The Santaroga Barrier Page 8

  “What’re you two whispering?” Piaget demanded.

  “I was telling Gil what Sarah said about him.”

  “Oh, what’d Sarah say?”

  “She said: ‘Larry isn’t going to browbeat that young man. He has eyes like Grandpa Sather.’”

  Piaget turned to study Dasein. “By George, he has. I hadn’t noticed.” He turned away with an abrupt cutting-off motion, led the way into the dining room. “Come along, or Sarah will change her good opinion. We can’t have that.”

  To Dasein, it was one of the strangest dinners of his life. There was the pain of his injured shoulder, a steady throb that impelled him to an alertness that made every word and motion stand out in sharp relief. There was Jenny—she had never looked more warmly feminine and desirable. There was Piaget, who declared a conversational truce for the meal and plied Dasein with questions about his courses at the University, the professors, fellow students, his ambitions. There was Sarah, hovering with the food—a muttering specter who had soft looks only for Jenny.

  With Sarah, it’s what Jenny wants, Jenny gets, Dasein thought.

  Finally, there was the food: a rib roast cooked to a medium rare perfection, the Jaspers sauce over peas and potato pancakes, the local beer with its palate-cleansing tang, and fresh peaches with honey for dessert.

  Beer with dinner struck Dasein as strange at first until he experienced the play of tastes, a subtle mingling of flavor esters that made individual savors stand out on his tongue even as they were combining to produce entirely new sensations. It was a crossing of senses, he realized—smells tasted, colors amplifying the aromas.

  At the first serving of beer, Piaget had tasted it, nodded. “Fresh,” he said.

  “Within the hour just like you ordered,” Sarah snapped. And she’d cast a strange probing stare at Dasein.

  It was shortly after 9:30 when Dasein left.

  “I had your truck brought around,” Piaget said. “Think you can drive it, or shall I have Jenny take you back to the hotel?”

  “I’ll be all right,” Dasein said.

  “Don’t take those pain pills I gave you until you’re safely in your room,” Piaget said. “Don’t want you running off the road.”

  They stood on the broad verandah at the front of the house then, street lights casting wet shadows of the birches onto the lawn. The rain had stopped, but there was a chilled feeling of dampness in the night air.

  Jenny had thrown his coat around his shoulders. She stood beside him, a worried frown on her face. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “You ought to know I can steer with one hand,” he said. He grinned at her.

  “Sometimes I think you’re a terrible man,” she said. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “It’s chemistry,” he said.

  Piaget cleared his throat. “Tell me, Gilbert,” he said. “What were you doing on the hotel roof?”

  Dasein felt an abrupt pang of fear, a sense of incongruity in the timing of that question.

  What the hell! he thought. Let’s see what a straight answer does.

  “I was trying to find out why you’re so all-fired secret about your TV,” he said.

  “Secret?” Piaget shook his head. “That’s just a pet project of mine. They’re analyzing the silly infantilisms of TV, producing data for a book I have in mind.”

  “Then why so secret?” Dasein felt Jenny clutching his arm, ignored the fear he sensed in her reaction.

  “It’s consideration for the sensibilities of others, not secrecy,” Piaget said. “Most TV drives our people wild. We monitor the news, of course, but even that is mostly pap, sugar-coated and spoon-fed.”

  There was a ring of partial truth in Piaget’s explanation, Dasein felt, but he wondered what was being left out. What else were those women researching in that room.

  “I see,” Dasein said.

  “You owe me an answer now,” Piaget said.

  “Fire away.”

  “Another time,” Piaget said. “I’ll leave you two to say good night, now.”

  He went inside, closed the door.

  Presently, Dasein was headed down the street in his truck, the tingling sensation of Jenny’s kiss still warm on his lips.

  He arrived at the wye intersection to the hotel shortly before ten, hesitated, then bore to the right on the road out of the valley to Porterville. There was an odd feeling of self-preservation in the decision, but he told himself it was just because he wanted to drive for awhile … and think.

