Soulstorm. Part 16

Kelly Wickstrom was sleeping when George McNeely knocked on his door. The noise from the other room woke him and he opened his eyes to find a white face hovering above his own, staring down at him with a sort of mindless, detached interest, like a man in an asylum watching an ant crawl across a wall.

Wickstrom started, his eyes opened wide, and the face disappeared, shut off like a suddenly extinguished light. Wickstrom relaxed and rubbed the dust of sleep from his eyes. Dreams, he thought. G.o.dd.a.m.ned place is full of nightmares. He didn't think it odd that he couldn't remember what the dream had been about. He was thankful he couldn't.

There was another knock at the door. He slipped on his old terrycloth bathrobe and went into the living room, but paused when his hand touched the k.n.o.b. He had locked the door before he lay down, and wondered now if he should open it so freely to whatever might be on the other side.

But then he heard McNeely's voice call his name, and he flung it wide. The moment he saw McNeely's face he knew that something had happened. It was alive and open, quite unlike the friendly but guarded countenance McNeely'd worn before. Only now did Wickstrom think that there was a possibility of going behind the mask and knowing George McNeely. Something had happened-it was either Gabrielle Neville or the house, and for the first time Wickstrom hoped that McNeely was sleeping with Gabrielle. The alternative was unthinkable.

McNeely looked at Wickstrom and gave a small laugh. "Good G.o.d, what's wrong with me?"

"Huh?"

"The way you're looking at me. Like I was ... a ghost." The last word sounded choked, as if McNeely wished he weren't going to say it just as it left his mouth.

Wickstrom realized that his own mouth was open, and that he was staring goggle-eyed at McNeely. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was sleeping. I guess I'm just not awake yet."

"Sorry for waking you. But since you're up, would you want to come down to the kitchen? Gabrielle and I were talking about what our plans should be and we need you in on it."

It's Gabrielle. Thank G.o.d it's Gabrielle. The way McNeely said "our plans" had given it away. It sounded too much like a fiance planning a future to be coincidental.

"We need you in on it"-almost as if Wickstrom were an afterthought. A third wheel.

"Let me get dressed," Wickstrom said, and walked back into the bedroom. When he returned, McNeely was relaxing on the sofa, whistling softly. On the way to the kitchen he told Wickstrom of Gabrielle Neville's decision to let them retain the money no matter what happened from that point on.

"She figures we earned it," McNeely said.

Sure. Anyway, you earned it, stud. But Wickstrom's thought lacked vitality and conviction. It was as though the jealousy he had felt before at mere suspicion had been feigned, and he could only see it now that certainty was here. Even when he entered the kitchen and saw the cat-and-cream look on Gabrielle's face, there was no flare of anger, only a natural wish that he had gotten there first. But he hadn't, and he felt strangely at peace nonetheless.

McNeely made corned beef sandwiches and tomato soup, and they sat and ate, and drank orange juice, and tried to think of possible avenues of escape. "What about the ventilation system?" Wickstrom suggested.

McNeely shook his head. "The ducts are too small."

"You sure?"

"I checked the day we got here." McNeely swallowed the last of his sandwich. "I don't think we can force the plates either. If we had a crowbar, maybe, but there's nothing like that here. No tools at all."

"What about the bed frames," said Wickstrom. "Could we tear any of them apart for metal?"

"They're all wooden," Gabrielle reminded him. "But how about the refrigerator, or the other appliances? There's metal there."

McNeely frowned. "Nothing big enough or strong enough. We're talking about heavy steel plates here. And the real b.i.t.c.h is that they're in four-inch-deep slots. Like I said, I'm not even sure a crowbar would work."

"Then the h.e.l.l with the windows and doors." Wickstrom turned his chair around and straddled it. "What about the walls-or the roof? Is there a cellar entrance we don't know about? And how about the doors to the sun room?"

"Forget those doors," said Gabrielle. "They have the same steel plating as the rest. The walls are thick, though it might be worth a try. As for the roof, I don't even know where the attic entrance is."

"If there is one," Wickstrom a.s.serted, "we can find it and go from there."

"Walls or roof, we've got to have something to pry or dig with." McNeely stood and leaned against the sink. "So what can we use?"

The three of them frowned and thought for a long moment. Then Gabrielle's eyes brightened. "The telescope," she said with a thrill in her voice. "The telescope in the observatory. It's got bra.s.s fittings, and the mount is either iron or steel. We could break it apart!"

The two men caught her excitement, and Wickstrorn jumped up. "Let's see." They took the stairs two at a time and practically ran into the high-domed room. The light revealed the huge scope, its lens still fixed on the metallic dome overhead.

"Jesus!" shouted Wickstrom. "The dome!" he turned to the others. "We can get out through the dome! The mechanism's locked, but we can bust it easy enough. With some of these fittings-"

"No, Kelly," Gabrielle said. "It won't work. The dome is locked, but even if we get it open, there's a steel plate over it on the outside."

