The Intervention Part 10

"Mr. Camastra, I think we met in Springfield at the last session -"

Shaking hands, smiling, and returning compliments, he wove expertly through the crowd. Nick and Carlo were always a few steps behind. He accepted the best wishes of a Chicago alderman, kissed his wife's sister, gave a polite brush-off to a hollow-eyed banking executive, told a dapper monsignor that he'd be delighted to contribute to the parish carillon fund, and congratulated a visiting New York consigliere of the Montedoro Family for having beaten a federal conspiracy rap.

Then he was at the edge of the dance floor, and all the well-wishers and importuners were swept away as if by magic. He kissed his wife Betty Carolyn, who looked terrific in clinging white Bob Mackie evening pajamas with silver fringe, topped off with a coiffure like sculptured meringue. And there was his grown daughter Rosemary, laughing as he swept her up in a bear hug.

"Hey, Rosie, my little princess! You look great. How's the art-gallery business in the Big Apple? We were afraid you'd miss the party with your plane delayed -"

"Al, the most exciting thing!" Betty Carolyn squealed. "Rosemary didn't say anything when she called from the airport so's we wouldn't worry, and anyhow by the time the plane landed it was all over, and her wonderful hero of a boyfriend even cooled off the U. S. Marshals so she and him don't even have to make a statement until tomorrow when the skyjacker is arraigned. "

"What?" The word was like a soft explosion. Big Al held his smiling daughter at arm's length. "Your plane was skyjacked? Jesus Christ!"

"Poppa, I'm all right. No one was hurt and the skyjacker was captured - thanks to Kieran. Kieran O'Connor, a very dear friend of mine. "

Carlo and Nick were still fending off guests, and the band was working itself into incipient apoplexy as it approached the climax of "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog. " Rosemary drew forward a slender dark-haired man who had been standing behind her. He was about thirty years old, clean-cut and with conservatively styled hair. He wore designer jeans and an open s.h.i.+rt with a gold neck-chain, the usual summer formal wear of his generation. His smile was diffident and his eyes cast down as Rosemary said: "Kieran subdued the skyjacker single-handed, Poppa. He took away the man's gun and - and somehow knocked him unconscious with a single blow! Karate or something. "

Big Al seized the hand of Kieran O'Connor. "My G.o.d! How can I thank you? You gotta tell me everything. My own daughter skyjacked! What's this d.a.m.n country coming to? Your name's O'Connor? You a frienda Rosie's from New York? Let's find a place to sit down and -"

The band, having brought "Jeremiah" to a rousing conclusion, now blared out a fanfare. People started tinkling their gla.s.ses with spoons.

"Ooh, " cried Betty Carolyn. "I told the band leader that when you came in, he should quick finish up whatever they were playing and then announce our special dance. Al, you know everybody's been waiting for you to come down. And then we cut the cake -"

"Lay-deez and gentlemen!" The amplified voice of the band leader boomed through the festive summer night. "And now, by special request, in honor of the Silver Wedding Anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. Aldo Camastra... "

The opening strains of Big Al's favorite tune, "The G.o.dfather Waltz, " throbbed from a single violin. The guests broke into applause and cheers and Betty Carolyn tugged at her husband's left hand. The right one was still in the grip of Kieran O'Connor.

"Al, we gotta dance. Come on!"

But Big Al stood unmoving, his mouth open in an expression of incredulity and his eyes locked upon those of the young man standing before him. Kieran O'Connor's lips were moving, but the noise from the crowd and the now fully instrumented waltz music made his voice inaudible to Betty Carolyn and Rosemary.

Big Al heard every word.

I have wanted to meet you - or someone like you - for a long time, Mr. Camastra. The skyjack was a charade. An introduction and a demonstration. I brought the gun aboard the aircraft myself, and I selected the poor devil who would play the skyjacker role and made certain that he played it. Wouldn't you like to know how I did that, Mr. Camastra? I have a number of other useful talents at my command. If we can come to an amicable arrangement, I am willing to put them at your disposal.

