Image of the Beast / Blown

  jected to a psychiatric examination.

  One of the passengers in the car said that they must

  have been dazed. He knew them well, they were re-

  sponsible citizens, and they would never leave the scene

  of an accident unless they had been rendered half-

  conscious in a state of shock.

  "Maybe so," the policeman said. "But you have to ad-

  mit it's rather peculiar that all three should take off their

  clothes—slide out of them the way it looks to me—and

  run away. We were right behind you, and we didn't even

  see them leave."

  "It was raining very heavily," the passenger said.

  "Not that heavily."

  "What a night," the other policeman said.

  Childe tried to talk to the others in the accident, but

  only Forrest J (no period) Ackerman would reply. He

  seemed very concerned about a painting in the rear seat

  of Pao's car. He had removed it shortly after the police

  had arrived and put it in the back seat of his Cadillac.

  If the police observed this, they did not say anything.

  Now he wanted to get it back to his house.

  "I'll take you as soon as they let us go," Childe said.

  "Your house isn't far from here; it won't be any bother."

  He did not know what Ackerman's part in this was.

  He seemed to be an innocent victim, but then there was

  the transfer of the painting from Pao's car. How had

  Pao gotten hold of it? Also, there seemed to be two

  Paos. Were they twins?

  Forry Ackerman told him something of what had hap-

  pened on the way to his house. Childe became excited,

  because he had met Woolston Heepish when he was in-

  vestigating the disappearance of his partner, Colben.

  Childe decided that he would appear to go along with

  Ackerman's story. The man seemed to be sincere and

  genuinely upset and puzzled by what had happened.

  But it was possible that he was one of the Ogs, as

  Hindarf called them. It was also possible that he was one

  of the Tocs.

  When he drove up before Ackerman's house, he

  looked at it through the dark and the rain, and he said,

  "If I didn't know better, I would think Heepish lived

  here."

  "That man deliberately fixed his house to look like

  mine,'' Forry said. "That's why he's called 'the poor

  man's Forry Ackerman,' though I don't think he's so

  poor."

  They went inside and, while Ackerman hung the

  painting, Childe looked around. The layout of the

  house was the same, but the paintings and the other

  items were different. And this place was brighter and

  more inclined to science-fiction subjects than Heep-

  ish's.

  When Forry stepped down off the sofa with a sat-

  isfied smile, Childe said, "There's something wrong about

  this accident, other than the disappearance of Pao. I

  mean, I was chasing Pao in one car and the three

  men with him in the other. Yet you say you were chasing

  Pao, too."

  "That's right," Forry said. "It is puzzling. The whole

  evening has been puzzling and extremely upsetting. I

  have to get the latest issue of my comic book out to my

  publisher in New York, and I'm far behind. I'll have to

  work twice as fast to catch up."

  Childe interpreted this as meaning that he should

  leave at once. The man must really be dedicated to

  his work. How many could go back to their desk and

  work on a piece of fiction about vampires when they

  might have been associating with genuine vampires, not

  to mention genuine werefoxes and werewolves?

  "When you get your work done, and you're ready to

  talk," Childe said, "we'll get together. I have many

  questions, and I also have some information you might

  find interesting, though I don't know that you'll believe

  it."

  "I'm too tired to believe in anything but a good

  night's sleep, which I'm not going to get," Forry said.

  "I hate to be inhospitable, but …"

  Childe hesitated. Should he take up more of this man's

  time by warning him? He decided that it would be bet-

  ter not to. If he knew what danger he was really in,

  he would not be able to concentrate on his work. And

  knowing the danger would not help him in the least un-

  less he believed in it and fled from this area. That

  did not seem likely. Childe would not have believed

  such a story if he had not experienced it.

  He gave Forry his phone number and address and

  said, "Call me when you're ready to talk this over. I have

  a lot to tell you. Maybe together we can get a more

  complete picture."

  Forry said he would do so. He conducted Childe to the

  door but before he let him through, he said, "I think I'll

  take that painting into my office with me. I wouldn't

  put it past Heepish to try again."

  Childe did not ask why he did not call the police. Ob-

  viously, if he did, he would be held up even more in

  getting out Vampirella.

  30

  Herald Childe did not get home until seven in the

  morning. The rain had stopped by four-thirty, but

  the canyons were roaring streams. He was stopped by

  the police, but when he explained that he lived off the

  main road, he was permitted to go ton. Only residents

  could use this section of Topanga Canyon, and they

  were warned that it would be better if they stayed away.

