Intervention

  SAMPSON: But you said you didn't start the fire deliberately. Why do you blame yourself?

  LUCILLE: My room was right next to the one where the piano was. The fire started in that wall — the firemen could tell. I hadn't been smok­ing or anything dumb like that, but the whole wall near my bed and the piano on the other side of it somehow caught fire.

  SAMPSON: An electrical short.

  LUCILLE: There was no outlet on that wall, and only an ordinary lamp near the piano... Later on, they thought I might have walked in my sleep and lit a match. I told them it was my fault, you see. That I did it. But I didn't dare explain how! I dreamed that fire. The dream became more and more real... and finally, it was real.

  SAMPSON: What do you mean by that?

  LUCILLE: I did it with my mind. My unconscious. I'm one of them — the freaks that Remillard tests over at the parapsychology lab. He hunted me out long before he came to Dartmouth, when I was eleven. Later on, he and his Coterie wanted me to come here to school. I didn't want to, but there was the scholarship and my folks put on the pressure. I came when I was sixteen, and then Remillard really shifted into high gear. I should be grateful all to hell to assist the boy genius in his researches, even if I could only do a little telepathy when the moon was right, and melt ice cubes and jiggle tables. Dumb, useless things! I told him no. He kept on bugging me for three years, though, and so did his mind-worm clique! I told him all I wanted to do was live a normal life, study a legitimate science like biochemistry in­stead of waste time on occult nonsense. And I will!

  SAMPSON: Excuse me, Lucille. You're an intelligent young woman. Don't you see any contradiction in what you've been saying?

  LUCILLE: Remillard and his people give me the creeps — and I won't be experimented upon!

  SAMPSON: I understand that. You want help. But why do you think I'm the one who can give it to you — rather than Remillard?

  LUCILLE: It's a psychiatric problem. It really has nothing to do with parapsychology except — in its manifestation.

  SAMPSON: You are convinced that this incendiary faculty is a genuine paranormal phenomenon?

  LUCILLE: [laughs] There's even a name for it in folklore: fire-raising. Look it up in any compendium of witchcraft. You'll find true stories about people who start fires without any equipment — produce it out of thin air. Some of them even manage to burn themselves to death.

  SAMPSON: You only did this once, when you were thirteen?

  LUCILLE: I'm... not sure. We had other house-fires, small ones, when I was younger. There always seemed to be a natural explanation.

  SAMPSON: The piano burning might have had one. A freak lightning strike, for example.

  LUCILLE: It was me! My resentment of poor Dad. He only had time for his illness and the damn piano and never any time for me...

  SAMPSON: Let's suppose your self-analysis is correct. Why do you think you're playing with fire again now, at this particular time?

  LUCILLE: I don't know! That's why I came to you in the first place, when Denis Remillard's badgering got me so edgy last February and I couldn't sleep or study. I thought you'd just prescribe some Valium, but instead you got me into this analysis that didn't seem to help at all.

  SAMPSON: You never spoke to me about being harassed by Remillard or his people.

  LUCILLE: I didn't want you to know. I thought... oh, hell. Now you do know. Can't you help me? What if the fire nightmares start up here at Dartmouth like they did at home this summer?

  SAMPSON: They haven't yet?

  LUCILLE: No.

  SAMPSON: You suffered from anxiety and depression here at school last spring, and yet the really serious warning from your unconscious only came to you when you tried to return home. Does that suggest any­thing to you?

  LUCILLE: I had to come back here. To you. That's what my mind was telling me.

  SAMPSON: Are you sure?

  LUCILLE: Yes.

  SAMPSON: I want to help you, Lucille. You must believe me. But you do understand that your analysis presents unique problems. All hu­mans carry within their unconscious a load of destructive wishes left over from early childhood. You've studied psychology. You know what I mean. The mother takes the nipple from the hungry baby's mouth and it becomes enraged. A little child is punished for being naughty and wishes its parents were dead. We all had feelings like this once and we repressed them, and sometimes this guilt or some­thing similar resurfaces in later life to give us psychic pain. But a toddler is too weak to murder its parents. And an adult who still unconsciously resents her father's neglect will not normally harm him physically. The unconscious may rage, but unless the person is psychotic it remains outwardly impotent and must find other outlets for its revenge.