"Malocchio, " whispered Big Al. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. "The Evil Eye!" He tried to cry out to Carlo and Nick. The young Irishman's hypnotic voice reproached him.

You don't have to be afraid, Mr. Camastra. My offer is entirely legitimate. I need you, and you stand to profit considerably through use of my special services. "Al, come on!" said Betty Carolyn.

The voice in his mind was genial. The paralysis that had fettered his body eased, but still that entrancing gaze held him. Malocchio!

I'll let you dance with your lovely wife in just a moment, Mr. Camastra. I just want to a.s.sure you that there is no possible way for you to harm me. We are going to be friends. Your daughter and I are already very good friends.

Big Al felt himself being pulled onto the dance floor. Betty Carolyn's body pressed against his and they began to waltz to the sad, lilting melody. Rosemary stood arm in arm with a pleasant, very ordinary looking young man - who still exerted his mental wizardry from more than twenty feet away.

Ever since I finished law school at Harvard I've been researching the economics of the nationwide organization operated by you and your Sicilian colleagues. I found it fascinating. I know every significant detail of the Five Families' operations back in New York, including a maneuver currently being orchestrated to your disadvantage by a certain Mr. "Joe Porks" Porcaro of the Falcone Family. We'll talk about it later. Enjoy your dance, Mr. Camastra. It's really a great party.

17.

FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ROGATIEN REMILLARD.

I CONTINUED TO ACT as the surrept.i.tious confidant of Denis Remillard throughout his early childhood in spite of my brother Don's antagonism. The boy's long-distance farspeaking ability improved with each pa.s.sing year; and my own telepathic faculty, through our constant interaction and mental symbiosis, also advanced far beyond the level I had previously achieved with Don.

Little Denis soaked up knowledge like a human computer and my role as simple tutor soon became obsolete. Nevertheless I still had an important job to do educating Denis in human relations.h.i.+ps. At times he seemed almost like some naive little visitor from an extraterrestrial civilization, overflowing with data about Earth, its science, its culture, and its people - yet unable to fully comprehend how the human race worked. I could not help but recall Odd John, who was similarly bewildered. Not that Denis had any of the fictional character's inhuman alienation - far from it. But the murkier ins and outs of human psychology - especially the irrational elements playing a part in human decision making - tended to perplex and bemuse him. Brilliant though he was, he was handicapped by overly logical att.i.tudes, social inexperience, and the inevitably self-centered mind-set of a very young child. It would have been futile to try to form Denis's conscience, for instance, by referring him to treatises on ethics or moral theology; he needed to develop a sense of values by observing the actions of others, a.n.a.lyzing them, and judging their good or evil in a context that was not only social but personal. Practically speaking, it amounted to talking things over with me.

Looking back on our relations.h.i.+p from my present perspective, 140 years later, I can only be grateful that at the time I did not fully appreciate the crucial importance of what I was doing. If I had, I doubt that I would have had the courage to undertake the job - Ghost or no Ghost.

With the birth of Don and Sunny's second son Victor in 1970, Denis was relieved of a good deal of paternal constriction. Don became obsessed with the new child, who was strapping and handsome and the very image of his father, and lifted his earlier prohibition of contact between Denis and me. With Sunny's cooperation I was able to spend many hours each week with the boy. Our meeting place was the old apartment on Second Street, where aging Onc' Louie still lived with my unmarried cousins Al and Margie.

