The Uncertainty Principle?

By D. Scott Apel

“Brilliant, original, and damned funny as well!” —Robert Anton Wilson, co-author of the Illuminatus! trilogy and The Cosmic Trigger. When a small-town private eye is hired by a big name science fiction writer to find out why everything he writes comes true, the metaphysical assignment leads the young detective into a labyrinth of bizarre and life-threatening incidents, any one of which could be either incredible coincidence or part of a complex, carefully orchestrated conspiracy. He risks losing his client, his mind and even his life as he walks this razor’s edge between coincidence and conspiracy to its unexpected resolution. Set in the San Francisco Bay Area in the late 1970s, The Uncertainty Principle? captures the offbeat atmosphere of the underground of the era: a playground of science fiction writers, religious cultists and dangerous psychotics. The Uncertainty Principle? combines comic capers with a novel mystery to create a mystery novel that is, in fact, novel. “Reads like a mashup of Raymond Chandler, Jorge Luis Borges and Donald E. Westlake.” —ComiCaper

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Scott Apel
• Release date: Dec 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781886404106

Book preview

"Yes, I replied. And no."

"Ah! he said. The Unserpenty...the Uncertainty Principle strikes again. Wannanother shot of cachaça?"

That was one question I didn’t have any trouble answering. I held out my glass. He poured a sloppy shot over my emaciated lime wedge. I took a sip. Harsh, strong, sweet. Pure sugar cane liquor, 100 cruzeros a fifth. Fifty cents, American. Local booze. Working man’s booze.

Necessary booze.

He sloshed himself another clumsy slug. We rocked gently in our party-colored hammocks, sipping our supper, enjoying the cool breeze and the bright vision of the glistening river as the cargo boat slipped slowly through the jungle.

"Maybe we’ve overlooked something, he suggested at length. Again. Tell me the whole story. Again."

I polished off my shot and held out the glass for a refill. I gathered my thoughts until I felt the previous dose kick in. He waited patiently for me to respond. What, me hurry?

That damned Chapel. That’s where it all started... No, before that. The interview. No...that speeding ticket. That’s where it all... Hm. I might have to go back even further than that.

"I saw my first cop when I was three," I began...

CHAPTER ONE

Friday

I saw my first cop when I was three.

It was winter in our small Chicago suburb. My mother had bundled me up for a walk to Main Street. Three whole blocks. A foreign land. Another planet. And when we hit the street, there he was.

"That man is a policeman, Mom had said, in her best teacher-tones. If you’re ever lost or in trouble, you go right to him. He’s here to help you."

I studied the man carefully. He sat towering above me on a squat black motorcycle, gunning the engine rhythmically. I scrutinized his black jackboots, his black leather jacket and gloves, the bulge of his black holster. I studied his grim mouth, his bug-eyed-monster goggles, his equally alien white helmet.

I looked back at my mother. I started wondering about Santa Claus.

I saw my first cop when I was three. I’ve been seeing them ever since.

This one snuck up behind me and caused a gut punch of panic—and that flashback—when he goosed me with his lights and siren. I eased the car onto the next turnout, turned off the ignition, rolled down the window.

Christ. I just got on the damn road. I was barely out of town. I’d only just ramped up to 75 as I passed The Cats. Never saw him. Must have been hiding in the parking lot.

He spent a minute or five on his radio. I used the time to excavate my registration from the glove compartment and fish my driver’s license from an inner pocket of my sports coat.

Eventually he stepped out of his standard issue California Highway Patrol black-and-white and sauntered up to my window.

Afternoon, officer, I said pleasantly when he leaned in to see me.

License and registration, please.

I handed over the papers; a good Boy Scout. What seems to be the problem, officer?

I pulled you over for speed.

I shook my head. Never touch the stuff. Just drink a lot of coffee.

He glanced at me as though there might be a spark of consciousness rattling around inside that helmet. Maybe too much to hope for.

Any idea how fast you were going?

About seventy.

Well, at least you’re honest about it, he sighed, writing 65 on the ticket.

He strolled back to his cruiser without another word. I watched him in the side mirror. He was on his radio again. This might take a while. But I wasn’t worried. My papers were in order.

Truth is, I was too pissed to be worried. Damned Jimmy Carter. If it wasn’t for his so-called Energy Crisis, 65 would still be legal. Now it never would be.

I had nothing to do but stew over things beyond my control. Or enjoy the beautiful view. He’d pulled me over at the crest of a hill alongside Lexington Reservoir, and I could see a long way from here. I could see the mountains. I could see fall foliage. I could even see the drought from here. You’d have to be blind not to. Years of AWOL rainfall had transformed this man-made lake into a scaly scar on the landscape, the mud long ago baked to cracked dry plates. Just a few weeks ago Laurel and I had actually walked across the floor of the parched reservoir and had a picnic in the foothills on the other side.

Welcome to California. Just add water.

The cop came back. They always do.

He handed me his pen and metal clipboard, pointing to a red X at the bottom of the yellow citation. Sign here, please, he said, robotically reciting a speech he’d probably delivered a thousand times already this year. This is not a confession of guilt merely an agreement to contact the court within ten days to arrange payment of the fine or set a date for a court appearance you must respond within ten days or you will be held in contempt of court and a warrant will be issued for your arrest do you understand.

I took the clipboard and signed with a flourish. Yeah, sure. Ever since I was on TV, people have been hounding me for my autograph.

He aimed his eyes at my face. Maybe I had fanned that spark.

Oh, yeah, he said, nodding calmly, taking back his clipboard. "That TV newsmagazine. Videoest. ‘Watching the Detective.’ Saw it the other night." At least he’d pronounced it right. Video-west. He handed me my license and the ticket.

You on a case?

I’m late for an initial interview.

OK. You can go. But watch your speed. Better to arrive late than not at all.

Thanks, I said. Yeah, that’s right. Thank the guy who’s made you late and cost you fifty bucks. I lashed out at him with the worst possible insult I could muster: Have a nice day!