  What is happening to me? he wondered. His mind felt abnormally clear, but he was enveloped by such a feeling of disquiet that his stomach was knotted with it. There was an odd broadening to his sense of being. It made him realize that he had forced himself inward with his concentration on psychology, that he had narrowed his world. Something was pushing at his self-imposed barriers now, and he sensed things lurking beyond, things which he feared to confront.

  Why am I here? he asked himself.

  He could trace a chain of cause and effect back to the university, to Jenny … but again he felt the interference of things outside this chain and he feared these things.

  The night sped past his truck and he realized he was fleeing up the mountain, trying to escape the valley.

  He thought of Jenny as she’d appeared this night: an elf in orange dress and orange shoes, lovely Jenny dressed to please him, her sincerity and love all transparent on her face.

  Bits and pieces of the dinner conversation began coming back to him. Jaspers. “This is the old Jaspers—deep.” That had been Jenny tasting the sauce. “Almost time to put down a new section of Jaspers in number five.” That had been Sarah bringing in the dessert. And Piaget: “I’ll talk to the boys about it tomorrow.”

  Now, recalling this, Dasein realized there’d been a faint, familiar tang even in the honey. He wondered then about the way Jaspers figured so often in their conversations. They never strayed far from it, seemed to find nothing unusual in the constancy of it. They talked Jaspers … and at the oddest moments.

  He was at the pass out of the valley now, trembling with an ambivalent feeling of escape … and of loss.

  There’d been a fire across the slopes through which Dasein was now descending. He smelled damp ashes on the wind that whipped through the ventilators, recalled the reported trouble with telephone lines. Clouds had begun to clear away here outside the valley. Dead trees stood out on the burned slopes like Chinese characters brushstroked on the moonlighted hills.

  Abruptly, his mind clamped on a logical reason for coming out of the valley: The telephone! I have to call Selador and confer. There are no lines out of the valley, but I can call from Porterville … before I go back.

  He drove steadily then, his being suspended, static, held in a curious lack of emotion—nothing on his mind. Even the pain of his shoulder receded.

  Porterville loomed out of the night, the highway becoming a wide main street with a blue and white “Bus Depot” sign on the left over an all-night cafe—two big truck-trailer rigs there beside a little convertible and a green and white Sheriff’s car. An orange glow across the street was “Frenchy’s Mother Lode Saloon.” The cars at the curb conveyed a general decrepit look, depressingly alike in their battered oldness.

  Dasein drove past, found a lonely phone booth beneath a street light at the corner of a darkened Shell station. He turned in, stopped beside the booth. The truck’s engine was hot and tried to go on running with a clunking, jerking motion after he shut off the ignition. He stopped the motion with the clutch, sat for a moment looking at the booth. Presently, he got out. The truck creaked with distress at his movement.

  The Sheriff’s car drove past, its headlights casting enormous shadows on a white fence behind the phone booth.

  Dasein sighed, went into the booth. He felt strangely reluctant to make the call, had to force himself.

  Presently, Selador’s precise accent came on the line: “Gilbert? Is that you, Gilbert? Have they repair
ed the deuced telephone lines?”

  “I’m calling from Porterville, just outside the valley.”

  “Is something wrong, Gilbert?”

  Dasein swallowed. Even at long distance, Selador managed to remain perceptive. Something wrong? Dasein delivered a brief recital of his accidents.

  After a prolonged silence, Selador said: “That’s very odd, Gilbert, but I fail to see how you can construe these incidents as other than accidents. With the gas, for example, they put out a great effort to save you. And your tumble—how could anyone possibly have known you’d be the one to pass that way?”

  “I just wanted you to know about them,” Dasein said. “Piaget thinks I’m accident prone.”

  “Piaget? Oh, yes—the local doctor. Well, Gilbert, one should always discount pronouncements that go outside one’s specialty. I doubt Piaget’s qualified to diagnose an accident prone, even if there were such a syndrome—which I sincerely disbelieve.” Selador cleared his throat. “You don’t seriously think these people have malignant designs against you?”