  LUCILLE: But my unconscious isn't impotent...

  SAMPSON: Evidently not. And one might ask whether your conscious mind is similarly empowered.

  LUCILLE: God. What am I going to do?

  SAMPSON: The only useful answers in psychoanalysis are the ones you see clearly for yourself. I can guide you, but I can't force you to set your deep fears aside... And you are afraid of your paranormal pow­ers, Lucille. You'd like them to go away so you can be just like normal people —

  LUCILLE: Yes. Yes!

  SAMPSON: But it seems quite likely that the powers won't go away. So we'll have to predicate our coping strategy on that supposition, won't we?

  LUCILLE: [hotly] I know exactly what you're leading up to! And it has nothing to do with mind reading. Remillard!

  SAMPSON: I haven't had too much professional contact with him, but there are those on the Medical School faculty who think highly of his work. For all his youth, he's a meticulous researcher. His test subjects aren't treated like mental patients, you know. Most of them seem to be Dartmouth students like yourself —

  LUCILLE: And just why have so many of these psychic freaks come here? Why did I come? There was the scholarship offer, of course — but I felt an unnatural compulsion, too!

  SAMPSON: [patiently] Is it necessarily bad to want to associate with others who share your unusual mental faculties?

  LUCILLE: [despairingly] But I don't want them... I only want to stop burning... to be happy... to have someone understand me and love me.

  SAMPSON: Your unconscious wants you to be happy, too. It wants you to face your dilemma honestly instead of running away from it. The unconscious isn't a demon, Lucille. It's only you.

  LUCILLE: [after a silence] I suppose so.

  SAMPSON: No one can force you to participate in Dr. Remillard's ex­periments, Lucille. But you must ask yourself: Might your fear of him be irrational?

  LUCILLE: I don't know. I'm all mixed up. My head feels so feverish and my throat is so dry. Can I get some water?

  SAMPSON: Today's session is almost over... I have a suggestion. Let me find out some specifics of Remillard's research. Let me ask him — without mentioning you — about the general state of mental health among his subjects. Surely some of them must have experienced conflicts similar to yours. When I get more information, we can begin working out your coping strategy.

  LUCILLE: But not with him.

  SAMPSON: Not if you don't want to.

  LUCILLE: He'll want me to join his group. He'll coerce me.

  SAMPSON: [laughing] Over my dead body! And I played middle line­backer for the Big Green in '56!

  LUCILLE: [admiringly] It figures. And you have the perfect name.

  SAMPSON: Uh... well, that was long ago and far away. But you can rest assured that no one will coerce you into anything. Now, our time is up for today. Can you come again at the same time next Wednes­day?

  LUCILLE: Will the Center authorize more than one free therapy session a week for me? I mean, I can't afford —

  SAMPSON: That's all right. Your case is unusual. As a matter of fact, it's the most unusual one I've ever encountered... But you will sleep with a fire extinguisher nearby, won't you?

  LUCILLE: Yes, Doctor Bill. Goodbye.

  SAMPSON: Goodby
e, Lucille.

  8

  BERLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH

  20 MAY 1989

  DON REMILLARD DIDN'T go to the Blue Ox on Saturday nights much anymore, it being a lot cheaper to drink at home. But with Sunny waiting tables on the late shift at the Androscoggin Kitchen this week and Victor gone up to Pittsburg on some mystery errand, the younger brats would be running wild around the place. He'd end up belting a couple of them for sure, and then there'd be a row when Sunny got back — and God knows he had enough trouble with her already.

  So he went down to the Ox, settled in at his usual spot on the far end of the bar, and started working through his quota of Seagram's. A few of his old buddies greeted him, but none stuck around to interfere seri­ously with his drinking. Little by little the place filled up and the tunes played by the jukebox got louder. By ten o'clock Don was almost deaf­ened by the music and the racket made by the roistering mill-hands and loggers and their exuberant ladies. He had downed enough whiskey to be more or less skunk-bit and incapable — and it hadn't done a damn bit of good.