He swaggered back to his car. I stuffed the ticket into the inner pocket of my sports coat, started the car, and sat waiting for a break in traffic so I could pull back onto the freeway. And sat. And waited. I clicked the radio on, just to look unintimidated, and immediately regretted that move. I had no FM, no 8-track, no CB. I was stuck with AM Top 40 All Hits All The Time Wow. My life stopped being lit up once I twisted the off knob. Maybe I can’t shut the cops up. But I sure as hell can shut up Debbie Boone.

When the coast was clear, the cop and I set off in tandem, past the Winding Road Ahead sign and into the mountains. He followed me for a couple miles. We both drove fifty-four.

Eventually he pulled off onto another turnout to help a tourist with his hood up. Or to ticket him; you can never tell. I floored it to make up for lost time. And I kept one eye on the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t just trying to sneak up behind me again. The last thing I wanted was another ticket. I wouldn’t be so nice about it next time.

Next to last on the list of things I didn’t want was to be late. This case might be my Big Break. The one I’d been waiting for. I wanted to be punctual, even if my prospective client didn’t pay attention to those details.

And who knows what idiosyncrasies he’d have? As far as I knew, no one had been to his Tower for over a generation. All I knew about him was what was general knowledge: Jubilation T. Harshlaw, AKA The New Jules Verne and The Emperor of the Imagination. Author of dozens of science fiction thrillers, many of which predicted technological innovations or social movements with remarkable accuracy. The Santa Cruz mountains were his home, and he’d sequestered himself there since the mid-‘40s.

I was to be his first visitor in over thirty years.

Maybe one reason he didn’t have any visitors was because he didn’t make it easy to find him. Highway 17 from Los Gatos to Santa Cruz is only about twenty miles, but it’s nobody’s idea of a pleasant drive. It is a necessary evil, however. For nearly a century now the sleepy little seaside town of Santa Cruz has been the weekend playground and day-trip destination of the middle class and working class of my home, the Santa Clara Valley. But the rush-rush motorists of the fast-paced ‘30s grew tired of traversing snakes-doing-yoga roads that meandered the paths of least resistance through the daunting mountain range that separates the two towns.

Motorists insisted that a major corridor be built. They wanted it in the worst way. And that’s exactly the way they got it. In 1940, the State of California inaugurated Highway 17—twenty miles of winding road from Los Gatos to Santa Cruz, boasting narrow lanes, sheer drops, poorly banked curves, and steep grades in both directions. One well-known rite of passage among Valley teens was to make that first drive over the hill, avoiding the cops, the sweats, and the fate of becoming another victim of a high-speed, fish-tail spin-out—a fatal swerve at Dead Man’s Curve.

The highway winds ten miles uphill to the summit of the ridge of the Santa Cruz Mountain chain, then slowly slaloms down another five miles before it flattens out. If you were a passenger, 17 was a deliciously scenic experience: panoramic vistas of sun-dappled redwoods and giant, old growth pine; of tree-thick valleys hidden in mist; of the broad sweep of the sea at destination’s end. But if you were the driver, navigating south from Los Gatos was twenty minutes of pure twisting torture. More, if you drove at a safe speed. The one ugly image for a passenger was right there in the car: the driver’s sweat-beaded brow, gritted teeth and white-knuckled steering wheel grip.

These hills were a stronghold of history as well, much of it wild and colorful. Like the Oakwood Barbeque—The Cats—where that CHiP was lying in wait to pounce on me. The roadside restaurant and tavern was originally a stop on a stagecoach line, and its eclectic brick-and-shingle architecture dated back more than a century. In the Roaring Twenties, it evolved into a rowdy social club—a notorious speakeasy and bordello. Fifty years later it was one of the last remaining roadhouses in America. The entrance is guarded by a pair of cat sculptures—the source of its nickname, and replicas of the eight-foot, Egyptian-inspired concrete cat castings that flanked the nearby road. Even that road had a history: it led to the poet Charles Erskine Scott Wood’s castle in the sky, a retreat for artists like Carl Sandburg in the early years of the century.

Another small side street led to Mountain Charlie Road, named in honor of Mountain Charlie McKiernan, a local Gold Rush pioneer famous mainly for finishing second in a fight with a bear. Closer to the summit, a discreet side road delivers you to the Lupin Naturist Club, a clothing optional resort and retreat off the Old Santa Cruz Highway. Sorry I can’t join you, Naturists, but my idea of social nudity has a maximum of two. In a bed. Or a bathtub. On the plus side, I do desire to be socially nude just as often as humanly possible. Full-contact social engagement is, in fact, my favorite indoor sport.

Once on the Santa Cruz side of the mountains, the history gets even odder. Another of those blink-and-you-miss-it side roads, for instance, leads to a little place called Holy City, founded in the ‘30s by one William Riker, a W.C. Fields look-alike and a real-life, Fields-variety con artist. While a resident of San Francisco, the charismatic Professor Riker boasted of his mystical abilities to read both palms and minds—but, unfortunately, he failed to read the mind of the San Francisco D.A., who filed bigamy charges against him. The Prof fled to the safe haven of Canada, eventually returning refreshed, reinvented and reborn as Father Riker, head of the Perfect Christian Divine Way…a church that promoted white supremacy, temperance and segregation of the sexes. He bought seventy-five acres up here in the mountains ten miles south of Los Gatos, established a commune, and managed to live up at least to one of his three utopian ideals. Three guesses which one.

His disciples ran the place as a rest stop for tourists, offering food, gas, spiritual advice, and a look at the moon through a telescope, only one thin dime. He never did get around to building a church, or even a chapel, but he did manage to establish the second licensed radio station in California, KFQU. (He was too crafty for those call letters to have been an accident. FQU2, Father.) And he found time to run for Governor of California. Four times. The FBI put an end to his political aspirations in 1942, however, when they arrested him for writing fan letters to Hitler. On this charge, he was acquitted—and by none other than the later-famous lawyer Melvin Belli. Following his trial, Riker turned around and sued Belli for winning his acquittal on the grounds that he was a crackpot. Belli emerged the victor in that round, leaving Riker as one of many crackpots this area seems to spawn…but perhaps the only legally-certified crackpot among them.