  Selador’s sane, level tones had a soothing effect on Dasein. He was right, of course. Here, removed from the valley, the events of the past twenty-four hours took on a different shade of meaning.

  “Of course not,” Dasein said.

  “Good! You’ve always struck me as a very level head, Gilbert. Let me caution you now that you may have intruded upon a situation where people are being genuinely careless. Under those circumstances, the Inn might be an extremely dangerous place, and you should leave.”

  “To go where?” Dasein asked.

  “There must be other accommodations.”

  Carelessness at the Inn? Dasein wondered. Then why were no others injured? A dangerous place, yes—but only because it was part of the valley. He felt a strong reluctance to agree with Selador. It was as though his own reluctance were based on data unavailable to Selador.

  Abruptly, Dasein saw how the loose carpet could have been aimed at him. He thought of a baited trap. The bait? That was the TV room, of course—an odd place certain to arouse his curiosity. Around the bait would be several traps, all avenues covered. He wondered what trap he had missed on the roof. As he thought about it, Dasein recalled how the stair rail had broken.

  “Are you there, Gilbert?”

  Selador’s voice sounded thin and distant.

  “Yes—I’m here.”

  Dasein nodded to himself. It was so beautifully simple. It answered all the vague uneasiness that had plagued him about the accidents. So simple—like a child’s drawing on a steamy window: no excess lines or unnecessary data. Bait and traps.

  Even as he saw it, Dasein realized Selador wouldn’t accept this solution. It smacked of paranoia. If the theory were wrong, it would be paranoia. It implied organization, the involvement of many people, many officials.

  “Is there something else you wanted, Gilbert? We’re paying for some rather costly silence.”

  Dasein came to himself suddenly. “Yes, sir. You recall Piaget’s article about Santarogans and allergens?”

  “Quite.” Selador cleared his throat.

  “I want you to query the public health officials and the department of agriculture. Find out if they have chemical analyses of the valley’s farm products—including the cheese.”

  “Public health … agriculture … cheese,” Selador said. Dasein could almost see him making notes. “Anything more?”

  “Perhaps. Could you get to the attorneys for the real estate board and the chain store people? I’m sure they must’ve explored possibilities of legal recourse on the leased land they …”

  “What’re you driving at, Gilbert?”

  “The chain stores leased the property and built their expensive installations before discovering the Santarogans wouldn’t trade with them. Is this a pattern? Do Santaroga realtors trap unwary outsiders?”

  “Conspiracy to defraud,” Selador said. “I see. I’m rather inclined to believe, Gilbert, that this avenue already has been exhausted.”

  Hearing him, Dasein thought Selador’s usual acuteness had been blunted. Perhaps he was tired.

  “Most likely,” Dasein said. “It wouldn’t hurt, though, for me to see what the legal eagles were thinking. I might get some new clues on the scene.”

  “Very well. And, Gilbert, when are you going to send me copies of your notes?”

  “I’ll mail some carbons tonight from Porterville.”

  “Tomorrow will be all right. It’s getting late and …”

  “No, sir. I don’t trust the Santaroga post office.”

  “Why?”

  Dasein recounted Jenny’s anger at the women in the post office. Selador chuckled.

  “They sound like a veritable band of harpies,” Selador said. “Aren’t there laws against tampering with the mails? But, of course, determined people and all that. I hope you found Miss Sorge in good health.”

  “As beautiful as ever,” Dasein said, keeping his voice light. He wondered suddenly about Selador. Miss Sorge. No hesitation, no question at all about her being unmarried.

  “We’re exploring the source of their petrol supply,” Selador said. “Nothing on that yet. Take care of yourself, Gilbert. I shouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “That makes two of us,” Dasein said.

  “Good-bye, then,” Selador said. His voice sounded hesitant. A click signaled the breaking of the connection.

  Dasein hung up, turned at a sound behind him. A Sheriff’s car was pulling into the station. It stopped facing the booth. A spotlight flashed in Dasein’s eyes. He heard a door open, footsteps.

  “Turn that damn’ light out of my eyes!” Dasein said.

