Cage Of Night Part 22

A young guy in a blond crewcut and a camouflage uniform stuck his head in the door. "We're still having trouble with that all-terrain vehicle, sir. I'm not sure it's going to be ready for this afternoon."

"Give it a good try, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"We built a lot of today;s drill around that machine, Corporal."

"Yes, sir. I'll do my best, sir."

He saluted and was gone.

When Dr. Wylie looked back at me, I was smiling. I felt great relief.

No aliens in the well.

No voices in my head.

A deeply disturbed young woman named Cindy Brasher had simply imagined the alien properties of the well.

As had Myles and Garrett, when they went into their seizures, the idea for which Cindy had probably planted in their minds in advance.

Just as I'd imagined the voices and the icy blue glow I'd glimpsed the other night.

"G.o.d, I'm glad I talked to you." Then, "Does it sound like I'm nuts?"

He laughed. "Not at all. Sounds like you got caught up in what I call the 'campfire syndrome.'"

"What's that?"

"Well, you take a group of perfectly sane adults of average or above intelligence, and you put them out in the woods around a campfire late at night. And then somebody starts telling monster stories, the way kids always did at summer camp. And if you tell the stories long enough and well enough, these perfectly sane and intelligent adults begin to wonder if there isn't something in the woods, after all. So for the rest of the night they're very jittery. Probably can't sleep. And they begin to hear things and see things. That's the 'campfire syndrome.' It's kind of a lower order of the Shared Psychotic Disorder."

"Man, I feel better."

He smiled. "I wish I had this effect on everybody I saw."

"I really appreciate it."

"My pleasure."

I stood up and put my hand out to shake.

He had a quick, hard grip like a snakebite.

"Everything else going all right?"

I felt exultant. No aliens.

"Everything else," I reported gleefully, "is going just fine."

Now I really could help Cindy, and win her back in the process.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"Is that my brother whistling?" Josh said, coming into my room as I splashed on some English Leather.

"It certainly is."

"You must've had one h.e.l.l of a good time last night."

"This morning."

"You already had a good time this morning?"

I smiled at him in the mirror. "Yeah."

"And you're not going to tell me about it?"

"Huh-uh."

He came up and patted me on the back.

"I'm just happy to see you happy again."

"Everything's going to work out."

"With Cindy?"

"Everything's going to work out with everything."

"Wow," he said. "The power of positive thinking."

I left earlier than I needed to for my lunch date with Cindy. Drove around. Rock and roll up real loud. My junker felt like a brand-new Corvette.

Shared Psychotic Disorder.

I'd explain it to Cindy. She probably wouldn't agree with it. Not at first.

But eventually I'd be able to convince her. And win her back. I was sure of it.

I was three blocks from her house when I heard the siren.

I looked in the rearview and saw the police car, red roof lights flas.h.i.+ng, signaling for me to pull over.

I pulled over.

No surprise that Garrett was the cop.

No surprise that he swaggered up to my car.

No surprise that he rested his hand, gunfighter style, on the handle of his Magnum.

He walked in a slightly pinched way and when I looked down I saw he wore a brand-new pair of cowhide Western boots.

"You were speeding," he said.

And the truth was, I probably had been speeding.

"I thought you worked nights," I said.

"Got an officer out sick."

"You giving me a ticket?"

"Not if you give me the tapes."

He peered into the car, saw the two ca.s.settes on the seat next to me.

"Cindy called me," he said.

"I see."

"Your date's canceled."

"You speak for her now, do you?"

"Yeah, I do." He nodded to the tapes. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd hand those over."

"Not a chance."

"I'm trying to be nice about this, Spence."

"Nice. Right."

"I'd just like to hear them. Then I'll bring them back."

I smiled at him. "You ever hear of Shared Psychotic Disorder?"

"Not lately."

"The well and the alien down therea"it's all imaginary. You believed her and I believed her and Myles believed hera"Myles believed her so much that he went crazy and went out and killed somebody."

"If that's the case, then why should you mind lending me the tapes?"

"The principle of the thing. They don't belong to you."

"You were going to loan them to Cindy."

"No, I wasn't. I was going to play them for Cindy."

He was smooth and he was fast, and the way he leaned in to my car, probably no pa.s.sing motorist could see what he was doing here on this busy street.

The barrel of his Magnum pressed against the side of my head.

"Maybe I'm crazy, too, Spence, just like you say Myles was. Maybe I'll blow your f.u.c.king head off right here."

"No, you won't."

"You sure of that?"

But when I glanced up at his eyes, I really wasn't sure. He looked sort of the way Myles had that Sat.u.r.day night. A little insane but in a hard, cold, controlled way.

"The tapes," he said.

I gave him the tapes.

I was also going to give him a speech and then give him some threats but suddenly I was too weary of it all.

When he'd stuffed the tapes in his trouser pocket, he took the gun from my head, slammed it back in his holster.

"One thing," he said.

I just watched him.

"No more contact with Cindy."

"It's a free country."

"Not where Cindy's concerned." He was so angry, he was trembling now. "Not where Cindy's concerned."

And then he stalked back to his car.

At least he hadn't given me a speeding ticket.

CHAPTER EIGHT.