I spent the drive recalling all this roadside history. I couldn’t help it. They poison your brain with this stuff in the fourth grade in California. But whether these eccentric legends were supposed to serve as cautionary tales or as inspiration to encourage a new generation of California crackpots, I was never entirely sure.

My directions said to exit 17 at Mt. Herman Rd., miles before reaching Santa Cruz proper. A few miles later, I took a right on Graham Hill Rd. and drove through the vacation-home community of Felton, where the road changed names to Felton Empire. This took me through the ancient majestic redwoods of Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park. Crossing Empire Grade, my street narrowed to two lanes and became Ice Cream Grade. Such a sweet, soft name for such a tough, treacherous, twisting trail.

I rambled past dilapidated barns, tiny wineries and a postcard-picturesque little Wayside Chapel set among the redwoods where two small roads converged. My directions said this would indicate that I had reached the isolated mountain community of Glay Va, home of Harshlaw. I was so far into the mountains that I hadn’t seen a single soul for miles…unbroken solitude, except for a road crew in a white van on the far side of the Chapel.

And soon enough I found The Tower, the media’s pet name for Chez Harshlaw.

It sounded far more mythic than it looked. For one thing, there was no actual tower—just a modest two-story farmhouse, white with blue trim, set back from the road, nearly invisible behind a small hill. Only the peak of the weathered, shingled roof poked over the top of this grassy knoll. In the front yard was a flagpole tall enough to rival the pines. The American flag hung limply in the still cool mist which clung to the Douglas firs and redwoods surrounding the clearing the house inhabited. The place was a greeting card waiting to happen. I thought of Harshlaw, at work in his virtual ivy-covered tower, his bird’s-eye view of the forest obstructed by the minds-eye view of the future he was so busy visualizing. With the possible exception of some foliage in the deepest jungles of the Amazon, these were probably the most unseen trees in the world.

But I saw them. I saw the forest. And I saw the trees.

I saw the fence, too. The gentle green garden of trees was broken by the harsh gray symmetry of a twelve-foot cyclone fence surrounding the grounds. The top foot of fence angled outward and was threaded with three strands of razor wire—another reason, perhaps, why he never had guests. All this was to prevent interruptions, no doubt. Camp Concentration.

There were no guard towers, but off to one side of the house, I could see a flat slab of concrete. It was large enough to park on, but if it was in fact an unfinished carport, no driveway led to it. A cone-capped tube jutting up beside the slab was the only clue I needed to figure out what it was: the doors to an underground bunker. A bomb shelter. It didn’t exactly comfort me to know that this sci-fi writer, so often accused of predicting the future, was fully prepared for an all-out nuclear war.

I pulled up to the wheeled gate blocking the driveway and parked. I walked up to the intercom on the fence and pushed the button. And I waited. And waited. And waited some more. A frigid wind rustled the trees. I stuck my hands in my pockets to fight the chill. Somewhere in the distance a bird sang sweetly. Must be retarded.

Maybe three minutes later, a female voice echoed tinnily from the box. Worse than ordering from a clown head.

"Ja?" was all she said.

That was a surprise. Legend said Harshlaw was a recluse.

I identified myself.

"Oh, ja," she replied. The box went dead. Her voice, that accent, did sound familiar. Probably the woman who’d phoned me about this interview. Secretary, maybe. Housekeeper. Commandant.

The gate squeaked open on rusty hinges, pulled by a rusty chain that disappeared into a rust-covered box housing a struggling, constipated motor. No sense driving that little distance. I left the car outside the compound and walked along an asphalt curve that sloped down to the house.

I didn’t feel any more secure inside the fence, but I could see more of the grounds. A greenhouse, for instance, invisible from the road, stood by the side of the house like a glass garage. Several panes held only jagged shards of shattered glass. I was darn near inspired to coin some pithy epigram about people who live in glass houses, but I was too busy looking the place over. Vines grew through the holes and coiled around the framework. The jumbled jungle inside the glass did not give the impression of a well-tended hothouse or of a well-attended hobby. A sagging brass bed, overgrown with weeds and tarnish, rested in the center of the structure. Rustic decoration, maybe. Or some weird inside joke. A flower bed? Life is just a bed of roses?

When I reached the front door, I knocked and smiled my not a mass murderer smile into the peephole. Numerous latches clicked and clacked. A single eye at child’s height peered out through a thin slit between the door and the frame. It blinked and squinted. The door closed; the last chain was undone. The door opened.

I was looking at a little old lady, nearly two feet shorter than me, but with that hunched stockiness that comes to aging Old World peasants. She had hair the color of baking flour, pulled back in a bun, and the face of a teddy bear sent through the wash once too often. I was looking at somebody’s grandmother. I was looking at somebody’s great-grandmother.

I re-I.D.’d myself.

Please do come in, she said with grandmotherly sweetness, smoothing a flower-print apron with gnarled, liver-spotted hands. I almost expected her to add, and have some pie and milk.

I’m Mrs. Müser, she began, slowly, hesitantly, advancing a bony hand. It reminded me of those cypress trees in Carmel: old and knotted and driven by the wind into gnarled, unnatural postures. I’m Mr. Harshlaw’s housekeeper.

Well, that explained what she was doing here. Rich hermits are allowed to take their servants into seclusion with them, I guess. Look at the Pharaohs.

Nice to meet you, I said. Good to know someone’s looking after Mr. Harshlaw.

She seemed pleased by my response.

"Oh, ja, she gushed. I’ve been outlooking on him over sixty years together now, God bless him. He likes my cooking. ‘Just like Mama’s,’ he jokes. But it gets every year harder to clean this big house, you know. I swear, the staircase, it grows every year more steps. Mr. Harshlaw says...but you did come to see him, didn’t you? You must forgive an old woman for going on so, the only time I ever see other people is on the telephone. For so long now we are just having things delivered, no one inside, don’t open the door to anyone, Mr. Harshlaw tells me...but there I go again, so much foolish chatter when you boys have such important things to discuss. We don’t get many visitors, she smiled weakly. But you we’ve been expecting. I’ll just go tell Mr. Harshlaw you’re here. Please, you just have a seat in the drawing room, and we’ll be with you in a minute."

She motioned to a dark parlor on my right and shuffled off toward the stairs.

