Caller unknown, p.2
Caller Unknown, page 2
And then there was black and he went down to the silence.
Mrs. Frome saw that the children had fallen under the spell of the cross: to a one, their pupils were dilated, their faces slack.
She slowly stopped the motion of the cross.
“What’s the first number?” she asked the children quietly.
Like a choir of ghosts they whispered, “Sixty-six.”
“Louder now,” she said, and they repeated “Sixty-six,” but this time the number burst from them, sharper, higher; shocking in the otherwise growing stillness. The birdsong died. It was as if nature heard.
The children were a little out of time, but a cold thrill went up Mrs. Frome’s spine.
She composed herself. “Louder,” she ordered.
Again, they weren’t quite together. The drugs and sessions of group chanting in the basement had instilled in them a perfect synchronicity, but the strangeness of the day had apparently thrown them out of it again. Did it matter that they were off cadence a bit?
“Sixty-six. Sixteen. Sixteen. Fourteen.” Their voices sounded stronger.
They were on the path. “Where do these numbers lead?” she asked.
“To Armageddon,” they answered.
“Where is Armageddon?”
Their voices went down several octaves, to an unearthly growl that thrilled her even more. It was as if the Devil spoke. “We are here,” they chanted.
“And what is Armageddon?”
“The final battle.”
Mrs. Frome shivered again. She whispered, “Consummatum est.”
With that, she turned and walked back toward the gas station. The kids turned and shambled after her, their faces slack, like the undead.
Frome shepherded them from the rear. They circled the mound and walked across the back lot to the bus. Mrs. Frome stopped at its door and the kids bumped into each other like zombies, then shuffled into their semicircle again.
“OK,” she said. “Now it’s time to forget—forget the numbers of Armageddon and all that you have learned here in the woods. Your past is nothing, your future blank, until you are awoken to do the Lord’s work. What must you wait to hear?”
And she led them in the verse: “How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? Forever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?” The kids followed, their voices high once more, almost innocent—it was like a prayer in church when the congregation lags just a tiny beat behind the celebrant.
“When will you wake again?” Mrs. Frome asked when the last of the voices had trailed off.
“When the Beast calls.” The voices fell down those octaves again.
“What are the Beast’s numbers?”
“Sixty-six. Six. Six.”
“And what are these numbers called?”
“The Beast and One,” they intoned.
“And what are the words of the Beast and One?”
“And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and wine.”
This time the chorus was perfect.
She clapped her gloved hands and said abruptly, “Wake!” and they did, like those suddenly woken from a deep sleep. They looked bewildered when they saw her, Frome, the bus, the gas station, and the Texaco sign now almost invisible in the twilight, as if seeing them for the first time.
Mrs. Frome nodded at Frome. He opened the door of the bus and the interior lights came on, flooding the scene with a wan yellow light. He went up the steps and pulled out a J.C. Penney bag from under the driver’s seat.
“Get onto the bus,” Mrs. Frome ordered.
As they started to file up, she frowned. She had been distracted earlier and so, too, it seemed, had Frome. One of the kids, Hope, had brought her personal item with her despite her instructions. It was only a pink plastic ring that she was wearing, oddly on her engagement finger. Mrs. Frome took hold of Hope’s tiny hand, yanked the ring off and threw it across the lot.
“What did I say to you?” she growled as the girl’s face scrunched. “Mr. Frome, inspect the bags.”
Frome lumbered back down the steps and roughly took each of the bags from the kids’ shoulders and unzipped them. He got to Shannon’s and found the hidden Snoopy jacket, unballed it and showed it to Mrs. Frome.
Before she could take it, Shannon took a step forward and ripped it from his giant paw. She hugged the jacket defiantly to her chest.
“Why, you—” Mr. Frome growled but Mrs. Frome held up her hand, stilling him.
“Give me that,” she commanded. Shannon stared back, unyielding.
