mentioned a body being found,
and after the scene at the gym with the police cars he felt he had to know
more about what was going on.

Leaning closer to her he asked in a soft undertone, "What are we getting into,
Terry? What did you mean about 'leaving bodies lying around’?”

She was silent a moment as though assessing the answer to that question for
herself. Finally she said, “I had a man… a beautiful man, my Jeff… a
poet[dh30]… something special… he'd heard me speakin’ street talk again,
he'd froze me with a look and then whipped the black off'n my hide."

She laughed hollowly.

"You spoke differently for him?" Mike prompted.

"Oh, to be sure, my dear fellow," she said, mockingly. "I was enrolled in
night school… had completed my high school equivalency and was already
signed up to start night college in the fall… an English major, don't you
know, old boy,” she said, bitterly. "But I gave it all up when he was killed…
up north."

"In Maine?" Mike prompted.

"You tellin' it, or am I?" Terry asked in annoyance. Mike was silent and Terry
sighed, as though surprised she still had the capacity to be angry over Jeff's
death.

"I thought for a long while," she continued, finally, "that your father's friend,
Feldman… the artist… had killed my Jeff 'cause Jeff got into that little girl of
his. I came here to kill him the way my Jeff was kilt… a piece at a time."

She glanced into the rear-view mirror at the placid face of the old Lama… he
might have been asleep, but for the way his head turned slightly from side to
side occasionally.

"But I found out, eventually," Terry continued, "my Jeff was killed by some
kinda Voodoo thing-what the Lama here calls a Tulpa. This is the second
one," she confided to Mike. "The first one was killed up in Maine by a forest
fire."

Mike started suddenly. "Holy Cow! I heard about that fire! They were afraid
it was going to turn around and come towards the cottages up there."

"Well, now the voodoo thing is back," Terry said, glumly. "’Cause I came
here to work so I could get close to Feldman and do him the way I thought he
did Jeff. An’ he ended up calling the Tulpa back to save his life. That
Voodoo thing tore up one of the patients I had helping me with Feldman…
would'a tore me up too, but for this charm of Sister Laylah’s."

She fingered the idol at her throat, then glanced over at Mike. "I was gonna
kill Feldman, then do for myself… I didn’t want to live without my Jeff
anyway… just wanted to make sure Feldman wasn't goin' to go on partyin'
with his friends while my Jeff was rottin' in the ground."

She let out her breath in a deep sigh. "But now I see it wasn’t Feldman -least
not directly… that kilt him… and the monster that ripped my Jeff to pieces is
still gonna do his thing. Master Teshoo here says if we can get him close
enough to it, he can do that Voodoo in. He's givin' me a chance to help him
by runnin' him around until he sniffs that baby out and zaps him with a dose
of his own Voodoo magic."

"Then you'll have your revenge, Terry… then what?" Mike asked, softly, his
eyes showing his concern.

"You playin' psychologist with me?" she demanded, harshly.

Mike grimaced. "If you're telling me I don't know you well enough to have a
friendly interest in what you want to do with your life… you're probably
right. But on the other hand, if we're going to be dependent on each other in
this expedition, I'd like to be sure you're going to try to survive… because a
self-destructive impulse at the wrong time could mean you’ll take me along
with yourself. I wouldn’t like to see that happen.”

Terry thought silently for a few moments.

Finally, she said, "That's fair, I guess. But I don't know what I'm goin' to be
doin' with myself after all this is over… if I have any say in it. Just disappear
for a while… maybe study with the Lama here, or with Sister Laylah. I guess
one thing I've learned is that there's more to life then what we see on the
surface."

The Lama stirred in the backseat and drew their attention. His face looked
older than usual and they could see the frown of worry amongst the wrinkles
of age.

"I do not understand this," he muttered. "There is no scent of him

anywhere… but he cannot have gone far."

To Mike and Terry's surprise, they found hours had been consumed somehow
though they had not been conscious of so much time passing. The sun was
well past the zenith and the shadows were starting to lengthen. Terry glanced
at her gas gauge and saw they had used more than three quarters of the tank.

.p
 Chapter 48

"He did not have the time to go far away, so he must have earlier found a
place where he can hide both himself and Harold in relative safety until his
spirit is firmly bound into the Tulpa."

He turned to the bearded youth. "Consider, Michael, if there is not nearby

some place where such as he might feel secure and safe from detection."

Mike knit his brows in concentration, as the Lama continued speaking.

"He was undone by fire once and will fear the flames again if he is
discovered before his power is welded into its new vehicle. Once the
marriage of his power and the mind-spawned flesh is complete, he will fear
nothing."

He looked keenly at the psychologist. "Is there such a place nearby? Surely,
he could not have left this area, for the reek of his malice is like the stench of
an open grave and would attract much attention."

Suddenly, Mike twisted around in his seat and snapped his fingers. "The old
Revolutionary War Cemetery!!" he cried.

The others looked at him expectantly.

"This whole area was the scene of a battle in Revolutionary times, 200 years
ago," he explained. “There were so many killed in the battle, the bodies were
put in a mass grave in an old, private graveyard not far from here. I don't
know if there’s any place there where he could hide with Harold, but not too
many people go there… because of the stories of ghosts and all that kind of
thing. "

"Ghosts," Terry repeated, flatly. "Great! Just my style."

"The tombstones of the family that owned the estate are so worn you can't
read anything on them anymore, except maybe a date," Mike continued.
“There is a kind of monument where visitors can read about the battle… but I
can't think of where he could hide."

The old Lama considered a few moments. "It need not be much," he mused.
"He would seek merely to avoid detected by sight or smell. Harold himself
would present little problem."

"If that little sucker is still alive," Terry said, skeptically.

"Be sure he is," the Lama said, positively. "Harold is the key to T'fang's
survival. Until the Tulpa is truly his, T'fang needs Harold alive to sustain it.
Without Harold’s will, the newly formed flesh will quickly fray apart and
become undone. But once his union with it is accomplished, then Harold will
die; surely in a horrible way."

Terry frowned at these words. "Seems to be we're askin' for whatever

Harold's gonna get… walkin' in on that thing- just the three of us," she said,
thoughtfully.

The Lama smiled at her. "Has your thirst for revenge cooled then, my
daughter?" he asked, gently.

"No way… I still want to see that Muther destroyed, but I cut him deep with
my knife and he didn't even bleed! And you and Mikey here ain't gonna last
two seconds once he gets them paws of his wrapped around your necks.
Remember, I seen how he pulled that Elroy Hodges to pieces… like he was
some kinda rag doll… an' that dummy was one strong boy."

The Lama held up a restraining hand and Terry fell silent.

"Do not think to confront the Tulpa[dh31]… T'fang. I will hold him while
you two escape with Harold."

Terry looked at him in dismay. "Mr. Teshoo, I don't mean no disrespect, but
that monster would puff you one nasty breath in your face and you would just
dry up and float away. You ain't seen nothin' like that baby. We needs a
bomb or a bazooka, or something like that."

The Lama smiled his rebuke. "Do you not recall how you were saved from
him by that charm you wear, because he did not welcome a conflict with even
so minor a demon as Ku’tufu? All battles are not fought with bullets and
bombs, my daughter."

He waved a thin hand impatiently. "Come, my children. We must seek to

confront this monster at once. Even now he nears completion of his
unification with the Tulpa; I can sense in the ether of the psychic plane his
growing power. Soon it will be too late. I must quickly draw off some of his
power if Harold is to have any chance of destroying his creation."

He pointed west-ward. "Is it not that way Michael?" he asked.

Mike nodded. "That's the direction of the old cemetery, all right."

"Well," Terry sighed, "the Green Roach has brought us this far. We can see if
it will take us a little farther, I guess," she added without much enthusiasm.

A few minutes later, they were speeding towards their destination down
narrow country roads that twisted and writhed like serpents.

Following Mike's directions, Terry at last came to a small lane bracketed by a

bronze monument depicting a mortal conflict between the ill-clad troops of
the Revolution and uniformed Hessian mercenaries. Facing the statuary was a
large plaque describing the particulars of the battle fought in the area.