I stepped into the room and snooped around. It is my profession, after all.

The place reminded me of a funeral home, only not as cheerful. The drapes were shut as tight as a dearly departed’s eyes. I shuddered at the imagery as my own eyes adjusted to the gloom.

The floor was polished hardwood and framed a faded Persian rug the color of dried blood. The ceiling was striped with raw redwood beams. A bilious Victorian sofa and a grand picture window—hidden behind the drapes—dominated one wall. The side walls were all bookshelves. The inner wall was mostly fireplace, unsoiled by cinders. Tasteful place. A touch dusty. Mrs. Müser had been nodding on the job. Maybe that’s why the blinds were pulled—she didn’t want Harshlaw to see the dust. Or maybe she just doesn’t do windows.

It didn’t strike me as odd that there were no clocks in the room. If there had been, they probably would have been stopped.

On the mantle above the sterile hearth was Harshlaw’s oeuvre. It was a long mantle, and it was covered with books. Trophies book-ended the opus. A lot of trophies. Three were gray phallic rockets, a hand high and set on shiny black pucks. A gold plaque on one read:

HUGO AWARD

BEST NOVEL

1969

JUBAL HARSHLAW

BEACHHEAD SIRIUS

Several other awards were cheesy-looking Plexiglas cubes, each with a miniature spiral galaxy of silver glitter suspended inside. The plaque on one read:

NEBULA AWARD

BEST NOVEL

1968

JUBAL HARSHLAW

SAVIOR FROM THE STARS

I decided I should prep myself for the interview. I smoothed out my black slacks, in case they were wrinkled from the drive, cinched up my black and silver striped tie, made sure my white shirt was tucked in, and plucked a piece of lint off my solid sports coat. Best to dress Republican, I figured, when dealing with a guy of Harshlaw’s advanced years. I couldn’t find a mirror anywhere in the room or in the hall, but I ran a comb through my hair and my beard, just in case. I was pretty sure I was presentable. Respectable would be pushing it.

Mrs. Müser appeared in the archway.

Mr. Harshlaw will see you now, she smiled. She seemed pleased with herself for not rambling. Right this way, please.

I let her lead. We snailed up the stairs and down the hall to a closed door. She knocked and entered upon permission. Your guest, Mr. Harshlaw, she announced, then backed out, closing the door behind her. I’ll get some pie and coffee for you boys, she whispered and winked at me conspiratorially.

Jubal Harshlaw sat in a wheelchair pushed up against an ancient roll-top desk, twice as big as he was but hewn from oak no older. The room wasn’t as hot as an oven. Maybe that’s why he had a drab plaid blanket draped over his legs. His back was turned to me. I stood there waiting for a cue.

Sit down, he growled; more an order than an invitation. He waved a spot-mottled hand in the general direction of a cracked brown leather chair angled in the corner. I sat.

He whipped himself away from his desk with a speed and ferocity that took me by surprise. He sat facing me, arms akimbo and perched on the wheelchair’s wheels, scowling, as if trying to decide whether it was worth getting his treads dirty to run me over. His sullen silence gave me a chance to size him up.

His face was a relief map of Mars: round, ruddy red, lined with wrinkle canals, meteor-pocked with brown liver spots. An embarrassed Dalmatian. He had the faintest gray trace of a pencil-thin mustache, which must have been dashing, fifty years ago. Other than that and a few wisps of hair over his ears, he was cue ball bald. His was the face of a newborn babe. Which meant he hadn’t long to live.

I sensed something else, however—something lurking beneath his ancient hide that belied my opinion. The tight clench of his jaw, the defiant thrust of his chin, the hardened squint around his unwavering gaze... I don’t know. But inside this decaying shell was a fierce spirit, one resigned to Nature’s worst and surest, but defying her, surviving, despite all odds.

Do you know who I am? he barked sharply and without preamble.

Jubal Harshlaw?

He screwed up his face and waved that aside.

"Do you know who I am?" he repeated. Slowly, as if talking to a cretin. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look me in the eye.

The New Jules Verne?

He winced, maybe from embarrassment at the paperback blurb which had become the subtitle of his life.

"Do you know who I am?" he insisted a third time.

"Why don’t you tell me," I suggested. To check for dementia, if not to end this idiot interrogation.

I, he said, am Jubal Harshlaw. Now do I know more than I did? I am the author of some forty novels. And I am a curious man.

I nodded and waited for the carriage return.

In 1941, he continued, I wrote and published a short story entitled ‘Cloud of War.’ In this fictional piece, I detailed the internal workings and likely application of a new type of weapon...a super-bomb, which utilized the power of atomic fission, then an infant science. An atom bomb. This, years before, if you will recall, a group of scientists set upon the task of developing just such a weapon, under conditions of utmost secrecy.

I nodded.

Speak up, boy.

The Manhattan Project.

Very good, he drawled dryly. That story was the first in a long line of technological inventions, social trends and political events which—although having been created from whole cloth for inclusion in my books—have come in time to pass.

Earning you a reputation as the new Jules Verne, I said, smiling sweetly.

He dismissed this with a sharp nod.

I am not, he continued, peering away, an unintelligent man. And yet...and yet, this phenomenon is one which is beyond my ken. After pondering the problem for a good many years, I find myself at a dead end. A blind alley, so to speak. My single flash of inspiration in this dark night of the soul was to turn to a professional. A person whose profession is to solve mysteries. A detective.

That would be me, I deduced. And that would be my cue.

And how can I help you? I said.

He drew himself up straight in his chair, an origami oak unfolding.

I want you to find out why everything I write comes true.

He still wouldn’t look me in the eye. Then again, would you, making a request like that?

That’s a pretty metaphysical assignment, don’t you think? I said. He stayed silent. Maybe you’re the new Nostradamus.

He flushed and tightened his grip on the chair.

I’m not paying you for insolence, boy! His voice was autumn leaves crushed in a fist. I bit my tongue and refrained from replying that there’s no additional charge for insolence. I needed this job. I had to stay on first-date behavior.