It was in 1973, when the time came for Denis to enter school, that the next crisis took place. After careful negotiation (and a bit of coercion!) I had managed to w.a.n.gle a partial scholars.h.i.+p for Denis at Northfield Hall, a prestigious private boarding school in Vermont that specialized in gifted children; but when the time came to finalize the arrangements, Don balked. He was in a precarious financial position. His alcoholism affected his job performance and he had been pa.s.sed over for promotion. Furthermore, Sunny was pregnant again, and Dr. Laplante predicted twins. Don's share of the tuition at Northfield would entail considerable sacrifice on his part - and he also professed an objection to the philosophical orientation of the school, which was ultraliberal and permissive and not at all congenial to the old-fas.h.i.+oned Catholicism of our family. Don dragged the entire Remillard family into the row. We split into those who wanted the best for Denis (me, Sunny, Al, and Margie), and those who maintained that no educational opportunity was worth "endangering the child's faith at some G.o.dless, left-wing school for spoiled rich kids" (Don, Onc' Louie, and about twenty-five other cousins, uncles, aunts, and in-laws).

In vain, I argued that Denis's religious instruction could be a.s.sured by special arrangement with a church near Northfield. Don declared that the Berlin parochial school had been good enough for him, and it should be good enough for his older son - genius or no genius. When I volunteered to share the tuition expenses Don stubbornly refused. A last-ditch attempt on my part to garner a full scholars.h.i.+p for Denis was shattered when Don made a truculent phone call to the school's headmaster. Northfield washed its hands of us volatile Canucks.

Of course n.o.body had asked Denis what he wanted.

Frustrated and disgusted by the debacle, I decided to go on a weekend backpack in the Mahoosucs to cool off. I could usually restore my spirit by climbing in the mountains, and I have since known many other metas who felt the same way. Perhaps it is merely instinctive for the psychosensitive to ascend as high as possible above the walls and confining rock formations that tend to block the free ranging of our minds; perhaps it is more - a yearning to be where the light is brightest, where the trees merge and the extent and shape of the forest can be known, where mean and mundane concerns are blotted out in flatland haze. I suppose I am moderately devout, but I don't feel impelled to pray in the high places. (I'm more likely to cry out of the depths!) Instead, I climb upward to bask. Skyey energies seem to pour through me when I stand on a peak like a human lightning rod; they renew me, and in some mystical fas.h.i.+on revitalize the Earth I stand upon.

On that day in mid-August I climbed Goose Eye Mountain, a 1170-meter pinnacle some fifteen crow-flight kilometers from Berlin, just across the border in Maine. When I reached the top I farspoke Denis and shared the summit experience with him. For two years now he had begged to accompany me on my wilderness rambles, but Sunny felt he was still too young and frail for strenuous hiking and I reluctantly had to agree. I took Denis along with me mentally instead, and he told me it was almost as good.

After I'd let him borrow my senses, I asked: What are you doing?

Baking CAKE allbymyself (OK Mom supervises) Papa goneout so he won't laugh took Victor they lookingfor birthdaypresentPapa outboardmotor tomorrow Papabirthday I make cake Mom&me privatejoke not tell Papa cake goingtobe magnificent.

OmyG.o.d forgot completely tomorrow August 12. My birthday too 28yearsold just like yourPapa.

! [Dismay.] BUT YOU HAVE NO CAKE.

Laughter. Waitwait in backpack gooeycreamfilled Feuillete! Tomorrow put littletwigs in light sing HappyBirthdaytoMe.

[Mindshout broken off.] Cake done! Goodbye UncleRogi...

I'll try to speak you tomorrow MountSuccess. Goodbye Denis.

And he was gone, caught up in his great confectionery adventure. Of course it would have to be kept secret from Don, who would ridicule his little son for doing "women's work. " It was typical of my brother that he should take three-year-old Victor, his pet, with him while he shopped for his own expensive birthday present. Small chance he would have saved the money for Denis's education.

I cursed quietly. If only the tuition at Northfield Hall weren't so exorbitantly high. If only the great state of New Hamps.h.i.+re hadn't let the gifted-child program go down the drain in a budget cut. If only the local Catholic school weren't so stodgy and inflexible. Sister Superior was willing to "see what could be done" about a.s.signing Denis some special courses of advanced study, but she was adamant about having him start in first grade just like all the other six-year-olds. It was necessary that he "gain the requisite social skills and learn good work habits. "

Denis now probably knew more than I did. And how would I like to spend a year twiddling my thumbs in first grade? Doux Jesus!