"s.h.i.t," Wickstrom snarled. "Didn't miss a f.u.c.king trick around here."

"At least the telescope looks promising," said McNeely. "Some of the parts of the mount could be used as pry irons if we can shape them a little, though it seems a shame to break this apart." He gazed admiringly at the eight-inch reflector, still gleaming brightly and untarnished after seventy years.

"I'd vandalize the Louvre to get us out of here," Gabrielle said. "Let's take what we need."

The three of them worked the scope loose from its mounting, then attempted to lower it gently to the floor. As Wickstrom looked up its tall smooth length, his arms wrapped around it like a Scot about to toss the Caber, it suddenly reminded him of something, something that meant escape quite apart from the iron fittings that had held the shaft in place. And as it came to him, his grip relaxed slightly, so that the poorly distributed weight settled precisely where Gabrielle was supporting the scope. It tipped too far, and despite McNeely and Wickstrom's frantic grab, the top end came crashing down on the hard wooden floor, splintering the objective lens into hundreds of tiny shards.

"Oh, Jesus," Gabrielle moaned. "Oh, s.h.i.t!"

"What happened to vandalizing the Louvre?" asked McNeely. "Don't take it so hard. At least the fittings are free."

"It wasn't your fault, Gabrielle," Wickstrom said. "I lost my grip. I just had a thought and there it went."

"A thought?" McNeely's face went serious, concerned. It seemed as if sudden thoughts in this house were mostly a danger.

"The long tube," Wickstrom went on. "It reminded me of the chimney."

"The chimney?"

He turned to Gabrielle. "Yes. The chimney wasn't shut off-we've built fires in it. Is there anything over the top?"

"I-I don't know. But, Kelly, it's three stories high and only a bit over a foot in diameter. Besides, it's copper. Nothing to grab hold of. It'd be like climbing up a soda straw."

"There's got to be a way," Wickstrom said. "I'll bet anything there's no plate over the top. Neville never would have imagined anyone trying to go out that way."

"He imagined everything else," Gabrielle said, almost defensively. "Windows, doors, dome . . . what makes you think he'd miss the chimney?"

"It's just too unbelievable that we'd try to escape that way. You're the only one small enough to fit up there, and you were in his camp, not ours."

"Wait a minute, Kelly." McNeely frowned. "You want Gabrielle to try and get up that chimney?"

"We can't," said Wickstrom.

"There's no way. How could she climb it? There's not enough room to maneuver even if there was something to hold on to. Christ, even if we had pitons, she couldn't hammer them in. Besides, what if she gets to the top and finds out it's hooked up to the ventilation system?"

Wickstrom shook his head. "I know," he said dejectedly. "I know you're right, but what else can we do?"

"We can try the walls," said McNeely. "We can try the plates, we can try to find the attic. We'll get through somehow."

"And if we don't," Gabrielle said, smiling grimly, "I'll try the chimney. Santa Claus in reverse."

They started in the study, but behind the boards the walls were brick, the mortar tough. Their makeshift pry bars bent when they exerted any great pressure on them, and when Wickstrom and McNeely jabbed at the brick point first, their only reward was a series of small gouges as inconsequential as a pockmark on the face of a t.i.tan.

"We'll never get through this way," said Wickstrom, throwing down the metal bar. "Brick," he said, shaking his head. "The outside of the house is stone, not brick!"

"Two walls," said McNeely glumly. "An outer one of stone, an inner one of brick. What the h.e.l.l did they build this place for? For the ages?"

Gabrielle leaned on her pry bar like a cane. "That's what the Nevilles built everything for. I wonder if it's brick all around."

"Almost certain," McNeely said. "If there'd been later additions, maybe not, but this place was built all at once."

"What about the cellar?" Wickstrom asked.

"That's brick-walled too."

"But maybe there's no stone wall behind it. If we could get through the bricks ..."

"We'd find twelve feet of earth in our way and not a shovel to be had." McNeely sighed. "It doesn't look too good."

"Let's try the plates," Gabrielle suggested. "Maybe we can force them."

They discovered quickly that the plates were tight against the slots that housed them, so snug that none of their crude implements could even be inserted in the s.p.a.ce, let alone any pressure be put on it to dislocate the steel.

The third floor was next. They stayed together, going from room to room, looking for a trapdoor that would lead them to the attic. Finally, in one of the small bedrooms in the east wing near the gym, they found it, a wooden trap with a huge new lock and hasp. Wickstrom dragged a chair under it, worked Gabrielle's thinner pry bar inside the hasp, and wrenched down.

The third time, he succeeded, yanking the hardware out of the wood so that screws fell like metallic rain. Wickstrom laughed in triumph as he pressed upward, but his face fell at the sound of wood against metal.

"f.u.c.ker!" he yelled, pounding, on the trap with his fists. "That's metal! There's a G.o.dd.a.m.n metal door up there!"

"Get down, Kelly." McNeely's voice was calm.

"Why? What ..."

"Just give me the chair."