Now that you mention it, I said, "if I take the case, are you prepared to meet my fee—"

He cut me off with a wave of his hand. Don’t bother me with details. I have universes to create. Mrs. Müser will pay you whatever you want. Money is irrelevant.

I felt my anorexic wallet through the seat of my pants and realized I was sitting on the part of my mind that needed making up.

All right, I said. Sounds challenging. I’ll take the case. Let’s start with a few questions about—

No, he said.

The challenge was not supposed to begin so soon.

But I—

There are, he stonewalled me, two types of writers. There are those who go to conventions, who give autographs and grant interviews, who appear on television. Was that a jab at me? "And there are those who write. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a book to write. Mrs. Müser will show you out."

He wheeled himself back to his desk, where he picked up a microphone. I had to give him points for cleverness. He’d figured out a way to spare those stiff, twiggish fingers from the abuse of a typewriter: dictate your books onto tape. Of course, how could we expect any less from the new Jule— ah, forget it.

I decided to call his bluff.

"Now look, Mister Harshlaw, I said, edgewise, you’ve just given me an extremely nebulous assignment, with no details, no leads, and no encouragement. The answer might very well be locked between your temples. Can’t you see I need to ask you some preliminary questions?"

He sat stock still, his back to me, turning the microphone over and over in his hands.

He didn’t turn around. But he did sigh quietly. And he did respond.

All right, he said. What do you want to know?

Well. First of all, how did you happen to pick me for this assignment?

He flapped a limp hand, as if tossing away a wad of scrap paper.

Mrs. Müser saw you on television. Said you looked like a nice young man. Smart. I always told her that thing would rot her mind.

Thank you. Now, I need to know something about your creative process. What is it that inspires you to think up the material in your books, for instance?

He grabbed the arms of the chair and puffed up, ready to swing around again. But he held himself still and slowly deflated. A pink balloon with a slow leak.

Not a writer in the world who doesn’t hate being asked ‘Where do you get your ideas?’, he snarled, "and not an amateur in the world that doesn’t ask that same stupid question. The answer is: If you don’t know, I can’t tell you. And even if I could, if you don’t already know, you’d never understand the answer. He paused. Reconsidering, I hoped. I waited. Yeah, he was reconsidering. Everything I’ve ever read or seen or heard, everything I’ve ever experienced, everything I think, adds in some way to my repertoire. Anything can inspire me. Everything."

Meaning exactly nothing. Time to change tactics.

I see, I nodded. OK. I’ll grant you that. Creation is a mysterious process. In your case, even more mysterious than usual. But you did mention you’d given this problem some thought over the years. Did you come up with any theories?

Yes, certainly, he said, without a fight this time. Maybe I was winning. About time—I’d lost my last three fights with old cripples. He exhaled loudly. What I write is called ‘hard’ science fiction. Fiction about technology. Future technology. Much of which has become reality. Anyone might guess right once. But I’ve done it repeatedly, over decades, throughout an entire career. Inconceivable. Far beyond any monkeys-at-typewriters margin of chance.

Maybe you’re precognitive?

He shook his head. I believe in the tangible. The things I can touch, measure, quantify. I do not, cannot, believe in any esoteric theories of influence. Mind-reading, precognition; that kind of mumbo-jumbo. Don’t believe it. No evidence.

OK. If you aren’t reading minds, how about the reverse? The opposite? Someone implanting suggestions in your mind. Like Kreskin does. You see what I’m saying?

No. I can imagine things like that, but I can’t seriously consider them. There is simply no evidence. No scientific model I subscribe to which includes the potential for that kind of hoo-doo. I even make sport of a telepathy machine in the book I’m working on now.

Well, I said, what else have you come up with?

He shook his head slowly.

"The only other explanation I’ve come up with is embarrassingly solipsistic, I’m afraid. I know my books have influenced people…occasionally in the wrong way. What if… What if instead of predicting these devices and situations, I’m somehow creating them? What if I’m… responsible for their existence in some way? I give no credence to this theory, mind you. The idea that simply by imagining inventions they could magically spring into being… Ridiculous. And yet…" He sat quite still, lost in contemplation. I sat just as still. But I was just lost.

People are no damn good, he growled, the bonfire back in his voice. "I know. I am one. I gave up on people years ago." He fell silent again, brooding. I decided to wait him out. Nature abhors a vacuum. Maybe if I kept very still, he’d keep talking, if only to fill the void of voices.

At length, he mumbled, At my age… and stopped, his head bowed. A few seconds later, he nodded as though he’d come to some decision, and began again, this time in a deliberate and measured tone. "My life… My life has been one of looking forward. Writing about the future. But I must face the fact that I have very little future left. This time of a man’s life is for looking back. For reviewing the entire tapestry, thread by thread. Did I do my best? Was I a good man? Did I add to the world’s joy? Or did I increase its misery? My time of life is one of reflection, regard… and regret.

I’ve done things… he continued, his voice cracking, done things in my life of which I am not proud. Some inadvertently. That book that inspired those murders. They say. Kid missed the whole point; can’t feel responsible for one out of millions of readers being a nut job. But the idea that I might be even peripherally responsible for abominations like the A-bomb, some of the other things I wrote about… He shook his head slowly. No. I have to know why. How this works. That at least I’m not responsible for…

He trailed off, isolated not in his Tower but in his memory; separated from society not by his isolation but by his guilt. A baffled old man with no hand to hold but his own. I wouldn’t get any more explanation out of him. Lack of explanation was why he called me in the first place.

We sat in awkward silence, together in the same room but separated by entire universes.

Then Providence—in the form of an apple-cheeked old granny—provided me with an escape route, as well as a backup plan for gathering data. Mrs. Müser shuffled into the room, carrying an ornate silver tray with two helpings of coffee and pie on plain white china. The tray was so large that Harshlaw’s housekeeper looked like a little girl playing tea party with mommy’s silver.

Coffee, Mr. Harshlaw, she announced.

Just put it down on the desk, please, Mrs. Müser, Harshlaw said, with the first trace of civility I had yet detected. We won’t be needing it now. Our...guest...is just leaving.

I took the sledgehammer hint. I told him I’d see what I could do and assured him he’d see me soon. Mrs. Müser offered to show me down. It seemed only fitting, as her boss had just shown me up.