  He could still hear the obscene voices inside his head. The goddam telepaths. The ones who were out to get him.

  Just look at that pathetic fucker! Can't hardly hold a glass without it sloppin' over. Eyes like poached eggs in ketchup! Skritch-jawed and grubby and wearin' a week-old shirt.

  Crazy as an outhouse rat, too. Brains so pickled his power's petered away t'zilch. Won't belong now, he won't be able to shut us out. We'll nail him!

  May not have to bother, he screws up again like he did today. You see the way he tried to clear the throat of the whole-tree hog he let jam up!

  Hell, yes. Goddam jeezly bar-toad almost got chopped to red-flannel hash!... Hey, stupid! Finish the job next time. Do us all a favor!

  Do Victor a favor. What's he need a drunken old fart like you on the operation?

  "I taught him everything, dammit. Everything. "

  Pig's ass. Kid got the outfit percolatin' despite you.

  Yeah. That's right!

  "I taught him everything! How to use his powers. Never woulda done it without me. Green kid! Shit — I made that kid. "

  You made him what he is.

  Whatever that is! Haw haw haw...

  "Damn right... damn right. You tell 'im that. "

  Hey, Vic! How long you gonna put up with your drag-ass old man? How long you gonna let the old stumblebum bollix up your show? Listen, Vic. Bright kid like you don't hafta put up with shit like he pulls. Lookit today. Feedin' the new Omark the wrong kinda stems. Coulda broke the christly rig! Family loyalty can be mighty expensive. Take our advice. Tie a can to the old asshole. Hire somebody who knows what he's doin'!

  I'm considering it...

  "The hell you are!" Don muttered viciously.

  Old Ducky Duquette, who was nursing a bottle of Labatt's a little way down the bar, looked at him with an expression of mild surprise.

  Haw haw haw! You think Vic wouldn't get rid of you? Think again!

  Tell him, Vic. Tell him why you went up to Pittsburg tonight.

  Tell him!

  ... I'm putting it up to Howie Durant to come in with us. He's an experienced hand with whole-tree chippers.

  Way to go, Vic! Demote the old man to brush-piler. Better yet, get him off the operation altogether. He's an accident waitin' to happen, drinkin' on the job the way he does.

  Maybe the sooner the accident happens, the better!

  Wipe him out yourself, kid. Tip him over the edge. You don't hafta wait for us. Be our guest!

  ... It might be for the best. Easy enough to rig an accident with programmed incitement. His defenses are negligible now and his farspeech no longer has the range to alert Denis or Uncle Rogi.

  That's right, Vic. Be just another logging fatality. Happens all the time.

  Don slammed his shot glass down on the bar and yelled, "Oh no you don't, punk! I'll fry your fuckin' brains out first!"

  Ralph Pelletier, the Ox's owner, who was tending bar as usual, called out over the din, "Anything wrong down there?"

  Don forced a big grin and shook his head. "All I need's another dou­ble, double-quick!" He waved his glass.

  Pelletier brought the bottle and poured. Don downed the whiskey and immediately demanded more. The tavern-keeper said quietly, "You've had about enough for tonight, Don. Finish this and then give your liver a rest. "

  "Don't need your lectures, bonhomme. Just your booze. Un p'tit coup. " Don tossed money onto the mahogany. The bills fell into a puddle of spilled liquor.

  Pelletier scooped them up with a grimace of distaste. "Drink up and go home, Don. You hear what I'm saying?" He filled the double shot glass again. "I mean it. Hors d'ici. " He went away.

  Don mouthed silent curses after him. Pelly wanted to get rid of him. Everybody wanted to get rid of him! He sipped from the glass and groaned. All around him the Blue Ox patrons laughed and the voices inside his head recited fresh indecencies.

  Ducky Duquette edged closer, a tentative smile of sympathy creasing his weathered old chops. "Ca va, Don? Had a rough week?"

  Don could only laugh helplessly.

  "Trouble out at the chantier, maybe? The logging outfit has growing pains?"

