Dimension Of Horror Part 6

"Lotus."

"Countersign Eaters," said the man, snapping on his flashlight.

"Follow me, please."

While his partner remained behind, the tall man led J and Zoe through the deserted Tower Park, among the ancient cannons and leafless trees. There was no fog tonight, and J could see the lights on the opposite bank of the river, and their reflections s.h.i.+mmering in the water like ghostly spears of colored flame. Ahead and above, endless streams of headlights crossed the ma.s.sive Tower Bridge.

The agent unlocked the Traitor's Gate and let J and Zoe in, then left them to continue on their own. Zoe exclaimed with surprise when J opened the hidden door. "Amazing! I could have sworn that was a blank wall."

J chuckled and continued on.

Zoe followed though it was plain she found the long dim damp tunnel and the maze of subbas.e.m.e.nts highly distasteful.

When they reached the elevator, Zoe pressed the b.u.t.ton.

J smiled when the elevator did not come.

"What's keeping it?" she demanded.

"It doesn't know you, my dear."

J pressed with his thumb, and the elevator arrived an instant later.

"How did you do that?" she asked as she stepped inside.

"Magic, my dear. Magic."

They plunged downward at an alarming speed, then slowed to a stop. "I feel ill," Zoe said softly, long fingers touching the base of her throat.

The door slid open.

In a brilliantly lighted foyer a man behind an olive drab desk looked up from a magazine he was reading. The man wore a green uniform and was armed with a large pistol in a hip holster. He looked at Zoe and frowned.

"We're going down, Peters," said J.

Peters pressed a b.u.t.ton on his desk. The elevator door closed. Again they plummeted downward.

Zoe said, "I would rather have gotten off there and taken the stairs."

J answered, "If you had stepped into that foyer, you would have heard more alarm bells, sirens and whistles than you'd care to hear in a lifetime."

"Good Lord. You must be guarding something frightfully valuable in there. What is it?"

"The Russians know there's something in there, but they don't know what it is. I hope you don't expect to be better informed than they are."

The elevator decelerated.

"This will be our little hospital," J said.

"How convenient."

The door slid open.

Standing in the hall, waiting, were Lord Leighton and Dr. Leonard Ferguson. Both looked haggard and tense, as if they had not slept in a long time.

When the introductions had been completed, Dr. Ferguson said, "Come along, dear." The fat little psychiatrist had an oily way with women. Rumor had it, around the project, that he had seduced an awesome number of females, but J had never been able to understand what they saw in the fellow.

Now he was saying, as he waddled along, "You look pale, dear. Are you feeling well?"

"I'm all right, doctor. I was a bit queasy in the lift, but I'm fine now."

"There's a good girl." He patted her arm.

Lord Leighton, hobbling along behind, grunted, "I hope you've prepared her for what she's going to see, J. Yes, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, this could be quite a shock to you. Richard Blade is far from being the man you remember."

"What exactly is wrong with him?" Now that her husband was not around, she made no attempt to conceal her concern.

"Amnesia, with fits of violence," the hunchback answered grimly.

"He probably won't recognize you," Ferguson put in. "In fact, Mrs. Smythe-Evans, I must warn you that I am very pessimistic about this whole business of bringing you here. It smacks a good deal more of the telly than sound psychiatric procedure. Indeed, I probably would have voted against the idea if I'd been given the opportunity to do so."

"It's my idea," J admitted. "If it doesn't work, we'll simply have to think of another one, won't we?"

"And you think seeing me will bring back his memory?" she asked, puzzled.

"Exactly," J said with conviction, a conviction he did not feel.

"I've had Mr. Blade moved to a new room while we-er-redecorate his old one," Ferguson said with a touch of ironic humor J always found so annoying. "Here we are."

They stopped before the closed door of Room 27.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Smythe-Evans?" Ferguson said gently.

She bit her lip and nodded.

Ferguson opened the door.

He hasn't changed.

That was Zoe's first impression as she entered the room and diffidently approached the foot of the bed. Richard Blade's affliction had removed, along with his memory, the facial expression of age, relaxing his muscles, smoothing the lines around his eyes and mouth. For a moment he seemed exactly the big, powerful, yet reserved and gentlemanly fellow he'd been when first they'd met, so many years ago, the man who'd looked like an athlete but had quoted poetry like a Rhodes scholar.

Then she looked again, and felt a chill creep over her. Those dark eyes, which once had been so unnervingly alert, were now dull, unfocused and opaque. And she noticed, with an unpleasant jolt, that he was strapped down to the bed.

Dr. Ferguson spoke to the burly white-clad orderly who stood nearby. "Have you discontinued sedation?"

"Yes, sir." The man looked worried.

"Good," Ferguson said thoughtfully. "We want the poor fellow to be able to react if he can."

"But I'm ready with the tranquilizer if he gets wild." The orderly indicated a large dart pistol on the dresser.

"Acetylcholine esterase?"

"Yes, sir."