They stopped at the foot of the lane and got out cautiously. At Terry's
suggestion, they left the doors open.

"We may come flyin' down that path in a hurry, 'n I don’t want the door
stickin' on me while that big ugly gorilla is grabbin' for my throat," she
explained.
The old Lama stood rigidly, slowing turning his head from side to side, like
someone listening for music that lay beyond the range of their hearing.
Finally, he nodded as though satisfied, and led them at a brisk walk into the
cemetery. Terry and Mike hurried to keep abreast of him.

"The tomb stones are just a little further ahead," Mike whispered.

But the old Lama seemed to have no interest in them. He stopped suddenly
and gripped the psychologist's arm. The strength in the old withered fingers
made the young man gasp in pain. Master Teshoo pointed to a jumble of
fallen stone and masonry, over-grown with vines and shrubbery.

"What lies there, Michael," he asked, urgently.

The youth looked thoughtfully at the mound. "That's the old Taylor place," he
said. "It dates from before the Revolution. They say it was a magnificent
mansion, but there's nothing much left of it now. A longtime ago people
started stealing the stones… it used to be an all-stone house… to build fire
places. There was a wall here, too, once."

He started to continue up the path into the cemetery, but the Lama hung back,
still staring at the mound of rock.

"C'mon Master Teshoo,” Mike urged. "There's no place to hide there. It's all
too open. Nothing's left of it."

"Aside from that, wouldn't we be smellin' that bugger if he was there?" Terry
asked, doubtfully.

"Yes," the old man conceded, "unless… unless…"

He turned abruptly to Mike. "Is it always so quiet in these woods," he asked.

Mike was startled by the question, but then listened for a moment.

"No! No it isn't," he conceded. "It's almost like all the birds have left… and
usually this part of Jersey is swarming with them. I wonder…"
"It means they can sense him, even if we can't," the old man said, grimly.
"And that means his power has grown indeed great, if he can shield himself
thus from me."

"But if he's that strong already, why should he shield himself?" Terry asked.
"Wouldn't he just come and grab us?"

"That is true," the old Lama agreed. "Daughter, you give me cause to hope
once more."

He turned back to Mike. "Tell me once more about this Tyler place," he
insisted.

"Well," the young psychologist reflected, "It dates back to well before the
Revolution. In fact that's why the big battle was fought here. The Tylers were
loyalists and fled to England when the war began. Their house had stone
walls three feet thick and cannon balls just bounced off them. Both sides
used the house as their headquarters when they could capture it.

"After the war was over, the Tylers came back and tried to reclaim it, but they
were tried as traitors and they only escaped with their lives by fleeing once
more to England. They refused to sell the place, always insisted they were
coming back. Gradually, people started pulling pieces of it off until there was
nothing much left but the stones. Now even they're mostly gone.

"There was some talk of making it into a national monument, too, since
Washington held the British for weeks here until relief came. Then, also, both
before and after the battle, they used it as a hospital for the wounded who
couldn't be moved, and for the ones who needed long term convalescence."

The old Lama looked at him with sudden interest. "How could it be both a
hospital and the General's headquarters?" he asked, tensely, as though already
suspecting the answer.

The youth's brow knit in concentration. "We did a special project on this
place once for grade school history class and they took us to the county court
house where we saw the buildings original architect’s plans in the county
museum. Let me see… oh, yes… I've got it," he announced, triumphantly.
"The hospital wasn't located in the same place as the General's headquarters.
It would have been too dangerous for the wounded anyway. During the
battles, at least, they moved the hospital into the wine cellar."

All three stood still as though turned to stone.

"The cellar?" Terry asked.

"The cellar!" Mike repeated.

"Of course, a cellar" the Lama murmured and his eyes gleamed knowingly.
"Deep underground… where the stench of his evil would not betray him," the
old man continued. "And the earth itself would block his vibrations so I
would not be able to detect him. Little wonder I probed for him in vain."

"But I don't know if there is still an entrance… or where it might be," Mike
said, helplessly. "I don't even think that was on the plans they showed us…
and it was so long ago."

The Lama stepped resolutely forward. "Come," he commanded. “If T'fang

has found the entrance so must we." p.

Chapter 49

Terry hung back as they moved forward, but, paradoxically, it was she who
noticed the entry. Or, more accurately, it was she who nosed it out. She
smelled a familiar rankness in the air near one huge slab of flooring grown
over with weeds and vines. A narrow space around its perimeter emitted a
slight odor which quickly dissipated in the early evening breeze.

Master Teshoo, sensing Terry's panic, turned quickly and saw her reel as
though fainting. Quickly, he hurried to her, but she could only weakly point
at the ground. Kneeling, the old man sniffed at the crack in the ground.

"Yes," he announced. "This is the entrance. You can see where the vines
were pulled out of the earth when the stone was lifted. Already some are of
them withering and dying."

"Does that maybe mean he just got here and hasn't had time to settle in yet?"
Terry asked, hopefully.

"But it's huge!" Mike gasped. "It must weigh half a ton!" There must be
another entrance somewhere."

The Lama shook his head. "No, there is no other," he declared with certainty.
"This is the place."

Terry looked her skepticism.

"Well, maybe Elroy Hodges, if he were still alive and here, which he ain't,
could’a moved that rock. But I knows one thing for sure, honey. No skinny
broad meanin' me; and no skinny shrink, meaning you, Mikey, and no skinny
old man, meanin' the Lammer here, is gonna lift that rock away an… an…"

She faltered as Master Teshoo, stooping quickly, dug his fingers into the
crevice lining the slab and then, suddenly, straightened up, lifting the huge
stone and flipping it over. It landed with a tremendous crash, shattering into
thousands of fragments.

"That’s done it," Terry muttered. "Why didn't you send him a singing
telegram, too?"

"The time for stealth is past," Master Teshoo announced, grimly. "He was
aware of me when I touched the stone. Now he will be casting his gaze
upwards and will see the two of you. Remember, he is a liar and a prince of
liars. He will promise you whatever you most secretly desire though you may
have hidden it from the world and even from yourselves. Do not heed him!
He will take your aid and destroy you when he is victorious over me."
He looked keenly at the two of them, and each felt he could spy into their
souls with those deep eyes and reveal what shamed them the most. But there
was no threat in the lama’s gaze. Instead, they felt strengthened, as though he
had shared with them some hidden power that came from a well of such
power deep within his being to resist evil.

"Come!" he ordered. "He awaits us below. Now the battle must be joined!"

Under the compulsion of his voice -strong and vibrant- his two companions
moved forward to the brink of the yawning gap in the ground, and looked
down. The light of the rapidly fading sun lit the interior somewhat and they
could see a flight of stairs descending into the darkness.

The stairs themselves seem to be made of cement, or stone… perhaps

chiseled out of some buried boulder. But the walls, although, once plastered
over, were now only damp earth that crumbled and fell away from the roots
of shrubs and trees that tangled amongst each other in the earth's embrace.

"Ugh," Terry shuddered. "Look at all the bugs."

The walls of the tunnel teemed with worms and every sort of crawling thing
that fled from the unaccustomed sunlight filtering downward, as well as from
the concussion of the shattered rock.

Now the three of them reeled as a blast of fetid air, thick with the rank stench
of the Tulpa, rushed out at them. There was no longer any question as to their
having found its lair. But where was it waiting for them? That was the
question.

The three of them began to descend the stairway. Terry shuddered again as
they reached the end of the sunlit patch.

"I think I seen a movie like this once," she whispered to Michael, "and it
scared the shit outa me in the movie house. Now I'm walking right into it just
like I was walking down the stairs into the subway… n' that ain't exactly the
smartest thing to do anyway. An' all along I know there's somethin' waitin'
for me in there wuss than anything I ever saw in a subway and I seen some
pretty bad things in the subway 'n… oh my Lawd, but my mouth is runnin’
and I can’t stop it."