How did you boys get along? she asked as we began the treacherous descent of Mount Staircase. She put both feet on each step before attempting the next and gripped the handrail as tightly as her warped hands would allow. As tightly as old Harshlaw had gripped his chair. I was happy for the extra time.

Oh, just famously, I said. He is a great man. But then, I’m sure you know that, what with being with him nearly forty years now.

"Sixty, she corrected, a primed pump. Since he was eine kinder…a baby. I was his nanny. Jubal’s mother and I were schoolgirls together in Germany; that was before the Kaiser started his war...the real war, not that Vietnam war they showed on TV. Before the war, when we were still silly romantic teenage girls, she married an American sailor and when she got that way with Jubal they moved here so their baby could be born in a free country with all the wonderful opportunities America offered and I came along with them as nurse but Jubal’s poor parents, the only opportunity this land offered them was the opportunity to die of the influenza epidemic in 1918, but at least Jubal was saved and he turned out so well, don’t you think? It’s so much better that he grew up here. Who knows what a problem he would have been for the Nazis."

Or what a comfort. Mrs. Müser’s monolog didn’t bear much relevance to my case, but who knew what clues might lie deep in her background? Harshlaw must be pushing 70, and Mrs. M herself... Geez; mid-80’s at any rate. At least she was aging well. For Harshlaw, the years were taking their toll before the bell ever tolled for him.

We reached the ground floor and crossed the entry hall. Mrs. Müser opened the front door, making her farewells: be sure to come see us again; you’re such a nice young man. When she looked down the drive, though, her eyes glazed over and her smile faded away.

"Oh, dear Gott," she sighed.

Something wrong?

It’s just that...well...the flag is only halfway up. She pointed a crooked finger toward their rural delivery mailbox at the intersection of the driveway and the road. The red metal flag was cocked at an ambiguous angle. It would be straight up for a pickup request and lowered if the mail had been delivered, but it was at half mast. So I don’t know if the mail was picked up and delivered or not. And my arthritis is acting up today, if it’s not there and I have to walk back later, two trips... She glanced up at me. You wouldn’t...

I’d be glad to, I said. The servant’s servant.

I strolled up the asphalt—slowly, to downplay my youth—opened the back end of the box, which was inside the fence, and reached into the cavernous container. There was mail in the box. I pulled it out. Clearly the pickup had been made, since all the mail was incoming, addressed to Harshlaw. I surreptitiously glanced at the return addresses while walking back down the drive. It is my pro— Ah, forget it. I’m just a nosy parker. So sue me.

On top of the pile was a manila envelope; an oversize rectangle covered with garish text. It looked like a circus poster and promised A MILLION DOLLARS!!! to Mr. and Mrs. Occupant if (in 4 point type) they held the winning numbers. Next was a personal letter; judging from the handwriting, it must have been written by a thirteen-year-old psychotic. Fan mail from some flounder? Of two legal-sized envelopes, a white one bore the imprint of a New York literary agency, and a buff one carried the printed return address Recycle Bookstore, with the slogan Specialists in Science Fiction under a San Jose address. Then there were the latest editions of Scientific Layman, Science Summary, and Algorithm. The peeled eyeball on the cover clued me that this last one was probably a science fiction magazine. All three had labels which outlined Harshlaw’s name and address in gold ink and bore the words Lifetime Subscription.

Finally, there was a nine-by-twelve manila envelope as thick as a thumb. The return address read National Science Abstracts, with a Washington, D.C., P.O. box. Beneath this was printed:

Clippings—Information—Analyses

Tailored to Your Requests and Areas of Interest

I reached the front door. You may already be a winner, I said, handing the pile to Mrs. Müser.

She took the mail and stared vacantly at the sweepstakes entry. Then she gripped my arm and pulled me inside the house.

"Now you simply must come in and have cup coffee mit mir. I can’t have you running errands for an old lady then push you out of the house without a proper danke."

I said I’d enjoy that and she led me to the kitchen. It was clean, comfortable and lived in—much more pleasant than the funereal living room. Something told me this was where Mrs. Müser spent most of her time.

She sat me down at the oak kitchen table, then took a pair of porcelain coffee mugs from a low shelf and filled them with tap water. She added a spoonful of Folger’s crystals to each mug, then placed them inside a microwave oven on the Formica counter. It was a bulky, stainless steel affair. A pioneer model. A modern antique. It figured that a science fiction writer would be among the first to try out a new technological innovation. I wondered if he had an ultrasonic dishwasher, too.

Now you just make yourself at home, she said, scooping up the magazines and the manila envelope. I won’t be a minute. She shuffled off towards the back of the house.

I looked around the room while the microwave hummed. The first thing that caught my eye was a portable television in the corner of the counter. It sat on a lazy susan swivel so it could be seen from either the table or the sink. The set was on, but the sound was turned down. Not that I needed the sound to know what she was watching: Brother William Love, California’s premier televangelist. No mistaking his grim visage, his scraggly mountain-man beard or his intense, hypnotic eyes. He owned his own station, KWOG-TV, and broadcast his Word O’ God Network twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Brother Love was himself a miracle made manifest, on camera virtually every minute of every one of those twenty-four hours. He regularly encouraged his viewers to thank God for their blessings, so I did. I thanked God the sound was down.

I tore my eyes away from the TV and continued surveying the kitchen. The only thing out of the ordinary was the garlic garland hanging in the window. Superstitious peasant. Even so, a chill ran up my spine. Garlic necklace…no mirrors… I had the creepy feeling that this innocent assignment might degenerate into an occult thriller: vampires coming out of the hills to torment the recluse. Or witches, maybe. They killed her in the kitchen, officer, while she was preparing a meal fit for a king. Stephen King.

If only it had been that simple.

Mrs. Müser returned just as the microwave timer buzzed. She removed the bubbling mugs, set them down before us and sat down with a sigh, rubbing her hands.

Do you have any cream? I asked.

She shook her head. No. No cream. No more cream.

Well. Black it was, then.

