Night chills, p.22
This interview was conducted with Mr. Allen J. Barger (now eighty-three years old) in the Evins-Maebry Nursing Home in Huntington, Long Island, on the afternoon of Friday, January 24, 1975. The subject is supported at the home by the three children from his second marriage. The subject, who suffers from senility, was alternately lucid and incoherent. The subject was not aware that he was being recorded.
Dawson leafed ahead to the passage he had marked.
AGENT: Do you remember any of the foster children that you took in while you were married to Carrie?
MR. BARGER: She took them in. Not me.
AGENT: Do you remember any of them?
MR. BARGER: Oh, Christ.
AGENT: What’s the matter?
MR. BARGER: I try not to remember them.
AGENT: You didn’t enjoy them like she did?
MR. BARGER: All those dirty little faces when I came home from work. She tried to say we needed the extra money, the few dollars the government gave us for keeping the kids. It was the Depression. But she drank up the money.
AGENT: She was an alcoholic?
MR. BARGER: Not when I married her. But she was sure on her way to being one.
AGENT: Do you remember a child named—
MR. BARGER: My trouble was I didn’t marry her for her mind.
AGENT: Excuse me?
MR. BARGER: I married my second wife for her mind, and that worked out swell. But when I got hitched to Carrie ... Well, I was forty years old and still single and sick to death of going to whores. Carrie came along, twenty-six and fresh as a peach, so much younger than me but interested in me, and I let my balls do my thinking for me. Married her for her body with no thought as to what was in her head. That was a big mistake.
AGENT: I’m sure it was. Well ... Now, could you tell me if you can remember a child named—
MR. BARGER: She had magnificent jugs.
AGENT: I beg your pardon?
MR. BARGER: Jugs. Boobs. Carrie had a magnificent set.
AGENT: Oh. Yes. Uh ...
MR. BARGER: She was pretty good in bed too. When you could get her away from those goddamned kids. Those kids! I don’t know why I ever agreed to take the first one in. After that we never had less than four and usually six or seven. She had always wanted a big family. But she wasn’t able to have children of her own. I guess maybe that made her want them even more. But she didn’t really want to be a mother. It was just a dream, a sort of sentimental thing with her.
AGENT: What do you mean?
MR. BARGER: Oh, she liked the idea of having children more than she liked really having them.
AGENT: I see.
MR. BARGER: She couldn’t discipline them worth a damn. They walked right over her. And I wasn’t about to take over that chore. No, sir! I worked hard, long hours in those days. When I came home I didn’t want to do anything but relax. I didn’t spend my time chasing after a pack of brats. So long as they left me alone, they could do what they wanted. They knew that, and they never bothered me. Hell, they weren’t my kids.
AGENT: Do you remember one of them named Ogden Salsbury?
MR. BARGER: No.
AGENT: His mother lived next door to you. She had a lot of lovers. One of them, a man named Parker, raped the boy. Homosexual rape.
MR. BARGER: Come to think of it, I do remember him. Ogden. Yeah. He came to the house at a bad time.
AGENT: A bad time? How’s that?
MR. BARGER: It was all girls then.
AGENT: All girls?
MR. BARGER: Carrie was on a kick. She wouldn’t take in any but little girls. Maybe she thought she could control them better than she could a bunch of boys. So this Ogden and I were the only men in the house for about two or three years.
AGENT: And that was bad for him?
MR. BARGER: The older girls knew what had happened to him. They used to tease him something fierce. He couldn’t take it. He’d blow up every time. Start yelling and screaming at them. Of course that was what they wanted, so they just teased him some more. When this Ogden used to let the girls get his goat, I’d take him aside and talk to him—almost father to son. I used to tell him not to pay them any mind. I used to tell him that they were just women and that women were good for only two things. Fucking and cooking. That was my attitude before I met my second wife. Anyway, I think I must have been a great help to that boy. A great help ... Do you know they won’t let you fuck in this nursing home?
The other report that Dawson found especially interesting was an interview with Laird Richardson, a first-level clerk in the Pentagon’s Bureau of Security Clearance Investigations. A Harrison-Bodrei agent had offered Richardson five hundred dollars to pull Salsbury’s army security file, study it, and report its contents.