"Silence," the Lama ordered, and under the compulsion of his voice, the
woman fell silent, but her eyes rolled whitely in her head as she looked from
side to side, taking in the beetles that crawled blindly away from the
disturbing light.

Mike walked stiffly beside her and she clutched his hand.

"Mikey!" she whispered. "I know you're scared ‘cause I ain't never seen a
white man with a face as white as yours is. I got nothin’ to talk about, for
sure," she muttered under her breath. "I'm shakin'so much, I may shake the
brown right off me."

He squeezed her hand in response, but was silent. In his silence he was
admitting to himself his own fear, weighing it against his religious faith.

'If I really believe in an omnipotent god,' he argued with himself, 'then I

shouldn't be afraid of this golem, or Tulpa. If we're all in God's hands, and
He's in control, then this evil thing will be defeated… if not now by us, then
later by someone else.'

But, he had to concede, this was his first encounter with something that might
be called pure evil. It was all well and good to call your enemies evil, when
in fact they were probably no worse than you, except for having differences
in politics, or religion.

But this… thing… he could sense its growing power as they slowly neared its
lair… it was 'pure evil'. He could really feel its hatred and lust for power as a
force beating against his mind. How did someone grow to be so powerful?

Of course, there were legends of this master or that and the miracles they
could do… but they seemed to accomplish such things by faith in God… and
He would work the wonders. Their faith plugged them into the source of
power; they were not themselves powerful.
But this T'fang… as Master Teshoo called him… he was powerful… literally
full of power. Perhaps Master Teshoo was also, but he didn't broadcast it the
way T'fang did. Teshoo had charisma, true. In his own way, the old lama was
as attractive as any of the Cabalistic masters of legend. Maybe he even might
have been one of them in a previous incarnation!

What must it be like to have such power? Mike wondered. Would he ever rise
so high? Never to be afraid of anyone or anything… to force others to do
your will, for their own benefit, he hastily appended, mentally. He felt within
himself a sudden surge of desire… even lust… for power.
T'fang might give it to me. He toyed with the idea for a moment. If he were to
help T'fang in some way, his reward would be sure to be great. There was
bound to be a new order once T'fang established himself. Mike and his
friends would be high allies.

He stole a glance at Terry. For all her verbal coarseness, she was undoubtedly
beautiful. She would make a great partner. 'For thou art black, and comely' he
quoted to himself. There was certainly precedent in the bible for taking a
black, non-Jewish wife… Moses and Zipporah… Solomon and the Queen of
Sheba. Terry can the first of my eighteen, he thought, remembering his earlier
conversation with his father. But why stop with eighteen? Solomon, after all,
had thousands. Why shouldn't King Michael, the first?

He opened himself for a moment to the glow of the power he sensed radiating
from deeper in the cavern. For some reason he could no longer feel the
overwhelming sense of evil that had first struck him. Now there was only the
power… pure… undiluted… seductive. He glanced over at Terry. The
woman’s eyes were fixed on him… and her eyes were shining. Michael
remembered enough of his University days to recall the way lust looked in
the eyes of a desirable co-ed. He felt the blood roar in his veins. The two
crashed into each other. Michael tore at the buttons of her blouse even as he
felt her fingers fumbling at his belt and zipper.

He tore open the shirt. Her bra was the kind that hooked in the front and he
unhooked it. Her large breasts spilled out; the swollen black nipples standing
out against her deep brown skin. He fastened his lips to one of them as
greedily as a suckling child. He was vaguely aware of her voice murmuring
in his ear. “Last thing I would have thought to be doing with someone with a
long beard, them funny side curls, and a Jewish cut-cock.” ‘Jewish cut-cock’?
In a daze he looked down at her hand wrapped around his swollen organ, it
bared head flaming red with his desire.

‘Jewish’! The word echoed in his brain. A memory sprang up of his first day
in Jerusalem. He was standing in front of the ancient stones of the Wall, the
last remnant of the old Temple. The famous singing rabbi was dancing in a
circle with a large group of his followers, the voices raised in joyous song.
Somehow the bearded rabbi caught his eye and beckoned to him with a
waving hand. “Come, Michael. We have been waiting for you!”

‘How the hell does he know me?’ he asked himself, even as he moved
forward like someone in a daze to join the dancing frenzy. Holding the
rebbe’s hand, the other young men singing words who meaning he could only
guess at as they danced. A feeling of joy washed over him like a bucket of ice
water poured over his head. That same icy flow swept over him now and he
felt his sudden lust fading away. He leaped back from Terry, quickly stuffing
his limp organ back into his pants and rezipping them.

Her face reflected her disappointment. “You not as big as Jeff was,” she said,
“but you was as hard as stone. We could get it on.”

“That wasn’t me, Terry,” he said. “Well, it was,” he added with an

embarrassed laugh. “But remember what we’re doing here. It T’fang trying to
distract us.”

And yet, underneath the exulting sense of power, there was another feeling
impinging on Mike's awareness. It was more subtle, but insistent. It was…
fear. Yes, it was true. There was an underlying reek of fear. The source of
power deep within the ground was itself afraid… afraid of an old man and
two scared kids.

The realization of T'fang's fear lifted his heart. T’fang was himself afraid!
Now, Master Teshoo’s warning about the force of T'fang's temptations came
back into his mind. Of course, he would offer Mike power in exchange for
whatever aid he could give. But once the battle was ended and T'fang
victorious, that would be the end of the promises.

Surely, this was the clearest difference between the evil that T'fang
represented and the good that radiated from Master Teshoo. The demon that
had offered him a kingdom cared for nothing but himself. The old lama
offered himself as a sacrifice, if necessary, to save the rest of humanity.

T'fang was afraid because he could lose that which was most precious to
him… his own existence. Teshoo was walking into danger because he was
willing to lose his life to help others.

So, they were all scared… T'fang, Terry, Mike… maybe even Master
Teshoo. But despite their fear, Terry and Mike were walking resolutely, hand
in hand again, towards the source of their fear[dh32], ahead of them.

They reached the foot of the stairs and paused, the Lama slightly in front. A
long corridor stretched ahead of them and disappeared. As their eyes grew
accustomed to the deepening darkness, it seemed that a faint glow was visible
at the end of the corridor… as though there might be a light around a bend of
the corridor in the blackness ahead.

The Lama straightened himself and strode resolutely forward. Terry and
Mike looked at each other and shook their heads, as though wondering what
they were doing there, until finally, still clutching hands for sharing what
little courage remained to them, they moved forward; slowly, picking their
way gingerly along the uneven cobblestones of the floor.

As they moved deeper into the corridor the air became less chilled and the
glow at the end of the tunnel increased. They could now see there was indeed
a bend in the tunnel. The stench of the Tulpa became more oppressive, as
though they were entering the lair of a wild beast where even the walls
themselves were saturated with its odor.

The old Lama, in the lead, reached the bend in the corridor first, turned to
face it, then stopped abruptly. When Mike and Terry, moving more slowly,
finally reached him, they, too, froze in their places.
They stood now at the entrance to a large chamber. It should have been pitch
black and the air should have been cold, like the air of the corridor, so deep
underground were they. But in the center of the chamber a large rock almost
the length of a man's body and half embedded in the earth, was glowing red
as though it was being heated to near its melting point by some unseen source
of heat. Even from where they were standing at the entrance, they could feel
the warmth radiating from the glowing boulder.
p.

Chapter 50

The Tulpa was there, crouched against the rock, his massive hands pressed
against it as though he who was the source of its heat. When he withdrew his
hands, he did not deign to glance up at them, but busied himself arranging a
pile of rags that lay near the heated stone.

Not until a soft moan came from it, did the watchers realize that under the
pile of rags, lay Harold Feldman. The Tulpa seemed to murmur to him and he
lay still once more.

Only then did the creature look up at them, and spoke. Its voice was harsh,
but the words were well formed and easily recognizable. They sounded
strange coming from its distorted and monstrous face… as though an ape in
the zoo were suddenly to start spouting Shakespeare.