  Childe pushed on—literally—and eventually got to

  his driveway. He saw three houses that had slipped

  their moorings and moved downhill anywhere from six

  to twenty feet. Two of the houses must have been

  deserted, but outside the third a family was moving some

  furniture and clothes into the back of a pickup truck.

  Childe thought momentarily about helping them and

  then decided that they could handle their own affairs.

  The pickup truck was certainly more equipped to move

  through the high water than his low-slung car, and if

  they wanted to break their backs moving their sofa,

  that was their foolish decision.

  Another car of the same year and model as the others

  was parked under the branches of the oak tree. The

  water flowing down the street was up past the hubs of

  the wheels. So strong was the force of the current, it

  sometimes lifted Childe's car a fraction of an inch.

  But at no time was more than one wheel off the ground.

  He parked the car in the driveway. The garage floor

  was flooded and, besides, he wanted the car to be avail-

  able for a quick takeoff. He was not sure that the water

  pouring off the cliff and drowning his backyard would

  not lift the garage eventually. Or, if the cliff did col-

  lapse, it might move far enough to smash the garage,

  which was closer to the cliff than the house.

  He unlocked the door and locked it behind him.

  He started to cross the room when, in the pale day-

  light, a shapeless form rose from the sofa. He thought

  his heart would stop.

  The shapelessness fell off the
figure. It was a blanket

  which had disguised it.

  For a moment, he could not grasp who was standing

  before him. Then he cried, "Sybil!"

  It was his ex-wife.

  She ran to him and threw her arms around him, put

  her face against his chest, and sobbed. He held her and

  whispered, over and over, "Sybil! Sybil! I thought you

  were dead! My God, where have you been?"

  After a while she quit crying and raised her face to

  kiss him. She was thirty-four now, her birthday had

  been six days ago, but she looked as if she had aged

  five years. There were large dark circles under her eyes

  and the lines from nose to mouth had gotten deeper. She

  also seemed thinner.

  He led her to the sofa and sat her down and then said,

  "Are you all right?"

  She started to cry again, but after a minute she

  looked up at him and said, "I am and I'm not."

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

  "Yes, you can get me a cup of coffee. And a joint,

  if you have one."

  He waved his hand as if to indicate a complete change

  of character. "I don't have any pot. I've gone back to

  drinking."

  She looked alarmed, and he said, hastily, "Only a

  shot very infrequently. I'm going to school again. UCLA.

  History major."

  Then, "How did you find this house? How did you

  get here? Is that your car out in front?"

  "I was brought, up here by somebody—somebodies—

  and let into the house. I took off the blindfold and looked

  around, I found my photograph on your bedside table, so

  I knew where I was. I decided to wait for you, and I fell

  asleep."

  "Just a minute," he said. "This is going to be a long

  story, I can see that. I'll make some coffee and some

  sandwiches, too, in case we get hungry."

  He did not like to put off hearing what had happened,

  but he knew that he would not want to be interrupted

  after she got started. He did everything that had to be

  done very swiftly and brought in a tray with a big pot

  of coffee, food, and some rather dried-out cigarettes he

  found in the pantry. He no longer smoked, but he had

  gotten cigarettes for women he had brought into the

  house.

  Sybil said, "Oh, good!" and reached for the cigarettes.

  Then she withdrew her hand and said, wearily, "I haven't

  smoked for six months, and my lungs feel much better.

  I won't start up again."

  She had said this before and sounded as if she

  meant it. But this time her voice had a thread of steel in

  it. Something had happened to change her.

  "All right," he said. "You left for your mother's

  funeral in San Francisco. I called your sister, and she

  said you'd phoned her and told her you couldn't get a

  plane out and your car wouldn't start. You told her

  you were coming up with a friend, but you hung up

  without saying who the friend was. And that was the

  last I heard of you. Now, over a year later, you show

  up in my house."

  She took a deep breath and said, "I don't expect you

  to believe this, Herald."

  "I'll believe anything. With good reason."

  "I couldn't get hold of you, and, anyway, after that

  horrible quarrel, I didn't think you'd want to ever see

  me again. I had to get to San Francisco, but I didn't

  know how. Then I thought of a friend of mine, and I

  walked over to his apartment. He only lived a block

  from me."

  "He?"

  "Bob Guilder. You don't know him."

  "A lover?" he said, feeling a pinprick of jealousy.

  Thank God that emotion was dying out, in regard to

  her, anyway.