“Give me it,” she repeated. When Shannon didn’t comply, she lunged forward, seized the girl’s braids with one gloved hand and the hand with the jacket in the other and twisted savagely. Shannon yelped in pain and the bundle fell to the ground.
Ed jumped forward but Mrs. Frome released her hand from Shannon’s hair and back-slapped him; he collapsed, his eyes glazed, his nose trickling blood.
Oh well, nine years of no slapping and now this, Mrs. Frome thought. The instructions had been clear: no corporal punishment, no injuries, no hospitals, no records. The slap was satisfying, though, she had to admit that. And only a slap. She reached down, picked up the jacket and hurled it after Hope’s ring into the weeds.
“Now, on the bus,” she said.
Shannon helped Ed get back to his feet. He wiped the snot and blood from his nose.
“You OK?” she asked. Her brown eyes were full.
He didn’t answer.
Mrs. Frome turned and went to the Chevy, yanked open the door and got in behind the wheel.
“Come on,” Shannon said and took Ed’s hand. They went up the steps of the bus.
CHAPTER FOUR
Frome ordered the kids to sit facing him on the benches at the front of the bus, then took a two-gallon plastic container out of the J.C. Penney bag along with some of those tiny paper cups found by watercoolers in doctors’ offices.
“Thirsty work, eh?” he asked with fake solicitude. He ignored the sniffs of Ed, Shannon, and Hope. “I have some OJ here for you.” He sloshed the liquid inside the container invitingly, though, given the heat of the evening, the juice must be blood-warm by now. He took one of the cups and poured a measure, then approached Kevin on the first bench. Frome told him to open his mouth and tilt his head back. Kevin complied. Frome forced the cup between the boy’s lips. Kevin gagged but swallowed.
He went from Kevin to Hope and repeated the procedure. Hope also gagged and Frome wondered if, in fact, he should have checked in with Mrs. Frome before he added that extra dose; he had tried a little by way of experimentation a week or so before. The stuff tasted a little chemical even in beer. And, boy, talk about lights out. He’d woken in the depths of the night, disorientated, without any idea where he was or what time it was.
Well, it was too late to start second-guessing now. He would give the others a little less. He went from one seat to another until he reached the last two. Ed and Shannon. There was a smear of blood on Ed’s lip from Mrs. Frome’s blow. The two kids held each other close.
Frome held up the by now soggy cup to Shannon. Some of the liquid splattered on the floor. “Drink,” he said.
“No,” she said.
She was giving him the look again. He eyed her braids—they were a weakness, as Mrs. Frome had already proved. He reached out his free hand, seized a handful and yanked back, then applied the cup to her lips and tilted it. She gagged, then spat the stuff out on his shirt front. He cursed, released her hair and, forgetting all restraint, cuffed her heavily. Ed’s arm shot out but Frome back-slapped him too and the boy’s head cracked against the dusty window behind him and for a moment the kid’s eyes rolled up into their sockets. Oh well, three slaps in one night. In for a dime, in for a dollar.
Frome reached behind for the container and chugged some more OJ into the paper cup, not minding that it overflowed and splashed on the buttoned cushions. The boy was still groggy and Frome grasped him firmly by the lower jaw so his mouth opened, tipped his head back and forced the OJ between his teeth, then clamped the mouth shut again, the way you give a cat a pill.
He let the kid go and Ed’s head flopped back against the headrest; the whites of his eyes were still showing. He was out, whether through the blow or the drugs, he couldn’t tell.
He turned to Shannon. A purple welt showed through her brown skin by her left eye. She was staring at him.
“So, little lady, what’s it going to be? Wanna fight? It makes it more fun.” He gave her the smile.
She swallowed, then held out a hand. It trembled. She took the cup. Frome wondered if he was going to get it on his shirt again. She dry-swallowed, then tipped the paper cup back and the drugged juice was gone. Like a Greek philosopher taking hemlock.