Again, Dawson had bracketed the most relevant passages with a red pen.
RICHARDSON: Whatever research he’s doing must be damned important. They’ve spent a lot of money covering for the sonofabitch over the past ten years. And the Pentagon just doesn’t do that unless it expects to be repaid in spades some day.
AGENT: Covering for him? How?
RICHARDSON: He liked to mark up prostitutes.
AGENT: Mark them up?
RICHARDSON: Mostly with his fists.
AGENT: How often does this happen?
RICHARDSON: Once or twice a year.
AGENT: How often does he see prostitutes?
RICHARDSON: He goes whoring the first weekend of every other month. Regular as you please. Like he’s a robot or something. You could set your watch by his need. Usually, he goes into Manhattan, makes the rounds of the leisure and health spas, phones a couple of call girls and has them up to his hotel room. Now and then one of them comes along with the kind of look that sets him off, and he beats the shit out of her.
AGENT: What look is that?
RICHARDSON: Usually blond, but not always. Usually pale, but not always. But she is always small. Five one or five two. A hundred pounds. And delicate. Very delicate features.
AGENT: Why would a girl like that set him off?
RICHARDSON: The Pentagon tried to force him into psychoanalysis. He went to one session and refused to go the second time. He did tell the psychiatrist that these frenzies of his were generated by more than the girls’ appearance. They have to be delicate—but not just in a physical sense. They have to seem emotionally vulnerable to him before he gets the urge to pound them senseless.
AGENT: In other words if he thinks the woman is his equal or his superior, she’s safe. But if he feels that he can dominate her—
RICHARDSON: Then she’d better have her Blue Cross paid in full.
AGENT: He hasn’t killed any of these women, has he?
RICHARDSON: Not yet. But he’s come close a couple of times.
AGENT: You said someone in the Pentagon covers up for him.
RICHARDSON: Usually someone from our bureau.
RICHARDSON: By paying the girl’s hospital bills and giving her a lump sum. The size of the pay-off depends on the extent of her injuries.
AGENT: Is he considered a high security risk?
RICHARDSON: Oh, no. If he was a closet queen and we found out about it, he’d be classified as a fairly bad risk. But his hangups and vices aren’t secret. They’re out in the open. No one can blackmail him, threaten him with the loss of his job because we already know all of his dirty little secrets. In fact, whenever he marks up a girl, he has a special number to call, a relay point right in my department. Someone is at his hotel room within an hour to clean up after him.
AGENT: Nice people you work for.
RICHARDSON: Aren’t they? But I’m surprised that even they put up with this sonofabitch Salsbury. He’s a sick man. He’s a real can of worms all by himself. They should stick him away in a cell somewhere and just forget all about him.
AGENT: Do you know about his childhood?
RICHARDSON: About his mother and the man who raped him? It’s in the file.
RICHARDSON: You know what? Even though I can see where his craziness comes from, even though I can see that it isn’t entirely his fault that he is what he is, I can’t dredge up any compassion for him. When I think about all of those girls who ended up in hospitals with their jaws broken and their eyes swollen shut ... Listen, did any of those girls feel less pain because Salsbury’s evil isn’t entirely his own doing? I’m an old-style liberal when it comes to most things. But this liberal line about compassion for the criminal—that’s ninety percent horseshit. You can only spout that kind of garbage if you and your own family have been lucky enough to avoid animals like Salsbury. If it was up to me, I’d put him on trial for all those beatings. Then I’d send him away to a cell somewhere, hundreds of miles from the nearest woman.
He put the reports in the folder and returned the folder to the lower right-hand desk drawer.
O Lord, he thought prayerfully, give me the power to undo what damage he’s done in Black River. If this mistake can be remedied, if the field test can be completed properly, then I will be able to feed the drug to both Ernst and Ogden. I’ll be able to program them. I’ve been making preparations. You know that. I’ll be able to program them and convert them to Your holy fellowship. And not just them. The world. There will be no more souls for Satan. Heaven on earth. That’s what it’ll be, Lord. True heaven on earth, all in the shining light of Your love.