I slithered down from Goose Eye and picked up the Appalachian Trail. I had intended to spend Sat.u.r.day and Sunday browsing about this region of the Mahoosucs, a rather modest weekend ramble; but now renewed fury at Don's selfishness and my own inability to help Denis kindled a perverse need to push myself to the limit. I checked my watch. It wasn't quite noon. Sunset would not be until around eight o'clock. My AMC map showed a more challenging itinerary, a fourteen-kilometer hike to Gentian Pond Shelter. That section of the trail was quite rugged, involving the negotiation of steep ridge and valley terrain and several scrambles over areas with great blocks of granite. I was a strong hiker, however, and my legs are long. I figured that by pus.h.i.+ng myself I could cover the distance and arrive at Gentian well before dark - dead tired and no doubt chock-full of self-justification.

So I set off.

It was a fine day in spite of the heat. A tricky descent along the southwestern flank of Goose Eye commanded my attention. Then I flushed a few languid spruce grouse down in a hollow, and was further distracted by a harsh call that sounded like a raven, a species formerly rare in New England but now making a comeback. My bird-watcher's instinct perked up and I tramped along more cheerfully. In time I reached Mount Carlo and made my way up its rough northern shoulder. The eminence was as somber as a chunk of Labrador tundra, but there was a good view back to Goose Eye and ahead to Mount Success. I tried to hail Denis telepathically but there was no answer. No doubt Don had returned home and the child had been obliged to take refuge in the mental sanctuary he customarily erected against his father's barbs and disparagements.

d.a.m.n Don! He couldn't hurt Denis physically, but he could certainly do enormous emotional damage. The boarding school had seemed the perfect solution, taking the boy out of Don's...o...b..t for nearly nine months of the year and providing him with an environment where he could continue his self-education, while at the same time learning to get along with other bright youngsters and sympathetic adults. With that escape vetoed, there seemed to be only one other solution to Denis's dilemma.

I would have to reveal his metapsychic gifts.

Every instinct in me warned against it. The child would be exploited, pressured, treated as a freak if not as a menace. Once the truth came out, the psi laboratories at the various inst.i.tutions would squabble over him. And I had read recently about a psi research facility at the U. S. Army's Aberdeen Center...

No. There had to be another way.

I hiked on, agonizing, entertaining one preposterous idea after another. I would steal Denis away. I would poison Don's liquor just enough to put him in bed, under my coercive thumb. I would confide Denis's secret to the nuns at school and enlist their help. (But the truth would leak out. The unsophisticated sisters could never deal with it. ) I would write to Dr. Rhine himself! To our bishop. To the Governor of New Hamps.h.i.+re. To President Nixon. To The New York Times!

Occupied with these thoughts, I crossed the steep notch of Carlo Col and slogged into New Hamps.h.i.+re again, beginning the long climb to Mount Success, that ironically named central point of the little Mahoosuc Range. Success wasn't very difficult to master. It wasn't high, only interminably broad. Up around the summit were treacherous patches of thinly crusted bog where a false step put you boot-top-deep in black muck. I finally snapped out of my distraction when I missed my footing and fell headlong into a pocket of the stuff. It was only by the skin of my teeth that I missed tumbling over a kind of rock-slab retaining wall into a lethally steep ravine.

I had managed to wrench my knee, I was half soaked, and clinging black glop slathered me from stem to gudgeon.

I crawled out swearing at my own stupidity - and at the whimsical topography of my native state, where bogs appeared at the tops of otherwise arid mountains. They were a consequent of the local weather pattern, formed when moist air driven by strong winds collided with the small peaks. In summer there might be thick mist or drizzle or even sleet at the higher elevations while the lower slopes remained warm and dry. The same terrain and weather factors made for extremely violent thunderstorms.