Shannon stared at him for a moment longer, then the light seemed to ebb out of her eyes, just like when Mrs. Frome had been swinging the crucifix, and she leaned back against the headrest, her eyes rolled up and she was gone. Christ, maybe he had overdone that dose.
Frome checked on the other kids. All out. He glanced at Mrs. Frome waiting in the Chevy. She had the vanity light on, doing her makeup. Cool as ever. He waved to her. She closed the compact, nodded at him, then the vanity went off, the headlights came on and the engine of the Chevy roared into life. She put it into gear, drove out to the road and turned in the direction of the Lot and the Canadian border.
Nine years of the ice maiden and, poof, just like that, he was finally out from under her feet: “Now, Mr. Frome, do you think it’s nice to leer at the children so much?” or “There’s an odor in the cabin, Mr. Frome. I do hope you have been washing?” and so on.
The taillights vanished and she was gone.
He still didn’t know her real name; he guessed he would never know it. She had ordered, he had complied. Occasionally the loneliness of the cabin had gotten the better of him and he’d thought of making a play for her, then, invariably, thought better of it—he was pretty sure how such an overture would be met. But a man had to dream better than the whores he met on Highway 1 during his resupply trips. Skinny heroin addicts for the most part. Nine years of not much satisfaction.
Anyway, there was one big attraction remaining before he dumped the kids. He had timed the explosion for just after she had passed the turnoff to the cabin. By then it would be nearly full dark and the smoke would likely not be noticed until the next day, but no point taking any chances.
There was going to be nothing left as evidence of what had happened at Eriksson’s Lot. He had placed the dynamite, blasting caps, det cord, the 55-gallon drums of gasoline, and several unused propane canisters strategically at the house’s core, beneath the wooden hall floor and the wood staircase.
The house had a nice wooden heart, Frome thought. The scent of pine sap, rich with fast-burning pitch, had been heady as he’d worked.
His real name was Eugene Macdonald Dubois. He had missed college, but had caught up when serving time in Stillwater for arson and then the nine years here in the woods. He had learned, for one, that all nature yearned to return to ash. After all, that was the Earth’s ultimate fate: it would be swallowed by the sun in seven and a half billion years. But not all Creation had to wait that long. Yes, if the Lord pleased, when the Lot went it would be that friggin’ hot, as hot as the sun at its core.
After Stillwater he’d left Minnesota for Maine, intent on turning his back on his fire-starting past. He began hauling loads over the border into Canada. Tough years in which the temptation raged in him, like a burning imp stirring the embers of his heart. Yet he kept the desire in check—at first. There were nights when the gas can and rags and Zippo under the driver’s seat called out to him with such intent that they drowned out the chatter on the CB.
It was his nature. He had to succumb, and did so eventually—three times, in short order.
One night soon after the third of the incidents he was in a truck stop outside Waterville. A man sat down on the banquette opposite him in the diner. There were plenty of spare seats elsewhere in the joint. After prison, Eugene didn’t like being crowded. Keeping people at arm’s length—that’s how he liked it. So he was irritated when the stranger didn’t yield to the “don’t fuck with me” look he’d worked on in Stillwater.
The man looked back at Eugene placidly: a gray square jaw, gray buzz cut, steely eyes, taut muscled body that suggested military veteran; a man who might now be an agent of some sort. Alarm bells began going off.
“Don’t think I invited you,” Eugene said, but with less assurance than he would have liked.
The man didn’t blink. “So I noticed,” he answered.
Eugene stopped chewing. “So why don’t you git?” he asked.
“Strikes me you might like some company,” the man said. “Bad for the digestion eating alone. Besides, I like shooting the breeze, you know? Especially talking about my travels, places I’ve visited. Maybe you’re the same? You’re a trucker, ain’t you? Bet you’ve visited some. How about Godley’s Farm, Dark Ridge, and Jesmond’s Country Store—bet you been to them places.”
Eugene’s blood ran cold; the stranger had named the sites of the three burnings.
