Strange Eons (7 page)

Whoever was watching the warehouse in Boston had learned of Waverly’s presence and the discovery he made there. His phone at the hotel had been tapped, so that they knew about the mailing of his find to Keith.

Perhaps Waverly had been followed on the plane to Los Angeles; more likely, word was passed along and someone awaited his arrival here. Keith remembered the black man and the van. How simple it would be to draw up alongside Waverly unnoticed in the darkness of the huge, sprawling parking lot and strike him down, then thrust his body into the back of the waiting van.

Then the phonecall to Keith—the hoarse voice impersonating Waverly, fabricating the story of an accident and asking him to come to the house with the envelope.

The rest fell into place: the black man posing as a male nurse, and his confederate masquerading as Waverly in order to obtain the envelope.

But why hadn’t they killed him immediately? Why the elaborate impersonation, and the false explanation given by the whisperer?

A possible reason came to mind. Keith remembered the voice on the phone had spoken of a “package” rather than an envelope. So they weren’t sure of just what Waverly had found in the warehouse; more importantly, they weren’t aware of precisely how much Keith might know of the discovery. That’s why the black man left, or pretended to leave—giving Keith a chance to open the envelope and reveal his reaction. Before killing him they had to make certain that he hadn’t passed along news of the finding to anyone else.

Once assured of this, the black man was ready to act. But the quake that struck him down to death and stunned Keith had offered Waverly’s impersonator his chance to escape. Probably he thought Keith was dead too; in any event he’d taken off in the van. Understandably, the sudden panic that prompted his flight had caused him to forget about securing the envelope’s contents.

But what sort of people could conceive and carry out the multiple murders of Santiago, Beckman and Waverly? Was there really some sort of cult like the one in Lovecraft’s stories, worshipping evil presences still secretly surviving here on earth?

Keith carried his coffee cup into the living room as he sought a more rational answer.

Suppose there was a hoax—not perpetrated by Lovecraft, as the whisperer had clumsily suggested, but by fanatical and unbalanced followers of his writings?

Keith recalled news stories of ritual slayings carried out by Satanists who attempted to make their atrocities appear to be the devil’s handiwork. It would be characteristic of similar deranged devotees to emulate elements found in HPL’s fiction, plotting deaths to duplicate those in his tales. Hadn’t Waverly once mentioned some sort of society called “The Esoteric Order of Dagon”—the name used by the horrible piscine-faced cultists in
The Shadow over Innsmouth
—the humans who mated with undersea monstrosities, and whose offspring developed the “Innsmouth look”? Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos seemed to attract a certain segment of disturbed youth; there had even been a rock group named
H.P. Lovecraft
some years back. Hallucinogenic drugs might heighten the intensity of HPL’s weird imaginings and inspire unbalanced addicts to translate them into hideous realities.

Neither solution, however, would explain the painting from
Pickman’s Model
or the existence of the artist Upton, the actual prototype of the character in the story. That picture had been painted in 1926—before Lovecraft had written openly of the Cthulhu Cult, and before any member of today’s counter-culture had been born.

Another possibility occurred. In letters and conversations, Lovecraft had often spoken of finding the plots for his stories in dreams. All his life he was subject to vivid nightmares, beyond the wall of sleep.

What really lay behind that wall? Did HPL wander there in other dimensions, a parallel universe? Could he have traveled through time and space in his dreams, traveled to witness visions of the past few days? Had he seen what happened and merely translated it into his fiction, changing the characters and settings?

It was a fantastic hypothesis, and yet if Keith rejected it he faced a final and still more frightening alternative.

Once he’d compared himself to Lovecraft. But suppose there was another comparison? Suppose Keith was like one of the typical characters in Lovecraft’s stories?

He recalled the narrators of such tales: introverted, imaginative, highly neurotic. Often they doubted the validity of their own experiences—admitted that they might be hallucinating, or actually insane.

Was that the real answer? Was all this a product of his own paranoid misinterpretation of normal happenings? How much of what Keith remembered had actually occurred?