"He has pneumonia and is dying," the Tulpa announced, dispassionately. "It
hardly signifies, for I am almost free of his capacity to harm, hinder, or help
me."

The creature gave a slight shrug of resignation and looked at down at Harold,
almost regretfully.

"It would be disappointing if his fragility of flesh were to cause me to lose

him now, for I greatly desire to punish him for his insolence. He refused to
call this form into existence, although he knew it was my will. Now he will
escape too lightly -for he cannot endure much longer."

Suddenly he looked up sharply. "I suppose this is your doing, Teshoo? Did
you think to strike him down before the transmigration was completed?
Well, you have failed, as you can see. You may withdraw for the present with
the two treachers you have brought with you. I shall seek you out soon
enough and render an accounting on your living flesh that will make you
plead for the mercy of death."

He gave Terry such a look of malice, she reeled in terror. Mike grabbed her
by her shoulders to steady her.

"That one sought to harm my flesh… and that I do not forgive."

He glanced from her to Mike. "The other is merely a fool and follower of
fools. He shall die more quickly than the one he follows… that is the only
mercy I extend to fools."

Teshoo Lama drew himself up and it seemed to Mike and Terry that he
somehow had grown taller[dh33], and a power, or a threat of some sort, was
hidden under his orange robes.

"Silence, T'fang," he cried out and his voice rang off the walls.
For a moment it seemed to Terry and Mike as though the Tulpa flinched at
the slashing words, but the moment passed and the creature laughed in
scorn… a blood chilling laugh without mirth.

"Old fool!" the creature snarled at him. "Still you have not understood, have
you? It is too late! The Transmigration is completed and this Tulpa is mine!
This world shall be my plaything. You defeated me in the past, but no
longer."

Now he rose up and stood tall, seeming in that place to fill the chamber with
his presence. He nudged the pile of rags with a great splayed foot.

"I need this fool no longer. I may crush his bones even as he chokes out his
last breath."

Teshoo laughed aloud. "Do not bandy lies with me, T'fang. You still fear I
will reach out and slay him before your hold on the Tulpa is completed… and
so I shall!"

With these words the old man leaped forward, lunging at the stricken artist on
the ground. As though having expected the attack all along, the Tulpa at once
crouched protectively over Feldman, warding his fevered body with his own
giant form.

But, at the last moment, Teshoo bounded high into the air and made a
twisting somersault over the Tulpa. Before the startled creature could react,
the old Lama had landed on its shoulders and wrapped his legs around the
monster’s throat, locking his ankles tightly together, his orange robes
covering the hideous face, blinding it.

With a roar of rage T'fang reached up his huge hands to rip the puny thing
from its back, but the Lama, calling out ancient words of power that seemed
to make the very air sparkle, easily warded off the powerful arms with his
own thin ones.

Mike and Terry stood frozen by the sudden violence, until a voice spoke
urgently in their minds.

"Fools! You must flee with him," it cried. “I cannot hold T'fang for long!"

Like sleepwalkers waking into a confusing world that differs from their
dream, the two staggered forward and crouched low over Harold. They
stripped away the filthy rags that covered him. The sweat on his face gleamed
redly in the glow of the rock, already starting to cool as T'fang withdrew his
powers from it in order to fend off his enemy.

Harold's hair was damp and his brow seemed feverish. Quickly, Mike
grabbed the small man under his shoulders while his companion took his feet.
But in lifting Harold's legs, Terry backed accidently into the boulder and gave
an involuntary cry as it seared her skin.

The Tulpa paused in the midst of its struggles to dislodge the clinging Lama.

"So!" it roared, enraged. "It is the slaves who are to strike the fatal blow."

He lifted a huge foot and kicked out blindly. The foot grazed Mike's head as
he ducked away; he dropped the unconscious Harold in his haste to dodge a
follow-up kick.

Staggering as he strove to recover his balance and crouching low to avoid the
Tulpa's further frantic kicks, Mike dragged the limp form along the ground
towards the entrance to the corridor. Terry followed, nursing her burnt arm.

Seeing they had begun their flight to safety, the Lama cried out again in a
loud voice. The air crackled with power as though a thunder bolt readied
itself for release. But T'fang, unable to dislodge his clinging assailant, or
remove his blinding robes which clung to his monstrous face as though they
were themselves alive, cried his own spell into the air.

At his words, the atmosphere itself seemed to sizzle and fry. Lightning
flashes ripped across the chamber as the two spells met and clashed. Terry
and Mike had hardly quit the chamber when an earsplitting concussion burst
against their ears. With a roar, the walls and roof of the chamber, unable to
withstand the strain of the clashing powers within them, collapsed. In a
moment, tons of earth and stone, cement and boulders, came crashing down
on the combatants, burying them completely.

In the corridor, Terry and Mike choked as a cloud of dust spewed from the
chamber, and looked at each other in wonder.

"The whole thing must have collapsed… roof and all," Mike said in awe.

Terry's voice was hushed as she asked, "Is it all over then? Would they have
been killed if the roof fell in?"

"I don't know,” Mike admitted. "That glowing boulder will be buried now, so
there won't be much light… but let’s take a look anyway."

Leaving the unconscious man lying on the cold, cobblestone floor, they crept
back to the entrance of the chamber and peered in.

As they had surmised, the ceiling was gone, but the last dim remnants of the
twilight were filtering down thru the cloud of dust and illuminating the scene.
Almost the whole of the chamber was filled with earth and stone. Above
them they could see the gathering dusk, as the sky darkened toward night.
The first stars were showing and the full moon was emerging from behind a
cloud to cast more light. Everything was as still as a tomb.

The two breathed a sigh of relief. Terry shook her head sadly. "That was a
nice old man, that Lammer, Mister Teshoo. But, Honey, I'm so glad to see the
end of that Voodoo monkey thing, I'm not even goin' to cry one tear that
they're both buried in there together. Folks that can do magic… let them take
themselves off somewheres else and Voodoo each other and stop messin'
with ordinary people like us." P.
 Chapter 51

Her words penetrated Mike's sense of loss and seemed so unfeeling in view
of the fact that the lama had died to save their lives, that he began a heated
protest, but his voice was choked off in his throat as, with a shattering roar,
the huge mound of earth in front of them exploded, hurling rock and soil in
every direction, and the monstrous head of the Tulpa thrust up out of the
earth, his eyes glowing red with hate.

With yelps of fright the two humans turned and fled down the corridor. They
grabbed the unconscious artist and ran, stumbling and tripping to the stairs.
At the foot of the stone steps, Terry halted abruptly and stood, whimpering.

In the gathering darkness, they could just make out a black wave moving
down the stairs towards them. Thousands of beetles, roaches, bugs, worms,
crawling things of every kind, were moving, as though in answer to some
unheard summons, inexorably towards the two humans.

"Terry!" Mike called, anxiously. "Don't stop! He's right behind us."

From behind them came the sound of boulders and stones being hurled away
as the Tulpa fought to extricate itself from the clinging earth.

"I can't," the black woman wept. "The bugs… there’s millions of them…
they'll get all over me."
Finding strength from somewhere, Mike hoisted Feldman to his shoulder and
hurried past her. Already the crawling wave had reached them, and Mike
trampled hundreds of slimy things into a white paste as he climbed the stairs.
But thousands more were coming down the stairs.

"C'mon," he urged. “They're just bugs. I can't carry you

both."

"I can't," she moaned, frozen in place. Behind them a roar of triumph echoed
as the Tulpa heaved itself free of the clinging earth.

"It's him," she wept. "He's calling them here. He knows… when I was a baby
my mother put me in my crib and went shopping. She never came back. She
was run over by a car. It took the police two days to find out who she was.
When they broke the door down, they found me in my crib, covered with
roaches. They were eating me alive!"

She shrieked in agony at the memory.

Mike looked back at her. The full moon had escaped the cloud bank and was
casting a pale glow over the steps.

"Look Terry," he cried. "Spiders!"

"Augh, they're worse," she wailed and covered her eyes with her arms.