  The mental voices chortled at the joke. Don pressed knuckles to his temples until pain submerged them, then lifted his glass with a trem­bling hand. "My damn kid's gettin' too big for his fuckin' britches. Throwing his weight around. "

  "Ah!" Ducky looked wise. "Such a clever boy, your Victor. But per­haps impatient? That's the way of the young. Still, he's doing very well, isn't he? I heard about the big new contract he landed with Saint William. Amazing that they accepted the bid of such a youthful entrepreneur, eh?"

  "Fuckin' fantastic, " Don muttered.

  "You can be proud, Don. What sons! First Denis le Mirobolant — and now Victor, with his own logging company at the age of nineteen. "

  "And I'm such a lucky bastard, Ducky. I get to work for my own wiseacre kid! I taught him everything. And now he wants to kick me out. " His face lit up in a sour smile. "But he won't get away with it. I know where a few bodies are buried... like how a shoestring operation like his is able to field so much expensive rolling stock. "

  Fold your face, you drunken blabbermouth!

  Vic — you gonna let him keep this up?

  Ducky had gone wary. He lowered his voice. "Tell you the truth, Don, there has been some talk. Lot of people wondered how Vic could afford that new Omark chip machine so soon after getting the second feller-buncher. Equipment like that don't grow on trees. "

  "Lemme tell you something, Ducky. " Don draped an arm around the old man's neck and spoke in a coarse whisper. "Any ol' wood rat knows that logging machinery does, too, grow on trees. All you hafta do is know what trees to look under. And when. "

  Will you shut up, you peasoupin' lush?

  He's gonna squeal, Vic. Don't say we didn't warn you. It's his fuckin' conscience, see. Confession's good for the soul, he thinks. Go ahead and confess, Don — we got the final absolution all ready!

  We'll show him what happens to finks!... Give him to us, Vic. Come on! What're you waitin' for—a posse of county mounties goin' over your stuff with a magnifying glass and an electronic sniffer?

  Don tittered. "Wouldn't find diddly. Got every damn ID number and beeper-trace fixed. Told you my Vic was smart. And I taught him ev­erything. " The injustice of it all overwhelmed him and his voice broke. "Everything, Ducky. Not just the mind-powers but the business, too. Vic was nothin' but a high school punk when they pink-slipped me at the mill. It was my idea to go into the woods and start cuttin' pulp-wood. "

  And you'd still be a low-bore stump-jumper operatin' with two chain saws and a pick-em-up if it wasn't for Vic!

  You taught him! He taught you!

  Who coerced the first big contract? Who rounded up the gear? Who found the right men, the ones who know how to keep zipped lips? Who keeps the whole show chargin' ahead in the black? Not you, you washed-up al
coholic cuntlapper.

  "No gratitude, " Don moaned. "From any of my children. "

  Ducky blinked and began drawing away. "Tough luck... "

  "I know what Vic's planning, " Don shouted. "But he won't get away with it! None of 'em will!" Heads were turning and he felt the pressure of hostile eyes delving after his dangerous secrets. Could the patrons of the Blue Ox hear the taunting voices, too? No — of course not! They were only in his head. They were only imaginary! What was wrong with Ducky, then, looking so shit-scared?... God! How much had he blabbed to the old fool?

  "Where the hell you think you're going?" Don grabbed Ducky by the front of the shirt. The old fellow yelped and pulled back, and his bottle of beer tipped and burbled onto the bar.

  Ralph Pelletier, his expression thunderous, called, "Goddammit, Don — what'd I tell you?"

  He knows! They all know! They'll tell Vic! Tell the cops!

  You spilled your guts just fine this time, fink!

  Don shook Duquette until his dentures rattled. "You won't tell! I never said anything about Vic's equipment. You hear me?"

  "He's crazy! He's crazy!" Ducky gibbered, hanging in Don's grip limp as a spawned-out salmon.

  Choke the lyin' sonuvabitch! Shut him up!

  Lute Soderstrom, who stood six-six and had once punched a hole in the radiator of a Kenwhopper, stepped up behind Don and took hold of his arms. A couple of other Blue Ox habitues pried Ducky loose.

  Don's howl was agonized. "You won't get away with it! You're all in it together, aren't you? All working with Vic and the others to finish me off!"

  "Ease him outside, " Pelletier said.