and Raoul had both described him as opinionated
and talkative to the point of boorishness,
anything but socially reticent.
Emma had emerged as her husband’s cringing
subordinate, almost a nonentity, except in Augie
Valcroix’s view. The Canadian doctor had described
her as a strong woman and hadn’t rejected the
possibility that she’d’instigated the disappearance.
On the subject of Nona there seemed to be the
most agreement. She was wild, hypersexual, and
angry. And had been ‘that way for a’long time.
And then there was Woody, a sweet little boy.
Any way you looked at it, an innocent victim. Was I
deluding myself into believing he might still be
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270
alive? Engaging in the same kind of denial that had
turned a brilliant physician into a public nuisance?
I had an intuitive distrust of Matthias and the
Touch but no evidence to back it up. Valcroix had
visited them and I wondered if it had been only a
single visit as,claimed. Several times I’d watched
him space out in a manner reminiscent of the meditation
practiced by the Touch. Now he was dead.
What was the connection, if any ?
Something else stuck in my mind. Matthias had
said the cult purchased seeds from Garland Swope
once or twice. But according to Ezra Maimon, Garland
had nothing to sell. All there was behind his
gates was an old house and acres of dust. A minor
point? Perhaps. But why the need to fabricate?
Lots of questions, none of them leading anywhere.
It was like a jigsaw puzzle whose Pieces had been
improperly tooled. No matter how hard I worked,
the end product was maddeningly off-kilter.
I passed through the covered bridge and slowed
down. The entrance to the Swope property was
fronted by a sunken dirt driveway leading to rusty
iron gates. The gates weren’t high–seven feet at
most–but they wore a coiffure of barbed wire that
stretched another yard,and were bound, as Maimon
had said, by padlock and chain.
I drove a hundred feet before finding space to
pull over. Nosing the Seville as close as possible to
a stand of eucalyptus, I parked, took the tools and
flashlight, and backtracked on foot.
The lock was brand new. Probably affixed by
Houten. The chain was plastic-coated steel. It resisted
the bolt cutters for a moment then split like
overcooked sausage. I opened the gate, slipped
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TEST 271
through, closed it, and rearranged the severed finks
to conceal the surgery.
The driveway was gravel and responded to my
footsteps with breakfast cereal sounds. The flashlight
revealed a tvi, ostory frame house, at first glance
not unlike Maimon’s. But this structure seemed to
sag on its foundation, the wood splintered and peeling,
The roof was tar paper and bald in several
piaces, the windows framed by warped casements.
I placed my foot on the first porch step and felt the
wood give under my weight. Dry rot.
An owl hooted. I heard the rasping friction of
wings, raised my beam to catch the big bird in
flight. Then a broad swoop, the scurrying panic of
prey, a thin squeak, and silence once again.
The front door was locked. I considered various
means of snapping the lock and stopped midthought,
feeling furtive and vaguely criminal. Looking up at
the ravaged mass of ‘the decrepit house, I remembered
the fate of its inhabitants. Inflicting further
damage seemed a heedless act of vandalism. I decided
to’ try the back door,
I stumbled on a loose board, cauglt my balance,
and walked around the side of the house. I hadn’t
taken a dozen steps when I heard the sound. An
incessant dripping, rhythmic and oddly melodic.
.There was a junction box in the same place as
the one at Maimon’s. It was rusted shut and I had
to use the crowbar to pry it open. I tried several
switches and got no response. The fourth brought
on the lights.
There was a single greenhouse. I entered it.
– Long heavy wooden tables ran the length of the
glass building. The bulbs I’d .switched on were dim
and bluish, casting a milky glaze over the creations
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that rested on the heavy planks. At the peak of the