"No! They're helping us. The spiders are killing the other bugs!"

Slowly she lowered her arms and looked. It was true. Hundreds of grey and
yellow spiders darted in every direction… biting, stinging, slaying, and
driving back the other insects.

"Don't you see, Terry," Mike cried. "The Lama called the spiders to help us.
He's still alive… fighting to give us a chance to escape. We've got to run for
it."

Laboriously, he continued climbing the stairs with his load. From behind
came the sounds of renewed combat.

"C'mon, Terry," Mike called. "He's buying us time with his life!"

Almost as he spoke these words, there came an agonized shriek from the
chamber behind them and a triumphant roar from the Tulpa.

"At last, my ancient enemy! You are mine and I am victorious!" it crowed.

Other words followed that were unintelligible to the two humans, but at once
the attack of the bugs was resumed… only now, the spiders joined the assault
on them!

Mike had reached the top of the stairs and called back to Terry, "Quick!
Run! They're coming again. The old Lama must be dead!"

Behind them, the Tulpa burst into the corridor, its footfalls sounding like
thunder-claps in that hollow place. Terry flew up the stairs, shrieking wildly.
Half carrying, half dragging their still unconscious burden, they hurried down
the path to the car.

Shouting a 'Halleluiah' that she had left the doors open, Terry helped Mike
hurl Feldman into the back seat. Mike fell in after him as she dove into the
driver's place, not bothering even to slam the door shut.

Her fingers cold as ice and numb with fear, Terry tried to turn the key, but
nothing happened. She glanced up the path to see the Tulpa hurtling toward
them, its eyes a glowing red terror.

"You're turning the key the wrong way," Mike cried out.

Cursing herself, she reversed her motions and the motor snarled to life. But
louder in her ear was the roar of the Tulpa as a huge, clawed hand reached at
her through the window. With a squeal of terror, Terry stamped down on the
accelerator, and the car lurched away. But the Tulpa grabbed at the open
driver's door and with its great strength yanked the car around so it swerved
off the road.
For a moment the door held firm, but then the strain proved too great and it
tore free in the creature’s powerful claws, while Terry, her fear lending
strength to her muscles and speed to her reflexes, whirled the car around and
tore off down the road.

With a scream of frustrated rage, the Tulpa hurled the door after them and it
crashed against the roof, rattled onto the road and went skittering away
among the trees.

Her eyes wide and staring, Terry whipped the car around curves and up lanes
until Mike began to fear her driving more than the creature whose cries had
died away into the distance.

"Slow down, Terry," he urged. "It's O.K. We got away.” Almost with regret,
she eased off the gas and the car slowed.

p.
 Chapter 52

"I'm sorry I fell apart back there, Mikey," she said, abashed. "I haven't
remembered that scene in almost twenty years, but he knew just what to do to
get to me. All of a sudden I was a little baby again… screaming… an' no one
was comin' an' the bugs were all over me… argggh…” she moaned and the
car swerved dangerously.

Mike leaned over the back of the seat and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Terry, Terry," he said, softly. "Don't think about it. We’ve got to get back to
the hospital before that thing can catch up to us."
Her eyes rolling whitely in fear, Terry looked into the rearview mirror, half
expecting to see the monstrous thing pounding down the road after them.

"Too dark to see anything," she muttered. "It could be creepin' up on us right
now." A new note of panic was building in her voice.

"I don't think so," Mike told her, quickly. "I was watching from the rear
window when we got away. It just stood there a moment watching us… then
kind of slumped over, as though it was tired, or, maybe, hurt. Maybe Master
Teshoo weakened it, or even wounded it. That was his plan, remember…
weaken it so we could help Harold dissolve the Tulpa he created, forcing
T'fang back into the Void."

A groan from beside him attracted his attention and Mike glanced down to
see Feldman struggling to sit upright. His father’s friend looked dazed, but
his color had improved. His eyes focused on Mike's face and, as recognition
grew, they widened in surprise. Then, sudden panic flared in his face and he
looked around wildly.

"Mike!" he cried. "Where is it? Where am I? What’s happening?"

"Take it easy, Harold," Mike advised, "and just listen. We got you away from
it, but it's gonna be coming after us. Master Teshoo weakened it, but he said
you have to dissolve it… pull it apart mentally the same way you put it
together mentally."

Hope displaced panic in the little man's face.

"Master Teshoo!" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Where is he?"

Mike couldn't keep the pain out of his voice when he said, "The Tulpa killed
him, Harold… but he knew it was going to happen and he sacrificed himself
to buy time for us… especially for you so you could take it apart… 'Hair by
hair… cell by cell', he said."

Harold threw himself back in his seat in despair. "I can’t even think clearly,
never mind concentrate."

"Not now," Mike said, sharply. "As soon as you start, it’ll know where you
are and come on a run. We've got to get you to a place where you can be safe
from him for a while and I think I know just the place. Once we get there he
won't be able to touch you."

Again the little man groaned.

"Then it’s all my fault he's dead," he whimpered. "I tried so hard not to call it
back into existence. The last thing I remember, a horrible black woman with
a knife and a monstrous mentally defective man were going to cut me up into
little pieces. I was so afraid, I called the Tulpa back to save my life. I'm sorry
now I didn't let her kill me."

"So’m I, my man,” Terry muttered between clenched teeth.

"Oh, my God, it's her," Harold screamed.

"Yeah, it's me," Terry said glumly, "drivin' like crazy to save your life when
only last night I tried to scrag you. But I thought you killed my Jeff," she
continued, "an’ I wasn’t gonna let you hide in that nut house for a year or two
and then walk away free."

Harold's face contorted in sudden rage. "That black bastard raped my

daughter. He deserved to be butchered. If the Tulpa hadn't killed him first, I
would have done it myself."

Mike looked at the little man, startled at the hatred he saw in his face.
Conscious of the eyes on him, Harold slowly calmed down and relaxed and
finally grinned, wryly.

"Hard to believe, isn't it, Mike," he said, bitterly, "that I’m the same little nice
guy… Harold Feldman, meek and mild… everyone's friend, particularly the
lowly Negro's."

Terry gave a snort of derision which Harold ignored.

"I learned a lot when I was in that thing's power. The whole time it had me, it
spoke to me, and I saw it was only a reflection of myself… of the hate and
lust… and desire for power that’s inside me. That's how the Tulpa got
corrupted, I suppose. Too much of me went into it."

Mike winced at the pain he saw in his neighbor's face.

"Master Teshoo said there's some kind of evil spirit, or demon, named T'fang
that's taken over the Tulpa. It hid itself from you and lent you power so you
could create the Tulpa in the first place… then it just moved into it and took
over."

Harold smashed himself in the face with his fist and even Terry was moved
by his grief and remorse.

"And all the while I thought I was being a holy man!" he sobbed. "A
hypocrite! That's what I was. I'm no better than anybody else and worse than
most. At least the average guy is honest about his human failings. I tried to
deny them… and ended up killing the best friend I ever had."

Terry's hard face softened at his confession.

"Yeah, well, I guess my Jeff wasn't any too different, when you come right
down to it. He had himself convinced he was a black Shakespeare and all
along what he wanted was an excuse to get all the white pussy he could. I
warned him the white folks would tear him apart and I guess I was right.
Anyway, Sister Laylah said Jeff was drawin' evil to himself like a lightnin'
rod draws lightnin," she sighed. "I guess we always get what we deserve."

Harold nodded in agreement. "The law of Karma," he said. "I thought I was
beyond it, but, as the Master says, 'All who live are on the Wheel of Karma
and Rebirth'."

"But no one deserves that thing back there," Mike interjected earnestly, "and
I've got an idea. We have to move fast, because we've seen it can also move
fast when it has to."
They were approaching the grounds to the hospital. "Pull off into the research
area, Terry… where my father's offices are located. I just hope he's left by
now."

It was dark on the hospital grounds, and only a few attendants coming back
from dinner were to be seen.

"Straight ahead, Terry… towards the chapel."