  The light was lowered. He discerned a bulky shape in uniform standing outside the booth, the gleam of a badge.

  “Anything wrong?” It was an oddly squeaky voice to come from that bulk.

  Dasein stepped out of the booth, still angry at the way they had flashed the light in his eyes. “Should there be?”

  “You damn’ Santarogans,” the deputy muttered. “Must be important for one of you to come over to make a phone call.”

  Dasein started to protest he wasn’t a Santarogan, remained silent as his mind was caught by a flow of questions. What made outsiders assume he was a Santarogan? The fat man in the Chrysler and now this deputy. Dasein recalled Marden’s words. What was the identifying tag?

  “If you’re through, you best be getting home,” the deputy said. “Can’t park here all night.”

  Dasein saw an abrupt mental image of his gas gauge—it was faulty and registered almost empty even when the tank was full. Would they believe he had to wait for the station to open in the morning? What if they roused an attendant and found his tank took only a few gallons?

  Why am I debating petty deceptions? Dasein wondered.

  It occurred to him that he was reluctant to return to Santaroga. Why? Was living in the valley turning him into a Santarogan?

  “That’s a real artistic bandage you’re wearing,” the deputy said. “Been in an accident?”

  “Nothing important,” Dasein said. “Strained some ligaments.”

  “Good night, then,” the deputy said. “Take it easy on that road.” He returned to his car, said something in a low voice to his companion. They chuckled. The car pulled slowly out of the station.

  They mistook me for a Santarogan, Dasein thought, and he considered the reactions which had accompanied that mistake. They’d resented his presence here, but with an odd kind of diffidence … as though they were afraid of him. They hadn’t hesitated to leave him alone here, though—no question of his being a criminal.

  Disturbed by the incident and unable to explain his disturbance, Dasein climbed back into his truck, headed for Santaroga.

  Why had they assumed he was a Santarogan? The question kept gnawing at him.

  A bump in the road made him acutely conscious of his shoulder. The pain had settled into a dull ache. His mind felt clear and alert, though
, poised on a knife-edge peak of observation. He began to wonder about this sensation as he drove.

  The road flowed beneath him, climbing … climbing …

  As though part of the road’s pattern, disconnected images began flowing through his mind. They came with words and phrases, madly jumbled, no thought of order. Meaning eluded him. Feeling suddenly light-headed, he tried to grapple with the sensations—

  Cave … limping man … fire …

  What cave? he wondered. Where have I seen a limping man? What fire? Is it the fire that destroyed the telephone lines?

  He had the sudden impression that he was the limping man. Fire and cave eluded him.

  Dasein felt he wasn’t reasoning, but was pawing through old thoughts. Images—labels summoned objects before his mind’s eye: Car. He saw Jersey Hofstedder’s polished old machine. Fence. He saw the chain-link fence around the Co-op. Shadows. He saw bodiless shadows.

  What’s happening to me?

  He felt trembly with hunger … sweaty. Perspiration rolled off his forehead and cheeks. He tasted it on his lips. Dasein opened his window, allowed the cold wind to whip around him.

  At the turn-off where he’d stopped the first evening, Dasein pulled onto the gravel, shut off engine and lights. The clouds were gone and an oblate silver moon rode low on the horizon. He stared down into the valley—widely spaced lights, blue-green from the greenhouses far to his left, the bustle and stir from the Co-op off to the right.

  Up here, Dasein felt removed from all that, isolated. The darkness enclosed him.

  Cave? he wondered.

  Jaspers?

  It was difficult to think with his body behaving in this oddly erratic fashion. His shoulder throbbed. There was a nodule of aching in his left lung. He was aware of a tendon in his left ankle—not pain, but knowledge of a weakness there. He could trace in his mind the fiery line of scratches down his chest where Burdeaux had dragged him across the broken bannisters.

  A picture of the map on George Nis’s wall flashed into his mind, was gone.

  He felt possessed. Something had taken over his body. It was an ancient, frightening thought. Mad. He gripped the steering wheel, imagined that it writhed, jerked his hands away.