I recalled this as I sat on top of Mount Success changing my wet pants and socks in a rising wind while towering c.u.mulus clouds billowed up behind the two Bald Caps in the west. Now I knew why I had met so few hikers during the last three hours - and those hiking in the opposite direction. Anybody with any brains was already holed up in a shelter; but I was caught halfway between the Carlo Col hut and Gentian Pond. It was almost five in the afternoon, my knee hurt like h.e.l.l, I had no tent in my pack, and shelter was four hours away in either direction... for an able-bodied hiker.

I limped off in the direction of Gentian, moving as fast as the knee permitted. As the clouds humped higher and darker, I looked for a likely bivouac. I found nothing but windswept open ledges, knee-high tangles of scrub spruce and balsam (but no wood large enough to cut into a walking stick), and tumbled rocky slopes that had to be traversed with the utmost caution. Clouds hid the sun and wind whipped the miniature evergreens viciously in a prelude to the arrival of the storm front. Off in the southwest, the sky was purplish black.

As I slid downhill into a brushy washout my knee buckled. I went over sideways, but managed to land on my pack. The pain was intense. I lay there with my eyes shut listening to the tinkle of a tiny rivulet a few meters away. Then came a faint grumble of thunder, raindrops splattered my face, and I said, "Oh, s.h.i.+t. "

Now what? I was going to have to get out of that ravine, for starters, since it would probably become a torrent once the storm began in earnest. Shedding my pack, I hobbled around gathering sticks to splint the knee. When the joint was immobilized I rested for a few minutes, trying to concentrate my metapsychic healing ability on the injury. But it was no good. I was too distracted and anxious to focus my mind properly. I put on my Gore-Tex jacket, the only rainwear I had, shouldered my backpack again, and began a long and awkward climb.

The rain came on fast and so did the fireworks. There was a real danger of being zapped by lightning if one remained in an exposed position during one of these big storms, and an outside chance of getting killed on the slippery granite rocks. I was still a good hour and a half away from Gentian Pond Shelter and I didn't have a hope of making it before nightfall. I'd have to hole up somewhere; but as I rummaged frantically in my memory trying to recall this section of the trail from my last-year's hike, it seemed that there was no real refuge to be had, not along the trail proper. And if I went sidetracking in the dusk I would certainly get lost.

I stood still in the driving downpour and tried to exert my farsight, seeking some cranny or marmot hole where I could gain at least minimal shelter. My ultrasense refused to function. Perhaps it was the lightning that blazed all around me; perhaps it was the pain of my sprained knee, or sheer funk. Whatever - I farsaw nothing. I remember crying out mentally to little Denis in my desperation, having some notion that his superior brain might be able to locate a hiding place where mine had failed. But Denis didn't respond. I suppose my telepathic howl was too feeble and too circ.u.mscribed by the dense granite rock that surrounded me. I was stuck.

Alors - j'y suis, j'y reste! Unless...

What happened next seems, in retrospect, to be almost a prefiguring - if not a parody - of the great event that would take place forty years later. Trapped on that d.a.m.ned mountain in a thundering deluge, I lifted my head to the sky and yelled: "Ghost! Get me out of this!"

Between lightning blasts, the landscape was now nearly pitch black. I cried out to the fantome Familier a second time. The wind roared and my knee gave me h.e.l.l. I was drenched all over again in spite of the Gore-Tex, since the rain was somehow blowing uphill. I unfastened my pack and sat on the streaming rocks, my splinted leg jutting awkwardly.

"Ghost, you son of a b.i.t.c.h! Where are you when I need you?"

And it said: Here.

I gave a violent start. Hallucination? But the wind had fallen off abruptly and the rain spigot was turned off. I was aware of a hazy glow surrounding me. The lightning's glare was almost lost in it, only visible now as slightly brighter pulses of light in an overarching luminescence.

I whispered, "Ghost?"

A vos ordres.

"Is it really you?"