Sam read the last line of Salsbury’s article, closed the book, and said, “Jesus!”
“At least now we have some idea of what’s happening in Black River,” Paul said.
“All of that crazy stuff about breaking down the ego, primer drugs, code phrases, achieving total control, bringing contentment to the masses through behavioral modification, the benefits of a subliminally directed society ...” Somewhat dazed by Salsbury’s rhetoric, Jenny shook her head as if that would help her to think more clearly. “He sounds like a lunatic. He’s certifiable.”
“He’s a Nazi,” Sam said, “in spirit if not in name. That’s a very special breed of lunatic. A very deadly breed. And there are literally thousands of people like him, hundreds of thousands who would agree with every word he said about the benefits of a ‘subliminally directed society.’ ”
Thunder exploded with such violence that it sounded as if the bowl of the sky had cracked in two. A fierce gust of wind slammed against the house. The tempo of the rain on the roof and windows picked up to double time.
“Whatever he is,” Paul said, “he’s done exactly what he said could be done. He’s made this insane scheme work. But God, that has to be what’s happening here. It explains everything since the epidemic of night chills and nausea. ”
“I still don’t understand why Dad and I weren’t afflicted,” Jenny said. “Salsbury mentions in the article that the subliminal program would not affect illiterates and children who haven’t yet come to terms, however crude, with sex and death. But neither Dad nor I fit into one of those categories.”
“I think I can answer that,” Paul said.
Sam said, “So can I. One thing they teach budding pharmacologists is that no drug affects everyone the same way. On some people, for instance, penicillin has little or no effect. Some people don’t respond well at all to sulfa drugs. I suspect that, for whatever reasons of genes and metabolisms and body chemistries, we’re among the tiny percentage of those who aren’t touched by Salsbury’s drug.”
“And thank God for that,” Jenny said. She hugged herself and shivered.
“There ought to be more adults unaffected,” Paul said. “It’s summertime. People take vacations. Wasn’t anyone out of town during the week when the reservoir was contaminated and the subliminal messages broadcast?”
“When the heavy snows come,” Sam said, “logging operations have to stop. So in the warm months everyone connected with the mill works his butt off to make sure there will be a stockpile of logs to keep the saws going all winter. No one at the mill takes a vacation in the summer. And everyone in town who serves the mill takes his time off in the winter too.”
Paul felt as if he were on a turntable, whirling around and around. His mind spun with the implications of the article that Sam had read. “Mark and Rya and I weren’t affected because we got to town after the contaminant had passed out of the reservoir—and because we didn’t watch whatever television programs or commercials contained the subliminal messages. But virtually everyone else in Black River is now under Salsbury’s control.”
They stared at one another.
The storm moaned at the window.
Finally Sam said, “We enjoy the benefits and luxuries provided by modern science—all the while forgetting that the technological revolution, just like the industrial revolution before it, has its dark side.” For several long seconds, with the mantel clock ticking behind him, he studied the cover of the book in his hand. “The more complex a society becomes, the more dependent each part of it becomes on every other part of it, the easier it is for one man, one lunatic or true believer, to destroy it all on a whim. One man working alone can assassinate a chief of state and precipitate major changes in his country’s foreign and domestic policies. They tell us that one man with a degree in biology and a lot of determination can culture more than enough plague bacillus to destroy the world. One man working alone can even build a nuclear bomb. All he needs is a college degree in physics. And the ability to get his hands on a few pounds of plutonium. Which isn’t so damned hard to do either. He can build a bomb inside a suitcase and wipe out New York City because ... Well, hell, why not because he was mugged there, or because he once got a traffic ticket in Manhattan and he doesn’t think he deserved it. ”
“But Salsbury can’t be working alone,” Jenny said.
“I agree with you.”
“The resources needed to perfect and implement the program that he described in his article ... Why, they would be enormous.”
“A private industry might be able to finance it,” Paul said. “A company as large as AT&T.”
“No,” Sam said. “Too many executives and research people would have to know about it. There would be a leak. It would never get this far without a leak to the press and a major scandal.”