I remarked how peaceful it was up here and she said yes, nothing much ever happens except for an occasional bat tapping at the window, they’re blind, you know. As a bat, I said. She did not respond. I was not surprised. I said Mr. Harshlaw must love this spot, to live here for so long, and she said, young man this is not a long time, where I come from families lived in the same house for generations, it’s too bad that so many young people are rootless and come from broken homes like she sees on Donahue all the time, and she’d bet that that contributes to people like that awful Harry Godson and all those awful things he and his Clan did to those people not so very far from here just up the road. I said, yes, but the peaceful atmosphere up here probably helps you forget things like that and inspires Mr. Harshlaw’s writing, don’t you think? She said she supposed so, and I asked if she had any idea where Mr. Harshlaw gets all those wonderful ideas for his books. She said no but that he’d always had a wild imagination, she remembered one time Mr. Harshlaw had thrown a dinner party for some writers and he had her dye everything blue—blue soup, blue pork chops, blue peas and potatoes and even blue fruit. She said she thought all writers were a little, well, odd, especially those ones on the talk shows, and that maybe they all had very active imaginations but since she herself didn’t have a very active imagination she really couldn’t say.

I finished my coffee and stood up.

Won’t you have another cup? she said. It’s mountain grown.

Thank you, but no, I said. It’s a long drive back to Los Gatos, and coffee goes through me like… Well, it’s a long drive.

Oh yes of course I see, she muttered, eyes downcast…the same look my own grandma always gave me as I bolted from her nursing home after an extended three-minute visit. Great. Maybe later I could help a blind man half-way across the street. But seriously…what in the world could she possibly tell me that might prove even remotely related to Harshlaw’s dilemma?

Explaining it to myself didn’t make me feel any better.

Sorry, I said. But I really have to go. Thank you for everything.

She walked me to the door, giving me her special auf wiedersehen and may God bless and protect you and an invitation to come again, anytime, soon, I was such a nice young man.

After spending time with them I felt young, sure.

But I didn’t feel so nice.

CHAPTER TWO

It was an absurd assignment. My textbooks on Police Science never covered anything like it. Neither had Chandler or Hammett or John D. MacDonald.

But a rich eccentric—only the poor are crazy—was willing to pay good money for what appeared to be some fancy literary or psychological footwork. And I was willing to accept. Maybe we were both eccentric. But I was the poor one.

I tooled along the thin strip of pavement that passed for a road in this rarely traveled territory. I rolled down the window so the cool breeze could sting my face. Just ahead, I spotted the little redwood chapel I’d passed before, wedged in a Y in the road. As I drove by, I saw what the crew in the white van had been up to: blocking off the other asphalt path with detour signs attached to sawhorses.

I sped along the left-hand path, passing through the hushed and shadow-dappled forest, gazing at the serene greenery and breathing deeply of the cool air, as the ribbon of road unraveled before me. I wanted to be comfortable. But I wasn’t. The road wasn’t right. This had to be the road I drove in on—the blockade was on the other branch. But the landscape just didn’t look quite right. Something about the trees was wrong. Not that I could distinguish the trees from the forest, but something just wasn’t—

I jerked upright in my seat. I stomped on the brakes. Tires squealed. My body went rigid, arms stiff against the steering wheel, teeth clenched.

The car stopped an inch from the cliff.

After I stopped shaking, I got out to look. The road ended, just ended, in a sheer drop down the side of the mountain. Just ended.

If I hadn’t seen that rabbit poke its head up from the cliff...

I stood there staring over the edge, into the treetops and the valley below. I shuddered and shivered. Tiny pebbles, knocked loose by my weight, bounced down the raw mountainside.

Holy shit, I thought. It was all I could think. Holy shit...

I edged back cautiously and leaned against the car until my heart stopped pounding, until I caught my breath, until I stopped seeing vivid visions of me blissfully sailing off the end of that road, sailing out into thin air...

It took a while.

Finally, and with rubber legs, I stepped off the road and into the woods to do something I’d almost done in my pants a few minutes earlier.

I climbed into the car, backed up, turned around. I drove—slowly—back the way I’d come. It was obvious I’d taken the wrong fork, regardless of how the roads were marked or where the detour barrier was placed. That blockade clearly belonged on this branch. I saw that road crew putting it there. Some joker must have moved it to the other branch, on the opposite side of the chapel.

Now I was just mad: Some stupid prank had nearly cost me my life. I stabbed the gas, investing my leftover adrenaline in anger and cornering.

I was going to find whoever was in charge of that Chapel and accost him. I mean question him. Sure I did.

I backtracked to the rustic redwood church and parked in the empty little lot behind it. I crunched through the gravel and weeds to the rough-hewn redwood door. Above it hung half of a hand-crafted sign—a wooden sign, split off at an angle so it read Chapel P. More vandalism? I found the splintered bottom of the sign in front of the door. The inscription read in the on one line, and below this, ines. Chapel in the Pines.

I knocked on the door. A hollow echo answered. I tried the handle. Locked. That overdose of adrenaline surged through me again, and I Hulked out, giving the door a swift, flat-footed kick. It wasn’t the perp’s ass, but it would have to do until I found the fucker responsible for my rage.

The whole structure shuddered. A brace gave way. The door swung open slowly, squeaking.

The chapel was dim and dusty. And empty. A hollow box. No pews, no alter, no icons. It didn’t even have a floor. Just dirt.

This wasn’t a real chapel at all—just an empty redwood shed. A façade. A garden ornament to make the area look quaint for tourists.

Dust swirled around in flat planes of light that squeezed through cracks in the sideboards. I stepped inside and gave the place a thorough search. All I turned up was a nickel, a bent kitchen knife, a crushed paper cup and a willow switch. An artist might call these found objects. I call it crap.

I found one other item in the dead center of the deceptive structure—a paperback book; yellowed, wrinkled and rain-warped.

Savior From The Stars, by Jubal Harshlaw.

A snake squirmed up my spine. This mystery spot was like one of those traps in occult thrillers. The tomb where Satan dwells. Once in, never out. My feets wanted desperately to do their stuff.