There’d been an earthquake, no doubt about that, and he’d sustained a blow on the head while visiting Waverly’s home. But maybe he was suffering from a concussion—in which case he might still be disoriented and imagining past events.

It wasn’t a pleasant theory, but at least it was medically possible—and, if true, there’d be medical help for his condition. Far better that than facing a world of monster-gods and a black brotherhood dedicated to bringing them back to life. In a curious way the conclusion offered comfort, a sense of potential security.

Then Keith’s hand found its way into his jacket pocket, and when he withdrew it all comfort and security vanished.

For here was proof that last night had not been fantasy: he was holding Lovecraft’s crumpled map of the—

“South Pacific—”

The phrase was barely audible as it issued from the mouth of the newscaster on the television screen. Quickly Keith turned up the volume and listened.

“—where latest bulletins indicate earthquake activity equal to or greater than our own disaster last night. Although the shock was felt in Australia and New Zealand, little or no damage has been reported. Seismographs indicate that undersea volcanic eruptions centered in an ocean area south of Pitcairn Island and southeast of Tahiti, approximately near the junction of south latitude 45 and west longitude 125—”

Keith glanced down again, scanning the margins of the map where numerals indicated latitudinal and longitudinal degrees. Then his eyes sought the point where the marked lines intersected.

Even before he found it he knew what he would see. Beneath the crude cross marking the spot, Lovecraft had scrawled a single word—
R’lyeh.

Wealth offers certain advantages, particularly in times of stress. Despite the disruption of normal business routine in the quake’s aftermath, it took Keith less than thirty-six hours to set his affairs in order and board the Air France jet for Tahiti.

He’d left the house immediately, packing what he thought he might require and taking refuge in the Bel-Air Hotel. Here he felt safe against intrusion while he made the necessary arrangements with a travel agency and the passport people. His bank sent over the drafts he requested, and through its recommendations he engaged a property-management firm to close the house and maintain its upkeep during his absence. By the time he left, Keith was reasonably certain of security.

Apparently the recent disaster had caused cancellations of many vacation plans, and once airborne, Keith found himself occupying the first-class section of the flight with only a single companion.

His fellow traveler was a middle-aged Englishman whose stiff reserve seemed as much a part of him as the ruddy complexion, the striped old-school tie and the copy of Sotheby’s auction catalog on which his eyes were resolutely fixed.

But the persistent hospitality of the stewardess brought inevitable results, and by the time both men sampled their third drink they had moved into the comfort of the forward lounge and exchanged introductions.

The Briton’s name was Abbott—Major Ronald Abbott, late of the Fifth Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, now retired and a resident of Tahiti.

“But only for six months out of the year,” he said. “Can’t stay longer without taking out citizenship papers—the French aren’t about to let anyone poach on their private preserves.”

“You heard about the earthquake?” Keith asked. “Do you think there’s been damage done?”

Abbott shook his head. “Not to worry. It hit open water hundreds of miles south and east. Always the chance of a tidal wave, but there’s not been a bloody word about that. I’m certain you’ll find Papeete quite safe for tourists. You are on holiday, I take it?”

“Not exactly.” Keith glanced up at the stewardess, grateful for the interruption and for the fresh drink she proferred. But that, plus the effects of altitude and fatigue, served to loosen his tongue. Almost before he knew it he was discussing his self-appointed mission, and while he took care not to spell out either its nature or his motives, he spoke freely of his hasty preparations for departure.

“Sounds as though you had quite a lot on your plate,” Abbott commented. “All that rushing about.” He gave Keith a shrewd glance. “Not in some sort of legal jam, are you?”

Keith smiled. “I’m not an embezzler, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I had to get away immediately, once I realized—”

He broke off, studying Abbott’s stolid features, weighing caution against the urge to confide. One thing was certain; he’d need help if he intended to fulfill his purpose, and a man like Abbott was in a position to know his way around local rules and regulations.

But what else might he know?

Taking a deep breath, Keith made the plunge.

“Are you by any chance familiar with the work of a writer named H.P. Lovecraft?”

Abbott stirred his drink. “Don’t know the name. Friend of yours?”