“A single wealthy man could provide what Salsbury needed,” Jenny said. “Someone as rich as Onassis was. Or Hughes. ”
Tugging gently on his beard, Sam said, “It’s possible, I suppose. But we’re all avoiding the most logical explanation.”
“That Salsbury is working for the United States government,” Paul said worriedly.
“Exactly,” Sam said. “And if he is working for the government or the CIA or any branch of the military—then we’re finished. Not just the three of us and Rya, but the whole damned country.”
Paul went to the window, wiped away some of the dew, and stared at wind-lashed trees and billowing gray sheets of rain. “Do you think that what’s happening here is happening all over the country?”
“No,” Sam said. “If there were a general takeover in progress, Salsbury wouldn’t be in a backwoods mill town. He’d be at a command post in Washington. Or somewhere else, anywhere else.”
“Then it’s a test. A field test.”
“And that’s maybe a good sign,” Sam said. “The government would run a field test where it already had tight security. Most likely on an army or air force base. Not here. ”
Lightning blasted through the thunderheads; and for an instant the patterns of rain on the window seemed to form faces: Annie’s face, Mark’s face ...
Suddenly Paul thought that his wife and son, although they had met quite different deaths, had been killed by the same force. Technology. Science. Annie had gone into the hospital for a simple appendectomy. It hadn’t even been an emergency operation. The anesthesiologist had given her a brand-new-on-the-market-revolutionary-you-couldn’task-for-better anesthet
After Annie died he became suspicious of technology, of every new wonder that science gave to mankind. He read Paul Ehrlich and other back-to-the-land reformers. Gradually he came to see that the yearly camping trips to Black River could be the beginning of a serious program to free his children from the city, from the ever-growing dangers of the science and technology that the cities represented. The yearly trips became an education for lives they would live in harmony with nature.
But the back-to-the-land advocates were possessed by an impossible dream. He saw that now, saw it as clearly as he had ever seen anything in his life. They were trying to run away from technology—but it moved much faster than they did. There was no land to get back to anymore. The city, its science and technology, the effects of its life-style, had tendrils snaking out into even the most remote mountains and forests.
Furthermore, you ignored the advancements of science at your own peril. His ignorance about anesthetics and the reliability of the Medico computer had cost Annie her life. His ignorance of subliminal advertising and the research being done in that field had, if you wanted to stretch a point, cost Mark his life. The only way to survive in the 1970s and in the decades to follow was to plunge into the fast-moving, super technical society, swim with it, learn from it and about it, learn all that you could, and be its equal in any confrontation.
He turned away from the window. “We can’t go to Bexford and call the state police. If our own government is behind Salsbury, if our own leaders want to enslave us, we’ll never win. It’s hopeless. But if it isn’t behind him, if it doesn’t know what he’s achieved, then we don’t dare let it know. Because the moment the military finds out—it’ll appropriate Salsbury’s discoveries; and there are some factions of the military that wouldn’t be opposed to using subliminal programming against us.”
Looking around at the books about Nazism, totalitarianism, and mob psychology, thinking ruefully of what he’d learned about some men’s lust for power, Sam said, “You’re right. Besides, I’ve been thinking about the problems with the long-distance phone service.”
Paul knew what he meant. “Salsbury’s taken over the telephone exchange.”
“And if he’s done that,” Sam said, “he’s taken other precautions too. He’s probably blockaded the roads and every other route out of town. We couldn’t go to Bexford and tell the state police even if we still wanted to.”
“We’re trapped,” Jenny said quietly.
“For the time being,” Paul said, “that really doesn’t matter. We’ve already decided there’s no place to run anyway. But if he’s not working for the government, if he’s backed by a corporation or a single wealthy man, maybe we’ve got a chance to stop him here in Black River.”
“Stop him ...” Sam stared thoughtfully at the floor. “Do you realize what you’re saying? We’d have to get our hands on him, interrogate him—and then kill him. Death is the only thing that will stop a man like that. We’d also have to find out from him who he’s associated with—and kill anyone else who might understand how the drug was made and how the subliminal program was constructed.” He looked up from the floor. “That could mean two murders, three, four, or a
Night Chills by Dean Koontz / Horror / Thrillers & Crime have rating 5.3 out of 5 / Based on48 votes