She nodded in recollection. Once again, with the immediate danger past,
Terry felt her natural jauntiness returning.

"I sure hope you're not gonna try hidin in that church, Mikey, ‘cause believe
me it ain't gonna work. First of all, that Tulpa thing ain't got no religion. An'
second, that ain't no holy place. The goings on in the choir loft while the
preacher’s givin his sermon’d make your Afro uncurl… if you had one."

.p

Chapter 53
"Keep on past the chapel to the research center, Terry. It’s the large
building..."

"I know it," she interrupted. "Your father interviewed me in his office when I
applied for a job here so I could get close to Harold."

They drew into the long drive-way that led up to the research center. "Don't
bother trying to hide the car, Terry. As soon as Harold starts meditating, the
Tulpa will come running to us straight as an arrow."

Terry slid out of the car and said ruefully, "Least I can’t complain about the
damn door getting stuck anymore."

Harold groaned as he stepped, wobbly, onto the ground, and Mike hurried to
his side to help him climb the steps. "Thanks, my boy. I feel as limp as wet
tissue paper," the little man told him. The psychologist looked him over
critically.

"That thing said you were dying of pneumonia, but I guess it was lying… like
it did about most things. You look shaken up, but you're not hot and feverish
like you were before. Just wait here while I check out the building," he added
and hurried inside the glass doors.

Terry looked him over noting his rapidly improving color. "Could be the
Lammer cured you before that Tulpa thing got him."

Harold smiled at her almost shyly. "Do you really think he would have
thought of me even as he was fighting for his life?" he asked.

"I guess he sure could have," Terry said. "He called up some spiders to save
us from millions of bugs.” She looked around nervously as though fearing
another insect army might be clambering up the stairs toward them. "’Cause
some folks might take objection to spiders more'n bugs. Me, I got no use for
any of them, but I ain't complainin’, seein as how they saved our lives."

Mike came back to the two of them, looking worried. "I don’t like this;
there's a light on inside, but my father told me he was going out of town."
The three companions stealthily entered the building and halted before the
office door.

Harold suddenly bent over in pain. "What's the matter," Mike asked him
urgently.

"He's on his way over here," Harold whimpered. Terry's eyes rolled in fear. "I
feel him; he's seeking me, pressing me to reveal where I am."

Mike covered the little man's mouth with one hand and supported him with
the other as he led him quietly past the office door. The door was slightly ajar
and they could hear Dr. Kalin's voice on the telephone, although the words
were indistinct.

"Down to the end of the corridor and turn right. I’ll meet you at the end of
that hall." Terry led Harold forward, but Mike went to the open door and
slowly eased it shut. Then he hurried after the others. He found them waiting
in front of a steel security door, which he pushed open, urging them to enter.
"First we’ll get Harold stashed away where the Tulpa can't get at him; then
we'll get my father out of here and go for some help. My plan assumes it'll go
after Harold, but won't be able to get in at him. Meanwhile Harold can
weaken it enough for us to find the means to destroy it.

"But, Mikey," Terry protested, "Master Teshoo said that wasn’t enough. He
said if we destroy the Tulpa thing the Voodoo inside him would only force
Harold to recreate another one, and then take that one over. He said we had to
try to weaken it so it would be reborn as a bug or something. That way it
would lose its power."

"I know… I know," Mike said. "But I can't think of any way we can weaken
it or confine it so the Tulpa will be dissolved and T'fang will be forced out of
it and back onto the Wheel of Rebirth. We've got to do the best we can.
Maybe there’s another Master Teshoo out there somewhere who can take him
on."

Harold looked up in sudden panic. "I feel him," he whispered. "He's getting
closer." Mike hurried them into a large room full of vast amounts of
equipment, T.V. cameras, monitors, screens and recorders. He flipped a
switch and the room was filled with light. At the far end of the laboratory,
embedded in the wall, was a massive steel door, looking something like the
door to a bank vault… with large circular handles like wheels. Mike hurried
over to it and spun the wheels. Slowly the doors swung outwards. Behind it
they could see a small inner chamber with walls that seemed several feet
thick.

"Hurry, Mike," Harold cried. "He's almost here… and he is weaker than he
was before when he first took me from the hospital! I'm sure of it! But he's
still powerful, and he’s trying to force me to reveal myself."

Mike was busy with controls. "Just a few seconds more to activate the fresh
air supply and the self-locking mechanisms," he explained. He ducked into
the inner chamber and in a moment it was flooded with light. He reemerged
a second later and waved them inside, but before they could move, the
security door opened with a crash!
p.

Chapter 54

"So, here you are," a voice cried in anger… but it was the voice of Dr. Kalin.
He stood, hands on his hips and stared, amazed at the scene before him.

"Michael, what are you doing with Mr. Feldman? And Miss Wilkins… do
you realize there's a warrant out for your arrest?" He raised his eyes to the
door leading to the inner chamber and demanded, "What were you doing in
there, Michael?"
For a moment panic flashed through Michael, but he looked at Harold and
saw such fear and terror in the man's eyes, he knew he only had seconds to
act to save them all. "There’s something inside here you have to see, Dad. It
involved the safety of the hospital and its research programs.”

"What's that you say?" his father cried out in alarm and hurried forward.
"The research program? What's going on in there?" He darted thru the open
door.

Mike hurried Harold and Terry into the chamber after him. Once inside, the
young man threw a switch and the door swung closed automatically. As his
father looked around in confusion, Michael twirled the handles of the door on
the inside. Outside the wheels turned and sealed the room. Mike flipped
another switch and the locking mechanism was engaged. Now the chamber
was sealed with no one outside it able to unlock the massive steel door.

Michael breathed a huge sigh of relief. "That's it," he announced

triumphantly. "We're locked in and it's locked out. That door is built to
withstand 150,000 pounds of pressure."

His father had been quietly conversing with Harold and now stepped over to
him. "Would you mind telling me just what on earth you are up to… and
what Mr. Feldman and Miss Wilkins have to do with this? Have you really
locked us in? What on earth for?"

"Just a minute, Dad, and I'll explain everything." He turned to his

companions. "Harold, settle yourself down and begin your meditation. It can't
come in here. There's tons of steel and concrete between us." The little artist
nodded and moved to the corner where he sat cross-legged on the floor and
closed his eyes.

Dr. Kalin lowered his voice to a whisper. "I don't know what sort of therapy,
you're attempting with Mr. Feldman, Michael, but I'm not sure that it's the
best thing for him to become involved again with his Oriental religious
practices. There's a lot of delusional material tied up in this meditation
business. I admit whatever you’ve been doing with him so far has been
effective. His recovery has been remarkable… not that I haven't seen similar
transitions in catatonics before… but usually it doesn't last.

"By the way, what's the Wilkins woman got to do with all this? There was a
report she may be involved in the slaughter of that unfortunate brain damaged
patient, Hodges. She also may have abducted Feldman. She's not assigned to
his case at any rate."

Harold spoke from his corner, still with his eyes closed. “I’m having trouble
visualizing it, Mike. What did Master Teshoo say?"

“Wait a minute, Dad,” Michel said and hurried over to sitting artist.

"He said 'hair by hair… cell by cell…'"

Harold blinked his eyes open.

"That's the trouble. I have always meditated on Master Teshoo's face. What
the Tulpa became is not what I had been picturing. Right now all I can come
up with is Master Teshoo."

Mike paced anxiously back and forth. "But you've got to bring him into
focus, Harold."

"You don't understand, Mike. I've hardly ever seen it. I was unconscious most
of the time that I was with it."

Dr. Kalin grabbed his son's arm and tried to draw him away from Feldman.

"That sounds very delusional, Michael. You'd better not press him further; he
could regress back into his catatonic state. Also, try to keep him off the
subject of that fakir, Teshoo. It may be that old fool was the start of his
problems."

"Quiet, Dad. Master Teshoo's dead, anyway."

"Another one!" his father exclaimed, looking suspiciously at Harold. "Was it

the same M.O.?" he whispered.
"The same what?" his son said, blankly.