  "Yes," she said. "Earlier. We parted but not because

  we couldn't stand one another. We just didn't strike fire

  off each other, sexually. But we remained fairly good

  friends. Anyway, I got there just as he was packing to

  leave for Carmel. He couldn't stand the smog anymore,

  and even though the governor didn't want people leav-

  ing, he said he was going anyway. He was glad to drive

  me all the way into San Francisco, since he had some

  things to do there."

  They had driven out Ventura Boulevard because

  the San Diego Freeway was jammed, according to the

  radio. At a standstill. Ventura Boulevard was not

  much better, but ten miles an hour was an improve-

  ment over no miles.

  Just off the Tarzana ramp, the car overheated. Guilder

  managed to get it into Tarzana, but there was only one

  service station operating. The proprietors of the others

  were either staying home or were also attempting to get

  out of the deadly smog.

  "You won't believe this," she said, "but I stole a

  motorcycle. It was sitting by the curb, its key in the ig-

  nition. There was no one in sight, although the owner

  may have been only thirty feet away, the smog was that

  thick. I've ridden Hondas before, did you know that7

  Another friend of mine used to take me out on one for

  fun, and he taught me how to ride it."

  And other things, thought Childe without pain. The

  thought was automatic, but he was glad that it did not

  mean much now.

  There had been no use in her trying to reach 'Frisco

  on the Honda. The traffic was so thick and slow-moving

  that she did not see any chance of getting to her destin-

  ation until the funeral was over, if then. She decided

  to return to her apartment. Eyes burning, sinuses on fire,

  lungs hurting, she rode the Honda home. That took two

  hours. The cars were filling both sides of the street,

  all going in the same direction, but there was enough

  room, if she took the sidewalk now and then, to travel.

  She got to her apartment, and five minutes afterwards,

  someone knocked on her door. She thought it must be

  another tenant. Without a key, it was difficult to get

  into the building.

  But she did not recognize the two men, and before

  she could shut the door, they were on her. She felt a

  needle enter her arm, and she became unconscious.

  When she awoke, she was in a suite of three rooms, not

  including the bathroom. All were large and luxuriously

  furnished, and throughout her captivity she was given

  the best of food and liquor, cigarettes and marijuana,

  and anything she desired, except clothes. She had one

  beautiful robe and two flimsy negligees which were

  cleaned each week.

  When she first awoke, she was alone. She prowled

  around and found that there were no windows and

  the two doors were locked. There was a big color TV

  set and a radio, both of which worked. The telephone

  was not connected to the outside line. When she lifted

  it, she heard a man's voice answer, and she put the

  receiver down without saying anything. A few minutes

  later, a door swung open, and two men and a woman

  came in.

  She described them in detail. One of them could be

  one of the Paos;
the woman had to be Vivienne Mab-

  crough. The second man did not sound like anyone he

  knew.

  Sybil became hysterical, and they injected her once

  more. When she woke up again, she controlled her-

  self. She was told that she would not be harmed and

  that, eventually, she would be released. When she asked

  them what, they wanted her for, she got no answers.

  Over the year's time, she concluded that her captors

  were planning on using her, somehow, as a weapon

  or lever against Childe.

  Childe, thinking of the sexual abuse he had suffered

  during his short imprisonment in the Igescu house, could

  not conceive that she was not molested in any way. He

  asked her if she had been raped.

  "Oh, many times!" she said, almost matter-of-factly.

  "Did they hurt you?" She did not seem to be affected

  by his question or any painful memories.

  "A little bit, at first," she said.

  "How do you feel now? I mean, were the experiences

  psychologically traumatic?"

  He was beginning to feel like a psychiatrist, or, perhaps,

  a prosecuting attorney.

  "Come here, sit down by me," she said. She held out

  a slim and pale hand. He came to her and put his arm

  around her and kissed her. He expected her to burst into

  tears again, but she only sighed. After a while, she said,

  "I've always been very frank with you, right?"

  "Yes. But I don't know that a compulsion to honesty

  was the main factor," he said. "That may have been your

  rationalization, but I thought that your frankness was

  more to hurt me than anything else."

  "You might be right," she said. She sipped on some

  coffee and then said, "I'll tell you what happened to me,

  but it won't be to hurt you. I don't think so, anyway."

  31

  Sybil exercised, smoked more than was good for her,

  watched TV and listened to radio, read the magazines

  and books supplied whenever she asked for them, and

  generally tried to keep from going crazy. The uncertainty

  of her position was the largest element pushing her to-

  wards insanity. However, it was not as bad as being in

  solitary. The man who answered the phone would talk

  to her, and she got visitors at least five times a day. The