Ghouls (27 page)

“Very strange,” Willard commented. “By means of some accident?”

“No, we don’t think so. I’m not an expert, I’m just telling you what I was told. But the state police are sure it’s a deformity from birth, and they also think it’s an individual of great physical size, like someone with a pituitary disorder.”

Kurt paused for further comment, and to watch their faces, but this ploy failed as his eyes were repeatedly lured to Nancy Willard’s near-bare chest. The red waistcoat was obscene.
Either button the goddamned thing up, or take it off.
he wished he could say. Glinting, a ruby and diamond heart on a necklace lay in the cleft of her breasts.

The
Willards
remained silent; a sudden stiffness made them both seem taller. Kurt went on. “I just thought that if either of you have seen anyone like this, you might let us know. It’s a reasonable bet that whoever took that coffin is at least slightly familiar with the layout of your property. Loggers, or something. Hunters, maybe.”

“Well, I don’t allow any logging,” Willard said. “And I’m afraid the only hunting that goes on is entirely without my permission—poaching has always been a problem. The resource police come out whenever we report gunshots, though they’ve yet to catch a poacher. Once in a while a tree will go down near one of the access roads, and I’ll hire someone to cut it up and take it away. But in all that I certainly don’t recall anyone with the
physical characteristics you’ve mentioned.” Willard looked up contemplatively, thinking through a squint. He stroked his trimmed beard. “The only contractors I’ve had out here were the people who constructed my garage, but that was years ago.”

“What about groundskeepers, lawn care?”

“Town boys mow the grass and keep up the yard around the house as needed. But we’re quite familiar with them.” Willard glanced to his wife. “Can you think of anything, dear?”

“No,” she said. “If I’d seen someone like that, I’m sure I’d have taken notice.”

“Well, anyway,” Kurt told them. “I just wanted to let you know. If you do see anyone meeting a description like that, or anyone suspicious for any reason, let us know. And of course any time you spot a vehicle other than Glen’s truck on your land, give us a call quick.”

“We certainly will,” Willard assured him. “Anything we can do to help. We’ll all rest easier when these people are found. It’s quite frightening to know that as we sleep there’s a troop of
weirdos
milling around my property.”

By now Kurt’s vision had partly adjusted to the poor light. Just past where Willard stood was a heavily
banistered
staircase. Crowded into the upper corner of the second-floor landing, Kurt recognized three things: a motion-detection alarm, a bracket-mounted sealed-beam floodlight, and a pan/tilt RCA CCTV camera. Then he noticed an identical motion detector at the end of the hallway.

“Well, I better take off now.”

“We’re grateful you took the time to come out,” Willard added.

He managed to resist a final glance at Nancy Willard’s chest. “It was my pleasure. You all have a good day, and it was nice meeting you, Mrs. Willard.”
Brother, don’t I know it.

When Kurt was at last out of the house, he felt the relief of a claustrophobe just freed from a footlocker. He looked up when crossing the front porch and noticed still another motion detector. That irked him, as he paced back to the Ford. True, there was nothing out of the ordinary about home burglar alarms, but this bordered on paranoia. He’d seen at least three thousand dollars’ worth of security equipment in the space of thirty seconds.

The Ford started eagerly, as if it, too, wished to get away from the macabre house. Kurt lit a cigarette and stared straight ahead as he drew the first puff. He saw two squat objects protruding from Willard’s side yard. They seemed to be large cylinders with teepee-like crowns of weathered metal. They reminded him of ventilators, but the notion was lost at once as he wound down the high hill and away, back toward home.

— | — | —

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Voices. Reduced now, by time, to the discourse of ghosts. Your voice.

—
It’s true. I swear to God it’s true. —

— Of course it is, Sergeant. —

—
You think I’m
schizzing
out, you think I’m crazy. You don’t believe me.
—

— Of course we believe you, Sergeant. We believe that you’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress, and while doing your duty
—

— No, no, don’t hand me that shit again. It’s the truth. I’m not crazy, goddamn it. It’s the truth.
—

—
You’re disillusioned, Sergeant. You’re upset, and you’re hurt. We know what happened.
—

—
Bullfuckingshit
! I know what I saw. And it wasn’t any goddamned…whatever the fucking hell you called it.
—

—
Hypnagogic delirium. Your symptomatology is classic, we’ve no doubts. And let me assure you that hypnagogic hallucinations are by no means synonymous with any mode of psychosis. It can happen to anyone, Sergeant. And it’s what happened to you.
—

Aside then. Doctor to Doctor.
—
What with the delusions and of course the shock reaction to his physical injuries, the unipolar manifestation comes as no real surprise.
—

The other doctor nods.
—
Then we both agree, at least from a rudimentary standpoint, on a typical dysfunction of biogenic amines?
—