"M.O. You know… 'Modus Operandi'… method of operating. Doesn’t

anyone watch television anymore?” he asked, exasperated.

"Yes, yes,” Mike answered, impatiently. "I'm sure it was the same M.O."

Dr. Kalin rolled his eyes over at Harold and asked in a whisper, "Was he in
the area when it happened?"

"He was with me the whole time," Mike said, watching Harold’s brow knit in
concentration.

His father rolled his eyes the other way, to where Terry sat, exhausted in a
chair.

"Was she in the area of the murder?" he asked, urgently.

"What," Mike said, distractedly. "Oh no… don't worry about Terry, Dad,
she's O.K. Now stop talking for a moment, you’ll distract Harold."

The little man groaned. "It's no use,” he almost wept. “All I get is Master
Teshoo's face."

Terry looked up at his words. "I’ve got an idea, Mikey."

Dr. Kalin flinched at hearing a mere attendant call his son by a nick-name.

"I wish you wouldn’t encourage familiarity with the staff," he whispered in
an aside. "I've found in the long run that it only leads to personnel problems."

Ignoring his father, Mike asked. "What is it, Terry?" Harold also looked at
her expectantly.

"Well,” she said, slowly, "from what Harold says, this thing is trying to find
him, but he's been hiding himself from it, right?"
The little man nodded. "O.K.,” she continued, drawing a deep breath, like a
swimmer before plunging into deep-water. "Stop hiding. Let him see you,
and maybe at the same time, you'll be able to see him."

Harold went white at her words, his voice a choked whisper. "You don't
know what he’s like, Terry. He's cruel… vicious… and so powerful. I don't
know if I will be able to resist his will."

"But he's living in your creation, it's not his yet," Mike said, excitedly. "And
if you don't try now, while he’s weakened by the fight with Master Teshoo,
then the old Lama died in vain."

"Yeah,” Terry added. "And I bet the old man is still around waiting to help
you if you’ll only try."

Dr. Kalin looked alarmed at this exchange.

"What kind of therapy are you two trying with this patient? Is it a form of
psycho-drama?"

Harold looked at the psychiatrist, “Dr. Kalin, shut up!" he said, sharply.

The doctor gasped in astonishment… and fell into a shocked silence.

Harold's will hardened into resolution.

"You're right, Terry… Mike. I've got to risk it."

He fell back into his meditative pose and almost at once to quiver and
tremble.

"Ohmygodohmygod," he moaned as though in agony, “it's here."

Terry leaped to her feet, eyes wide and staring.

"Where?" she cried, looking around wildly.

"Outside the door," the little man was almost weeping in fear.

"This is ridiculous, Michael," his father broke in. "You’re going to send him
right back into his catatonic state by provoking such high levels of anxiety."
He stepped forward.

"Look here, Harold," he said firmly. “There's nothing out there to be afraid
of. Here… I'll open the doors and you can see for yourself."

He walked to the switch and had his hand on it while Terry was suddenly at
his side… her knife open and threatening.

"Doctor, if you touch that switch I'm gonna cut off your hand," she warned. "I
may not have been able to put a mark on that Tulpa Voodoo, but I sure as hell
can change your appearance in a permanent way,"

Mike leaped between them.

"Calm down, Terry," he ordered, and led his father away. "Just sit down over
here and don't interfere, Dad," he urged.

"But… but it's my hospital," the psychiatrist said in shock. "How can I be
interfering in my own hospital?"

Mike patted him on the arm while Terry stood in front of the door, guarding
it.

"Look, Michael and Harold," Dr. Kalin said. "I can prove to you there's no
one out there, and nothing to be afraid of."

He pointed to one of the consoles near him on a series of panels.

"This intercom communicates with the laboratory outside." He flipped a

switch. "Now if someone's out there we should be able to communicate with
them," he explained, patiently. "So you can see there's no reason to be
afr…"
The intercom suddenly came alive with a huffing, sloughing sound like some
great beast was panting in the outer laboratory. Dr. Kalin looked at the
speaker in surprise.

"Now what the Devil is that?" he asked in annoyance. The others looked at
the intercom in horror.

"The Devil is just what that is," Terry said, fearfully.

Dr Kalin regarded them thoughtfully. "I'm sure there's a logical and natural
explanation," he reassured them. “In fact, I think I've got it. It sounds like
someone has turned on the tape of the underwater environment sounds the
Navy supplied us for their research program. That must mean someone's in
the outer laboratory having a little fun with us."

He flipped up a switch on a microphone and spoke into it sharply. "That's not

very funny, whoever’s out there. We have a therapy session going on in here
and you’re interfering."

There was a roar of rage from the speaker that threatened to shatter it. Dr.
Kalin instinctively jumped back, his face rapidly paling. Mike, his face as
white as his father's, pushed past him and switched off the speaker, silencing
the savage voice.

"My word!" his father said. "I don't recall that on the environment tape."
Then, after a moment's reflection he added, "I think it must be a malfunction
in the air conditioning system."

He brightened hopefully at his own words.

"That's it… of course! I told maintenance there was a problem some time
ago, but you know how they are, they never come promptly even if it's the
head of the hospital making the request."

But no one was listening to him now. Harold had again assumed his
meditation posture but was staring despairingly at Mike and Terry.
"You hear that?" he asked. "How am I supposed to take that thing on?"

Mike snapped his fingers. "There's something else Master Teshoo said, as the
Tulpa got stronger he would become less beast-like. Terry, you remember
how you said he was speaking like a college professor? Now he's fallen back
to the growling and roaring level."

"What does it mean, Mike?" Harold asked, expressions of hope and fear
rippling alternately across his face.

"I think the struggle with Master Teshoo weakened him, as the Lama hoped it
would. Now he's lost some of his basic strength… is more animal like, and
should be easier to fight."

Harold's face brightened as his hope suddenly flared up to dominate his fear.
Without a word he closed his eyes and a moment later said excitedly, "Yes…
I can feel it. He is weaker."

Then in elation, he cried out, "I did it. I just plucked a hair from him. And
another… another…."

As though from a great distance, they could hear a muffled roar, and a
moment later a dull thud as though some great blow had landed against the
massive steel door. Harold was silent now, caught up in the concentration of
his mental exercise. Blows fell against the door with increasing fury, and
Terry began to weep.

"Oh, Lord Jesus," she cried. "He's gonna break in."

Mike stepped over to her and comforted her.

"There's no way he can break through that door, Terry," he reassured her.
"We're safe in here."

Still the heavy thuds fell, and a fine network of cracks began to appear in the
plaster walls on either side of the door. Overhead fine bits of plaster were
dislodged and came floating down and Terry moaned again.
Dr. Kalin stood up and with a forced cheerfulness sang out, “Not to worry,
folks. It's only a malfunction in the hydraulic system which opens and closes
the door. There’s nothing out there and absolutely nothing to worry about."

He lowered his voice to a confidential tone.

"Actually, the manufacturer's maintenance contract was supposed to cover it,

but I let it lapse when the Federal grant expired and wasn't renewed. Since
the whole installation belongs to the Navy anyway, I just let things go.
Whenever they come to pick up this experimental unit, I’ll tell them about the
malfunc…"

BOOM!! BOOM!! BOOM!! Now large hunks of plaster fell from the walls
and ceilings. Dr. Kalin sat down again, white faced.

"Oh, my," he murmured. "It really has gotten much worse, hasn’t it?"

He looked around at the others, all as ashen-faced as he was.

"Perhaps now would be a good time to call maintenance to come and release
us?" he asked, hopefully.

Mike rushed past him and dropped to his knees alongside Harold. The little
artist’s hair was drenched in sweat and his face was screwed into a knot with
the mental effort he was making. Tentatively, he put a hand on Harold's
shoulder. The artist's eyes opened and stared into his own. His voice was a
whisper Mike had to strain to hear.