Wickstrom clambered down dejectedly and watched as McNeely moved the chair two yards away from the trapdoor, stepped up onto it, and drove his heavy bar straight up into the ceiling. Painted plaster spattered down as he thrust again and again. In between the thrusts he spoke.

"He can't ... have covered ... the whole roof ... with steel ... A ceiling's ... just plaster and wood ... We'll get through."

He broke through then, and the sudden move threw him off balance so that he tumbled off the chair, the bar crashing down dangerously beside him, narrowly missing his neck. He leaped up, grabbed the bar, and climbed onto the chair once more. "That did it," he snarled. "Now, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d ... " He thrust the bar up again and twisted it back and forth to widen the small hole he had made. Then he screamed.

The scent of ozone bit through the air like summer lightning as McNeely let go of the bar and flung himself backward. He would have fallen again if Wickstrom hadn't caught him by the arm.

"Jesus!" McNeely howled. "My hands!" He held them up so that Wickstrom and Gabrielle could see. The palms were fiercely reddened where he had grasped the bar, and small white blisters were starting to form.

"A generator?" Wickstrom asked. "Could you have hit the generator?"

McNeely shook his head, gritting his teeth at the searing pain. "I've been shocked before. This wasn't electric. With that power it would have traveled through my whole body. No, this was like ... like the bar just turned to fire in my hands. One second it was cold, and the next-pow."

Wickstrom knelt beside the bar and gingerly put out a hand. "Don't!" McNeely and Gabrielle cried at once, but by that time Wickstrom's fingers had contacted the metal.

"Cool," he said softly. "It's perfectly cool." He held it out to the others, who touched it delicately. There was no indication that the metal had ever been warm. "Let me try," Wickstrom said, righting the overturned chair.

"No!" McNeely said, starting to put a hand on Wickstrom's arm before he remembered his burned palms and stopped. "Look at me! You want this too?" he added, holding out the reddened hands for Wickstrom to see.

"You said yourself it wasn't a shock," Wickstrom replied. "And the bar is cold, George. Maybe"-he gestured loosely at McNeely's upturned hands-''maybe you did that to yourself."

"To myself!"

"Yes! Psycho ... "-he searched for the word- "... somatic."

"Why? Why would I want to get burned?"

"I don't know, George ... I ... " He was out of words. Instead, he got up onto the chair and pressed the bar through the hole, which McNeely had widened to six inches across. Wickstrom rotated the bar slowly, making ever wider circles, as if to feel the presence of any malignant stoppage above. "I don't feel anything," he said. "No heat, nothing up there just the edges of the hole. I'll try and make it wider."

Wickstrom jerked the bar back and forth like a bell-ringer ringing the changes. Plaster began to flutter down again, and then Wickstrom's eyes went wide, and he stared at the bar in horror, his mouth dropping open.

"Kelly?" said Gabrielle, her voice trembling. "What's wrong?"

A small whimper escaped from Wickstrom's throat as he stared at his hands grasping the bar. They saw the muscles of his arm flex, as if trying to release it, but the fingers would not respond. McNeely reached up, grabbed the end of the bar, and found to his relief that it was still of normal temperature. He pulled down on it until the top of the bar was once again in view, and tried to yank it from Wickstrom's grip.

Wickstrom yelped in agony, and McNeely saw that although the bar had come partially loose from the younger man's grasp, a raw flap of the skin of Wickstrom's hand coated that part of the metal where the contact had been broken.

"Don't pull!" Wickstrom moaned. "Cold! It's cold!"

"Water!" barked McNeely, realizing that Wickstrom's own frozen flesh bound him to the iron. "Cold water!"

A bathroom was only two doors away, and Gabrielle dashed out of the room and down the hall.

"I can't let go," Wickstrom grated. "I'm stuck fast to it."

"It's okay, just relax," said McNeely. "The water'll free you. Like getting your tongue stuck to the pump in the winter, huh?"

"We didn't have a f.u.c.king pump in Brooklyn," Wickstrom answered gruffly.

"Well, we didn't have one in Larchmont either."

"Then how the h.e.l.l do you know so much about it?"

"I used to watch La.s.sie on TV." They both laughed.

"Holy s.h.i.t," Wickstrom grunted. "What the f.u.c.k are we laughing for? I'm stuck to this bar, you've got your hands burned, and we can't get out of this s.h.i.thole for love or money-so what the f.u.c.k are we laughing for?"

"Maybe we're just sick of crying." The smile vanished from McNeely's face. "But you're right. There's nothing funny about it, Kelly. First hot, then cold . . . there's something in here that doesn't want us to leave. Not yet. I think that if instead of stone and brick those outside walls were paper, it'd still find a way to keep us from tearing them.

Gabrielle returned with a basin of cold water. "Just pour it over his hands," said McNeely. "That's right, slowly. How's it feel, Kelly?"

"I . . . I'm not sure, I . . ." The bar slipped from between his hands and thudded to the floor. McNeely knelt and touched it.