— Certainly. But that’s just scratching the surface.
—

—
What of the rest, then? —

— Could be a lot of things, could be right under our noses. I’ve ordered basic
bloodwork
already, scanning for nutritional imbalances seems a good place to start. It could be something as simple as low folic acid, or excess levels of B12. Statistically, most service-related cases of pellagra are attributed to a high rate of C-ration consumption… Sergeant, do you eat a lot of C-rations?
—

You frown. Your face itches.
—
No. I haven’t had any c’s since the last
Reforger
years ago. They’re all MRE’s now.
—

— And where was that?
—

— Erlangen. Germany. Alpha 2/37, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division. You know, my last duty station before I came here. Don’t you fucking people have records?
—

—
No C-rations in years, then?
—

— No! —

The doctors turn to one another again, like children trying to be discreet.
—
Supplemental
nicontinamide
can’t hurt. They say most of the West is deficient to begin with.
—

The other doctor nods.
—
But that wouldn’t explain the rest of it. —

— Porphyria, maybe? Wernicke-
Korsakoff
syndrome?
—

The other doctor nods. He seems well-practiced at nodding, as though such an acknowledgment is proof of diagnostic competence.
—
I hadn’t even considered alcoholic
hallucinosis
. That might account for the obvious confabulation. —

—
Sergeant, do you drink?
—

—
No, but if this keeps up, I’m gonna start.
—

—
You don’t drink at all?
—

Your face is beginning to hurt from frowning.
—
Look, Major, it’s all in my records. I had a drinking problem a long time ago, when I got transferred from 1st
Cav
to 716th MP’s. But when I came back to the World I beat it.
—

The doctors seem delighted at this, and you sense they don’t believe you’ve stopped drinking. You look at them hard. One is in khakis, a
dorkish
, fat 0-4 with crumpled pants and
corfam
shoes. His hair is longer than regulation, and his sideburns well past the bottom of the opening of his ear. Wimp, you think. A fat, out-of-shape turd wearing the uniform of a soldier. It makes you sick. The other doctor, the
nodder
, is the scary one. His fatigues shine from starch, though his boots, too, are patent leather, the trademark of all medical officers. He has a stiff, thick mustache and very short hair. He reminds you of Shakespeare’s description of Cassius.

—
I’d love to see what he’d do with a TAT and an MMPI.
—

—
Due time, Captain. Due time. The next MED EVAC is Wednesday; we’ll let Forest Glen worry about a diagnosis. Did you look at his DD service file? I’d hate to see a TDRL at this point in his military career, but I suppose separation is indicated.
—

The captain turns back to you.
—
Sergeant, I want you to think hard about what we’re telling you. We’re not here to steer you wrong. There’s no need to be so implacable.
—

—
You guys sound like Oxford dictionaries. Implacable. What the hell does that mean?
—

—
It means stubborn, Sergeant. You’re being stubborn. And if you don’t calm down and collect your thoughts, you may find yourself in a very unpleasant situation. And don’t think you can hide behind your Silver Star and Distinguished Service Cross.
—

You snap.
—
You fucking guys think you can walk all over people just because you wear brass. Having a degree makes you superior, right? Well I’ve seen trainee washouts who’re better
men than you. You’ve got no right to even wear the uniform. I was fighting North Vietnamese Regulars when I was eighteen, and you were in diapers playing with your own poop. You don’t know the difference between a HEAT round and a round of golf, you couldn’t operate a field radio to save your life, and you probably think CBN is a television network. And now you’ve got the balls to imply that I’m using my commendations as a shield. I’ll kick you in the dick so hard you’ll have to open your mouth every time you want to piss.
—

Now the major.
—
You’re on thin ice, Sergeant. Talk like that can get you an AR 635-100. I don’t care if you fought in the Revolution, we’re officers, and you will afford us proper military courtesy as per regulations.
—

— My God. Regulations? You’re fat, you’re weak, you couldn’t pass a PT test if your life depended on it. Your belt buckle’s misaligned, your pockets are unbuttoned, your hair’s too long, and your pants look like you pressed them with a tank track. Don’t tell me about regulations, Major. You’re in violation of at least a dozen just standing there. I could have you written up in less time than it takes to eat your next pack of Twinkies. And if you want to file a 635-100 against me, go ahead. You’ll be able to hear the Adjutant General laughing all the way from the Pentagon. He happens to be a good friend of mine.
—

The major backs off, like the pussy he is. His face glows pink from embarrassment.
—
Really, Sergeant, this is getting us nowhere. We understand how you must feel, and how angry you must be. You just don’t remember, that’s all, and loss of memory and disorientation are common in a situation like this. We’re here to help you, Sergeant, we’re on your side. Please try and realize that this story of yours is fantasy.
—