"I've got his face looking like Master Teshoo again… the way he was when I
created him the first time. But his body is still big and hairy. He's given up
trying to fight me; instead he's putting all his effort into breaking in here. If
he comes through the door, Mike, you have to kill me. Now that he's
reverting to the Master Teshoo form, if I die I doubt he'll be able to hold the
Tulpa together without my will. Once I'm dead, the Tulpa will dissolve and
he'll be forced to abandon it. He'll have to wait for some other fool to try to
create life from nothing."
Mike shook Harold gently. "Don't think negatively… and don’t project your
need to be punished for any guilt you may feel onto the situation. You won't
have to die, Harold. Just keep pulling pieces of him off until there's nothing
left."

Harold looked past him to Terry.

"You wanted to kill me once to avenge Jefferson Hope's death. Promise me if

that thing gets thru to us, you'll kill me to save the rest of you… and maybe
humanity, too."

Terry stared at him in horror and tears welled up in her eyes.

"Man," she whispered, "you're talking some kinda crazy trash. Why don't you
just go back to thinkin' that thing away?"

Harold closed his eyes again and concentrated.

"I'm going to try to dissolve one of his arms… finger by finger."

He bit his lip until blood flowed down his chin.

"There… his little finger is gone… another… another… his hand… I'm
stripping away the flesh and… there’s nothing underneath," he said in a voice
of horror.

The pounding on the door lessened for a moment, then ceased. Harold
suddenly recoiled as though he had been struck.

"Argggh," he cried in agony. "It's me," he screamed and clutched his arm.
"I'm destroying myself. My arm is gone. I’m fading away, too."

Mike shook him by both arms.

"No, you're not" he shouted. "Look at your arms. They’re both still there."
But Harold's eyes were wild now. "That's me out there. He’s shown me the
truth at last. I created him out of my own lust, my own hate, my own rage…
he's all of my own unconscious desires made real and alive."

"No," Mike insisted. "That's only part of you. We all have anger, lusts, and
the desire to dominate. But you don't have to use these things for evil. The
Bible… all the Masters… teach us we have free will. You can be free of him
if you will it."

The little man's face took on renewed hope again and, as though sensing its
ploy had failed, the Tulpa's pounding on the door resumed with more fury
than before. Now the metal of the center bulged as it stretched inwards and a
crack appeared in the metal.

"Oh, my sweet Jesus, he's breaking thru," Terry moaned and ran to Mike. He
put his arms around her and together they stared wide-eyed as the center
stretched paper thin under another tremendous blow. "One more and it's
gone," Mike breathed softly.

Dr Kalin cringed away. "Get back, everyone" he called out. "It's going to
explode."

Then Harold leaped, screaming, to his feet.

"I reject you," he cried out, shrilly.

Pushing wildly past Mike and Terry, and brushing aside Dr.Kalin, he stood
before the door and shook his fists at it.

"You hear me," he cried. "I reject you. You are nothing… nothing to me."

The center of the door burst suddenly inwards… the electric wiring crackling
as it short-circuited. The lights in the room flickered out. There were flashes
of blinding light as electricity arced across the door and instinctively the
room's occupants flinched away, shielding their eyes.

That was why they only vaguely saw a massive hand crash through the center
of the door and seize Harold by the head. The huge fingers squeezed
convulsively, collapsing the bones of face and skull, spraying gouts of blood
and bits of brain between the fingers. For a moment the human’s body hung
suspended from the monstrous hand, then slowly slipped downwards, as
though the fingers that held him were losing substance and his more solid
flesh was passing through their nebulous form.

Almost at the instant Terry and Michael’s vision cleared, the monstrous hand
faded… winking out of existence even as what remained of Harold Feldman
slumped silently to the floor. The lights flickered a few seconds more, then
steadied, illuminating the scene. For a moment no one moved. Abruptly,
Terry pulled free of Mike's protective embrace, turning away from the
ghastly ruin above Harold’s shoulders, and was sick. Dr. Kalin hurried
forward, but he could see at a glance there was no cure in medical science for
what ailed his patient.

"Poor devil," he murmured. "He must have caught that explosion right in the
face." He ran his hands nervously over his head. "I hope for Cindy's sake the
Institute’s insurance covers something like this." He turned to his son. “That
malfunctioning hydraulic system couldn't be construed as an act of God,
could it, Michael? I don't think we’re covered for acts of God."

His son looked at him in amazement. "You mean to say you think this was all
a malfunctioning hydraulic system?"

His father's voice was shaking and with a tremendous effort, he pulled
himself together.

"You mean to say you think it was something other than the hydraulic
system?" he demanded. "What then? Goblins, ghosties… long legged
beasties?"

"Didn't you see the hand?" Michael asked.

"Don't bother, Mikey," Terry said, wearily wiping her mouth on a sleeve.
"Sister Laylah told me once you either believe in the Voodoo, or you believe
in something else. Either way… you believe in sumthin’, or there ain't
anyone gonna let hisself be argued out'a his belief."

Dr. Kalin gingerly stepped past Harold's remains and twirled the handles on
the door, swinging it outwards.

"Amazing how it still works on manual controls. It was a very good piece of
machinery. The Navy is going to be disappointed to hear it malfunctioned so
badly. Phew, what’s that horrible smell? Must be the insulation on the wiring
that burned," he concluded.

Terry and Mike looked at each other as Dr. Kalin turned up the air
conditioning. The explosion had cracked open the glass aquarium and the
flies inside had been freed. They were buzzing about, but the smell of fresh
blood drew them like a magnet to feast on Feldman’s bloody remains. As
they passed a closed window, Dr. Kalin observed, "Now there's a puzzle for
an entomologist… a fly that refuses to go where his companions are having
dinner and wants out altogether. Refusing to eat available food… I would call
that suicidal, if we were talking about a person."

Michael and Terry looked at the window. Sure enough one fly was wildly
beating against the glass in an effort to reach the outer world. Mike went to
the window to lift it and release the struggling fly when his father said,
sharply, "What are you going to do? You’ll let all the other flies in the area
get in here."

"Think of it as a form of a non-chemical, pest control, Dad. If this little

fellow is able to escape and reproduce, he’ll pass along his suicidal genes and
a whole generation of flies would be born which refuse to eat. It's just
possible the fly population of central Jersey could die of starvation in a few
generations."

His father shrugged and walked toward the entrance.

Again Mike started to raise the window, but Terry grabbed his arm.

"Wait, Mikey," she said, staring at the buzzing fly's frantic efforts. "Didn't
Master Teshoo say somethin' about that T'fang leaving the Tulpa if he
thought it might be destroyed?"

"Yeah," Mike said, thoughtfully. "He said it could take refuge anywhere,
even in some lower life form, which would be unable to resist its possession."

Terry quoted in tones of growing horror, "In something like a fly… where it
could bide it's time and regain its strength."

Almost as though it understood their speech, the fly darted away. Or, perhaps
it was the invitation of the doors to the entrance of the building which Dr.
Kalin had just thrown open. As fast as it could, it streaked for the outside
world.

Mike hurled himself across the room and threw the switch which activated
the Venus Fly Trap. At once its peculiar humming filled the air, and the flies
crawling over the body behind them lifted up from the corpse and flew in a
straight line to the hungry maw of the electronic trap, to disappear in a
succession of flaming deaths.

The fly which had not joined the others at the feast had already reached the
open doors. Yet, instead of making good its escape, the hum of the electric
fly trap seemed to draw it back. As though it was in a conflict within itself, it
veered away from the death dealing device, flying in wide circles that were
inexorably growing smaller and closer to the source of the deadly humming.
Instinct seemed to be warring with whatever other force was driving it. For a
final moment it hesitated, hanging in the air for a long breath then darted
suddenly into the electric arcs. There was a flash of flame as it was
incinerated, and simultaneously, a high pitched shriek of ancient hate and
rage keened shrilly in the air; then faded away into a vast distance.

"Now, it is over," Terry said, thankfully, as her hand sought Mike’s.

"Yes," he agreed, thoughtfully. "It is over… for now." He slipped an arm

around her waist, and leaning on each other for support, they walked away
from the horrors behind them.
 THE END

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