Ferguson nodded with satisfaction. "Good. The barbiturate charge we used before was a little slow."

Zoe continued to stare into Richard Blade's tanned empty face. "Can he see me?" she whispered.

"Oh, certainly, if he looks at you," Ferguson a.s.sured her.

"Say something to him, Mrs. Smythe-Evans," J prompted.

She leaned forward over the foot of the bed. "Richard?" she called softly.

He did not respond.

"Richard?" she repeated, louder.

Still he gave no sign.

Ferguson shrugged. "I didn't think it would work. We might as well leave poor Mr. Blade in peace and . . . "

"Try again," J commanded sharply, ignoring the fat little psychiatrist. "Try again, Mrs. Smythe-Evans!"

Her vision blurred with sudden tears. "Please," she said. "Please. It's me, Zoe." She moved to Blade's bedside and touched his cheek with her fingertips.

"Be careful, miss," the orderly warned nervously.

"There's no danger," Lord Leighton snapped. "Blade's trussed up like a blooming mummy."

"He's a strong one, he is," said the orderly, still not at all at ease.

"Don't you remember me?" she pleaded. "d.i.c.k? d.i.c.k? Can't you answer me?" Ineffectually she stroked his dark unruly hair.

Then she felt his head turn toward her and it seemed to her, through her tears, that she saw a faint trace of a smile on his lips.

"Look out there, miss," said the orderly. "He's moving."

"Moving?" she cried. "He's smiling! Can't you see he's smiling?"

"We mustn't give way to wishful thinking, my dear," Ferguson said, but he had stepped forward and was staring intently at Richard's features. Leighton and J had also come forward.

"You remember me, d.i.c.k," she said triumphantly. "I know you do! But you must give some sign for the others. Prove it to them!"

Richard Blade's lips moved.

"Dorset," he whispered.

"What did he say?" Leighton demanded.

"He said Dorset," J answered.

She clutched Blade's shoulders, her fingernails digging into the rough white material of his hospital gown, and said urgently, "You remember Dorset? So do I! Do you remember the cottage, the sea, the cold mornings when I fixed your breakfast? Do you remember how we used to swim together in the surf before dawn? The long walks down those country lanes with all the trees and cows? Do you remember that niche in the cliff top I called 'Blade's Snuggery,' where we made love outdoors and didn't give a d.a.m.n?" The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks and dropping from her chin onto his bedcovers. "Do you remember how we used to quote poetry to each other?" She paused, sobbing, unable to speak. The vision she was trying to make Richard remember had overwhelmed her, and everything that had happened in the intervening years seemed unreal and dreamlike.

She got a grip on herself, wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands like a child, and began reciting "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold in a shaking voice, ignoring Ferguson, J, Lord Leighton and the orderly as if they were not there. This poem, more than any other, they had quoted and requoted and sometimes, for fun or in the heat of emotion, misquoted.

The sea is calm tonight, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;-on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the . . .

Richard Blade screamed.

"What's wrong?" Zoe cried, suddenly all concern.

He screamed again, and she thought he was screaming a word, a word she'd never heard before, a word from some unknown language the very sounds of which were alien to any familiar alphabet.

"Ngaa!" he shrieked, his face contorted into a mask of horror. "Ngaa! Ngaa! Ngaa!"

Blade's eyes seemed fixed on some spot above her left shoulder. She turned to look, but there was nothing there.

"Ngaa! Ngaa! Ngaa!"

He began to toss from side to side as much as his fetters would allow.

The orderly s.n.a.t.c.hed up the dart pistol from the dresser. "Back, miss. He's getting violent!"

"Those straps will hold him," Leighton said, but there was uncertainty in his voice.

"Easy there, Mr. Blade. Easy does it. Tell us what you see," Dr. Ferguson said soothingly. "We're all with you. Whatever it is, we won't let it get you."

Abruptly Richard was silent, his eyes now fully alert. His gaze moved swiftly from face to face, taking in the circle of anxious onlookers in an instant.

"That's better," Ferguson said with relief. "We can talk..."

Before he could finish his sentence Blade began to strain at his bonds, muscles standing out like cables, face turning red with the effort, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

"Stand back, all of you!" shouted the orderly, aiming the pistol with a shaking hand.

"For G.o.d's sake, man," Leighton snapped. "Put that toy down. Blade can't get loose." He pushed the weapon aside.

"He can! He can!" insisted the orderly, almost hysterical.

Suddenly one of the straps broke with an explosive pop, then another, and another. Blade took a deep breath, then began straining again, groaning with the effort.

Zoe felt pudgy fingers grip her arm and drag her away. Ferguson muttered, "Come along, dear. Quickly!"

J and Leighton, on either side of her, were retreating too.

The orderly took aim and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp snicking sound and the dart, fired at point blank range, buried itself in Richard Blade's shoulder. With a roar of wordless rage, Blade thrashed free of his upper restraints. Only his legs remained bound.