He stood abruptly, ready to punch the guy in the face or maybe run—in the split second he wasn’t sure which—but the man’s hand was suddenly gripping his forearm like a vise. He stared at Eugene with those impassive gray eyes.
At Eugene’s sudden movement the diner had gone quiet and heads were turned. One of those looking over in his direction was wearing a sheriff’s uniform.
The man’s voice didn’t lift despite the effort of restraining Eugene. “Just sit the fuck down and don’t make a scene, Dubois. If you do, Sheriff Watson over there is likely to come over and ask what’s goin’ on. He happens to be a particular friend of mine.”
“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” Eugene said. Nevertheless, he sat.
“I didn’t ask you to talk,” the man said. The man held on to his arm. To an onlooker it must have looked like they were in an arm-wrestling match.
“As I was saying,” the man continued, as evenly as before, “if you continue to attract the attention of the sheriff, you may be arrested. Then Watson’ll start making inquiries about you and I think we both know where that will lead. With your record and the unsolved arson attacks in the area, he’ll have probable cause to search your truck. And, if he does, he’s going to find some interesting stuff under your driving bench, ain’t he? There’s enough to tie you to those three burnings right there. In addition to mean ol’ juries up here we have some mean ol’ judges on the circuit too. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d be looking at the full thirty years, without parole.”
As well as never blinking, the man seemed not to draw breath.
Eugene shrank back into the banquette. “If you want money, I ain’t got much,” he said weakly.
The man smiled and relinquished his grip. Eugene rubbed his forearm. There were five distinct red marks on it as if it’d been squeezed by a five-fingered vise.
The stranger’s lips formed into what might have been a slight smile but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.
“Eugene—you mind if I call you Eugene?” he said. “I’m Henry. Relax—I don’t want your money. Fact is, I may want to pay you some. Quite a bit. A lot more than you’ll ever earn hauling loads on the 95.”
Then Henry laid things out. It was a harsh deal. In fact, it was, in quality, not much different to doing time. It differed in two crucial aspects: the duration and a very large cash payment at the end. A million bucks. As Henry described it, nine years in the wilderness, “just looking after a bunch of kids. It’ll be like falling off a log.”
The reality had been far different. When Mrs. Frome laid out the program he thought it was a joke: a twisted joke, but a joke nonetheless. He’d heard the rumors about the CIA and its brainwashing programs but hadn’t really believed them. Now he did.
The nine years in the cabin were nothing like falling off a log. They had sure “looked after” those kids: after all the sessions in the basement, some of them were now no better than the walking dead.
There was one cherry on the dung heap. Back in Waterville, Henry had told him he would get to burn the place down when the nine years was up. He would get to burn bodies too. It would have to be done real good, because in the end these corpses, or the very little that remained of them, would have to pass for him and Mrs. Frome.
The corpses were now waiting at the Lot for their moment. Last night, after he’d set the charges, he’d applied Vaseline under his nose, put on a face covering and gone back out to the truck, dropped the tail and dragged out the two human-sized packages wrapped in plastic and duct tape that were concealed there. Though he had chosen new ones from his contact at the Paris Town Crematorium in New Hampshire, the long journey and the summer heat had had the obvious consequences, hence the Vaseline. The relatives of the two corpses had already been given some ashes in an urn, but the remains were from animals cremated at the veterinarian’s. Eugene smiled: the actual cremations of their loved ones had been deferred, but only for a little while.
He’d pushed the bodies through the coal hatch and they thudded onto the basement floor below. He went through the cabin and down the cellar steps, took a breath and dragged the corpses over to the gasoline drum, the propane tanks, and explosives. Then he pushed the trolleys with the drugs and hypodermics, the tape machine, home- movie equipment and the reels of film, and the chairs with their leather restraints over to join them.
Nothing could save this house and its secrets. When the Feds came, as they surely would, all they would find would be a vast smoking crater and traces of his and her bones. Unidentifiable; known only to God.