Poor Rogi! When you have legitimate need of me, you have only to call. Someone will hear and summon me. I thought you understood this.

I cursed the mysterious presence roundly in French and English, then demanded that it do something about my knee. Voila! The injury healed instantly. Giddy with triumph, I told it, "Now dry me off - if you can. "

Nothing easier.

Pouf! Clouds of vapor poured out of the sleeves and from under the lower edge of my rain jacket. I pulled the thing off and watched my pants and sweater steam dry in a couple of minutes. Even my socks dried.

"Hot d.a.m.n!" I chortled. "Now let's have a nice cup of tea with plenty of brandy in it. "

The Ghost's mind-voice was slightly caustic: I believe you've used up the customary three wishes. You have your Bluet stove and the makings in your pack.

Laughing like a loon, I pulled out the things and got cooking. The Ghost had charitably dried off a few rocks in the immediate vicinity so I just sat where I was, waiting for the pot to boil and munching a Granola bar. The glow from what I now know was a psychocreative bubble cast a friendly light over the dripping skunk-currant bushes.

After I had managed to calm down a little I said, "It's a good thing you did show up. A man could die in this kind of a mess. Poor little Denis has had enough hard luck without losing his favorite uncle, too. "

The Ghost seemed surprised: Hard luck?

"The boarding-school thing I arranged for him fell through. Don and most of the family are dead-set against it. I should think you'd know. "

I have been... elsewhere. Do you mean to tell me that Don objects to Denis being taught by the Jesuits?

"Jesuits! h.e.l.l, no. He objects to the kid going to that school for budding geniuses in Vermont - Northfield Hall."

The Ghost seemed to be ruminating: So! It seems that further direct intervention is called for, with the probability loci focused by this minor contretemps of yours. An interesting manifestation of synchronicity! Of course Denis never spoke of this failed arrangement, so how was one to know?

The thing's jabbering made no sense so I brewed tea and tossed in a hefty slug of Christian Brothers. Half joking, I held out the small plastic flask. "I don't suppose you'd care for a nip?"

It said: Merci beau.

The flask floated away, tipped briefly, and returned. I hastily swilled my tea and had a fit of coughing. If the Ghost was a delusion, as I was beginning to suspect, my unconscious mind had a rare imaginative flair. I said: "What's this about the Jebbies?"

It said: Two priests named Jared Ellsworth and Frank Dubois are opening an experimental school intended to serve gifted children from low-income families. It is called Brebeuf Academy and it is located just outside Concord, on the grounds of a small Jesuit college. You will find that the fathers will readily accept Denis, under full scholars.h.i.+p. You yourself will take care of the boy's incidental expenses. Don will give his consent.

A euphoric warmth, not from the brandy, began to suffuse me. "Didn't I read something about Ellsworth in Newsweek a while back?"

But it ignored me and continued: After Denis has attended Brebeuf Academy for one year, you will tell Father Ellsworth the full truth about the boy's supranormal mental faculties. He will know what steps must be taken to protect Denis during his minority. You may then safely leave the boy's guidance in this priest's hands.

My brain spun. For over six years I'd devoted almost every moment of my spare time to the education and encouragement of my nephew. The rest of the time I'd merely worried myself sick over him. Was the Ghost telling me my job was done?

It said: Not done. Denis will always need your friends.h.i.+p. But you have fulfilled very well the first charge I placed on you, Rogi, and for a while you'll have time for yourself.

For a while!

Peace! Ne vous traca.s.sez pas. There are years yet.

I shouted, "How can I believe you? What are you?" You may as well know. It won't hurt. I am a being from another world, from another star. I am your friend and Denis's friend - the special guardian of the entire Remillard family, for reasons that will eventually be made clear to you. Now I will see to your safety before I go. The storm will last far into the night.

All I could think of were the flying-saucer flaps going on all over the world for the past several years. And my Ghost was some kind of extraterrestrial?

I blurted out, "What did happen to Betty and Barney Hill on the old Franconia Highway?"