A makeshift bookmark was stuck in the paperback; a strip of paper with music and lyrics. Maybe a hymnal page from the chapel’s better days. The torn line read:

I once was lost but now I’m found; was

I took a deep breath. I looked around once again, pretending there might be something I’d overlooked. The idiot check. I stepped outside and wedged the book in the door of the box to keep it closed. I got in my car and drove away. Along the right road this time.

After a few miles, and a few minutes, without incident, my irritation began to evaporate. Even a tough guy like me can’t remain mad for long in the midst of such a glorious forest. I turned on the radio. Lucky me—I was just in time to catch the latest Elvis Costello tune, which the DJ informed us had been released only a week ago. The title? Watching the Detectives. Almost identical to the TV show that profiled me. Weird.

By the time I reached the freeway, I’d already started mulling over my case. Not that there was all that much to mull. I needed something, anything, to give me a lead, a direction, an idea. I have occasionally—alright, often—been accused of being clueless. This time, at least, it was true.

The logical starting point was the source, but Harshlaw had been no help. I just write ‘em, I don’t explain ‘em. Next best thing would be to turn to the source material: his books. Now I regretted jamming that copy of his religious satire in the chapel door. But I knew I could do better than that. All I needed was a large used book store, one well-stocked in science fiction. And maybe some guidance on which of his forty-odd novels to read.

The buff envelope in Harshlaw’s mail flashed through my mind: Recycle Bookstore—Specialists in Science Fiction. The name implied they were a second-hand store; the legend that they might carry a good supply of his stuff; and the letter itself that at least someone there was on familiar terms with the reclusive Emperor. And the address was in downtown San Jose, only a few miles beyond home.

So once I’d backtracked to Highway 17 and crossed over the mountains, instead of taking the Los Gatos exit and heading home, I continued to 280, got off at the Vine Street-Almaden exit, and found myself smack in the face of beautiful downtown San Jose. A face that deserves a good smack. Pa-rump-pump!

After twenty years of paying lip service to downtown redevelopment, some of the shrewder landowners who believed Barnum’s Law had wormed their way into positions of public power and began foisting this fourth-rate fantasy of a New Downtown on the unsuspecting taxpayers. The first thing they schemed into being was a four-star hotel, so people from all over the world could come to San Jose and watch the winos in the park across the street. Then, to alleviate a traffic gridlock rapidly approaching L.A. proportions, they apportioned half a billion dollars for a light-rail system. Not a subway, like most major cities. Not an extension of BART, which would connect the South Bay to the rest of the Bay Area and actually allow people to get somewhere. No, what they have in mind is a trolley. When it’s finally completed—after years of dusty construction which will shut down main thoroughfares and local businesses for years—the city will have a marvelous new traffic obstruction that travels from places where no one lives to places where no one works, with a loop in the middle around the redeveloped downtown, where no one shops.

The lowest-bid ad agency was tasked with reminding the suffering citizens and blocked-off shopkeepers that their pain would not be in vain. San Jose is Growing Up! billboards and signs on construction-site fences proclaimed, above a drawing of the gap-toothed, rising skyline. Vandals, however, edited many of these signs with spray-paint, substituting Th for the G. A later motto, San Jose is moving! prompted like-minded graffiti artists to add its bowels.

But don’t get me started. I could slam this one-cow town till the cows come home. The only reason I live here is because no one expects much of you if you come from San Jose. Outside of the Bay Area, no one even seems quite sure where San Jose is. Besides, I don’t live in San Jose… I live (he said, peering down his sneer) in Los Gatos.

I drove up Santa Clara St., the main drag, parked in a lot off Second Street and hoofed it the remaining couple blocks to Fourth and Santa Clara.

Even from a distance I could tell something was wrong. A boxy ambulance was double-parked mid-block, orange lights flashing. It was surrounded by cop cars and a crowd. This address wasn’t the bookstore. It was an alcoholism center—one of those storefronts that provide transients and winos with a place to keep off the streets during daylight hours. Daycare for degenerates.

I was sure this was where Recycle Bookstore was supposed to be. I pulled out my pocket notebook and scribbled down the address to check it in the phone book.

You! a deep voice growled nearby. A barrel-chested guy in his late 20’s was striding toward me, glaring. His full beard was unkempt and his black hair tousled carelessly. In his rumpled tan corduroy suit and tiny cowboy boots, he looked like a satyr trying to pass as a salesman.

You must be the reporter, he said, eyeing my pad and pen.

Like tumblers opening a safe, that voice forced an impression into focus: Gypsy. The curly raven locks, the round face accentuated by round rosy cheeks, the dark eyes filled with larceny and suspicion... Yeah, you could put a gold earring on this guy and wander unchallenged through any Rom camp in the world. Right now, though, he looked worried. And more than a touch pissed off.

He took me by the arm and pulled me away from the crowd, into the adult bookstore next door. The bald, gaunt clerk was glued to a portable TV tuned to Brother Love’s broadcast.

See yer ID please gennelmen, he yawned from behind his unlit cigar stub.

Eat me! the Gypsy identified himself. The clerk just grunted. The Gypsy turned to me. Now listen, he stated flatly, "I didn’t have anything to do with this. I do volunteer work here, once a week. The Director’s busy with the pigs, so he wanted me to intercept you and explain that The Center’s not responsible for this tragic incident."

I’m not— I tried.

Yeah, yeah; I know, but the court is, and if you print it, it’ll look good on our record. It’s a tragic story; it really is. But somebody’s gonna look into it and make a bundle off the book and movie rights.

Go on, I said, uncapping my pen.

OK. The guy was one of our regulars, y’know? So when he doesn’t show back up after he wandered away to drink his lunch, I figure I better go looking for him. And I find him in the back room. The storeroom. Swinging from a light fixture. He’d hanged himself with his belt after sucking up a whole gallon of Gallo wine.

You guys with a tour? the clerk interrupted. Buy something or hit the fuckin’ road.

I spend enough in here you can cut me a fucking break! the Gypsy growled in reply. Bother me again I’ll beat you so hard your kids’ll be retarded! He turned back to me. I stepped back, slowly, calmly, no sudden moves... Only way to handle these perverts, he mumbled, picking up and flipping through a copy of Oriental Bondage Dildo Lesbians.

So anyway, he