“No—but there’s something he wrote, a story that explains what I’m hoping to do. If I could impose on you—”

“Let’s have a look at it,” Abbott said.

“I forgot.” Keith frowned. “I’m afraid it’s in with the luggage.”

“No problem. Give it to me after we land and I’ll have a fast read.”

At the airport, following customs inspection, Keith located
The Outsider and Others
in one of his bags and indicated the story in question.

“The Call of
—what?” Abbott broke off, puzzled.

“I think it’s pronounced ‘Cuth-uul-hoo,’ ” Keith told him. “Anyway, that’s not important. Just read it and let me know your reaction.”

Abbott nodded. “Where are you putting up?”

“The Royal Tahitian.”

“Good. I’ll ring you tonight at the hotel.”

The Royal Tahitian was a relic of an earlier era, before the jet-borne tourist invasion. Old, rambling, and utterly charming, the main structure was surrounded by spacious grounds dotted with individual cottages. Here the traditional
tamaré
was danced, and as Keith explored the garden area he discovered a giant stone phallus, which might well have served as an object of worship in ancient times. He smiled at the sight, then sobered as he pondered what else the Polynesians worshipped in those days—or what some of them might worship still. Not here, of course, in a Papeete hotel, or anywhere near roadways strident with motorbike traffic and the sound of transistor radios.

If olden customs and beliefs persisted, they’d be found in the interior where wild pigs rooted on the hillsides and huge land crabs still scuttled over rocky peaks. More likely some remnants of the primitive past might remain on the outer islands, Moorea or Bora-Bora, or in the lonely Marquesas to the north. It was hard to believe these smiling, friendly people had once formed part of a warlike society that practised infanticide, ritual cannibalism and ceremonies of sex-magic. But that was a matter of public history—and there might be a private history as well. Keith remembered the Kanakas who mated with the fish-creatures in
The Shadow over Innsmouth.
Perhaps he should have also indicated that story to Abbott, but there was a limit to his trust. As it was, he had taken a calculated risk in showing him the other tale, and after dinner in the open-walled dining room he found himself waiting impatiently for a phonecall.

Instead, Abbott made a personal appearance. He arrived around nine, and Keith found himself confronting a changed man. Gone were the tweeds, the shirt, the old-school tie: Abbott was wearing colorful shorts and a tank-top. His bare limbs were bronzed and muscular, and the ruddy complexion seemed indicative of outdoor exposure rather than alcoholic indulgence.

But the greatest change was in his manner. Clutching the book firmly in his right hand, he led Keith out of the lobby and into the grounds beyond.

“Where’s your bungalow?” he murmured. “We’ve got to talk.”

Keith escorted him there and, once inside, offered him a drink.

“No time for that.” Abbott set the book down on the coffee table, then tapped the cover. “Good Lord, man—you’re really onto something here.”

“You mean you understand?”

“Perfectly. It’s not fiction, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. The thing speaks for itself.” Abbott flipped the book open, turning pages until he found the line he sought. “He even gives the exact location—Latitude S. 47° 9', Longtitude W. 126° 43'. And the date, way back in March of ’25. It all fits.”

“Fits with what?”

“I’ve done my share of nosing around these parts over the years. Picked up a bit of the lingo and made it a point to be friendly. Takita was a great help.”

“Takita?”

“My wife. No Church of England ceremony, but you might call her that. Poor old girl—she died last year.” For a moment Abbott fell silent, then continued. “Anyway, I got to know her people. Family still lives out in the Rapa Islands. Her grandfather—God knows how old he was, but he looked to be pushing ninety at the very least—had some very curious yarns to tell. Not just the usual native superstitions, but things he swore were true. That earthquake Lovecraft mentions; it really happened, you know. And there was a lot of talk about some sort of creature or creatures living at the bottom of the sea.”

“Could we visit him?”

“Hardly. He’s been dead for a donkey’s years.” Abbott set the book down. “No matter—after reading this I’ve a pretty good notion of what you’re after. You’d like to go out there and have a look around, right?”