As they were entering town, making the abrupt transition from dead-brown land to tightly grouped pioneer settlement, Holly suddenly said aloud: “Robert Vaughn.”
Jim twitched with surprise, not because she had said something mystifying but because that name made an immediate connection for him.
“My God,” he said, “that was the voice.”
“The voice of The Friend,” she said, glancing at him. “So you realized it was familiar, too.”
Robert Vaughn, the wonderful actor, had been the hero of television's The Man from U.N.C.L.E. and exquisitely oily villain of countless films. He possessed one of those voices with such a rich timbre and range that it could be as threatening, or as fatherly and reassuring, as he chose to make it.
“Robert Vaughn,” Holly said. “But why? Why not Orson Welles or Paul Newman or Sean Connery or Fred Flintstone? It's too quirky a choice not to be meaningful.”
“I don't know,” Jim said thoughtfully, but he had the unnerving feeling he should know. The explanation was within his grasp.
Holly said, “Do you still think it's an alien? Wouldn't an alien just manufacture a nondescript voice? Why would it imitate any one particular actor?”
“I saw Robert Vaughn once,” Jim said, surprised by a dim memory stirring within him. “I mean, not on TV or in the movies, but for real, up close. A long time ago.”
“Where, when?”
“I can't … it won't … won't come to me.”
Jim felt as if he were standing on a narrow spine of land between two precipices, with safety to neither side. On the one hand was the life he had been living, filled with torment and despair that he had tried to deny but that had overwhelmed him at times, as when he had taken his spiritual journey on the Harley into the Mojave Desert, looking for a way out even if the way was death. On the other hand lay an uncertain future that Holly was trying to paint in for him, a future that she insisted was one of hope but which looked to him like chaos and madness. And the narrow spine on which he stood was crumbling by the minute.
He remembered an exchange they'd had as they lay side by side in his bed two nights ago, before they had made love for the first time. He'd said, People are always more … complex than you figure.
Is that just an observation … or a warning?
Warning?
Maybe you're warning me that you're not what you seem to be.
After a long pause, he had said, Maybe.
And after her own long pause, she had said, I guess I don't care.
He was sure, now, that he had been warning her. A small voice within told him that she was right in her analysis, that the entities at the mill had only been different aspects of him. But if he was a victim of multiple-personality syndrome, he did not believe that his condition could be casually described as a mere mental disturbance or a troubled state of mind, as she had tried to portray it. Madness was the only word that did it justice.
They entered Main Street. The town looked strangely dark and threatening — perhaps because it held the truth that would force him to step off his narrow mental perch into one world of chaos or another.
He remembered reading somewhere that only mad people were dead-certain of their sanity. He was dead-certain of nothing, but he took no comfort from that. Madness was, he suspected, the very essence of uncertainty, a frantic but fruitless search for answers, for solid ground. Sanity was that place of certainty above the whirling chaos.
Holly pulled to the curb in front of Handahl's Pharmacy at the east end of Main Street. “Let's start here.”
“Why?”
“Because it's the first stop we made when you were pointing out places that had meant something to you as a kid.”
He stepped out of the Ford under the canopy of a Wilson magnolia, one of several interspersed with other trees along both sides of the street. That landscaping softened the hard edges but contributed to the unnatural look and discordant feeling of the town.
When Holly pushed open the front door of the Danish-style building, its glass panes glimmered like jewels along their beveled edges, and a bell tinkled overhead. They went inside together.
Jim's heart was hammering. Not because the pharmacy seemed likely to be a place where anything significant had happened to him in his childhood, but because he sensed it was the first stone on a path to the truth.
The cafe and soda fountain were to the left, and through the archway Jim saw a few people at breakfast. Immediately inside the door was the small newsstand, where morning papers were stacked high, mostly the Santa Barbara daily; there were also magazines, and to one side a revolving wire rack filled with paperback books.
“I used to buy paperbacks here,” he said. “I loved books even back then, couldn't get enough of them.”
The pharmacy was through another archway to the right. It resembled any modern American pharmacy in that it stocked more cosmetics, beauty aids, and hair-care products than patent medicines. Otherwise, it was pleasantly quaint: wood shelves instead of metal or fiberboard; polished-granite counters; an appealing aroma composed of bayberry candles, nickel candy, cigar-tobacco effluvium filtering from the humidified case behind the cash register, faint traces of ethyl alcohol, and sundry Pharmaceuticals.
Though the hour was early, the pharmacist was on duty, serving as his own checkout clerk. It was Corbett Handahl himself, a heavy wide-shouldered man with a white mustache and white hair, wearing a crisp blue shirt under his starched white lab jacket.
He looked up and said, “Jim Ironheart, bless my soul. How long's it been — at least three, four years?”
They shook hands.
“Four years and four months,” Jim said. He almost added, since grandpa died, but checked himself without quite knowing why.
Spritzing the granite prescription-service counter with Windex, Corbett wiped it with paper towels. He smiled at Holly. “And whoever you are, I am eternally grateful to you for bringing beauty into this gray morning.”
Corbett was the perfect smalltown pharmacist: just jovial enough to seem like ordinary folks in spite of being placed in the town's upper social class by virtue of his occupation, enough of a tease to be something of a local character, but with an unmistakable air of competence and probity that made you feel the medicines he compounded would always be safe. Townfolk stopped in just to say hello, not only when they needed something, and his genuine interest in people served his commerce. He had been working at the pharmacy for thirty-three years and had been the owner since his father's death twenty-seven years ago.
Handahl was the least threatening of men, yet Jim suddenly felt threatened by him. He wanted to get out of the pharmacy before …
Before what?
Before Handahl said the wrong thing, revealed too much.
But what could he reveal?
“I'm Jim's fiancee,” Holly said, somewhat to Jim's surprise.
“Congratulations, Jim,” Handahl said. “You're a lucky man. Young lady, I just hope you know, the family changed its name from Ironhead, which was more descriptive. Stubborn group.” He winked and laughed.
Holly said, “Jim's taking me around town, showing me favorite places. Sentimental journey, I suppose you'd call it.”
Frowning at Jim, Handahl said, “Didn't think you ever liked this town well enough to feel sentimental about it.”
Jim shrugged. “Attitudes change.”
“Glad to hear it.” Handahl turned to Holly again. “He started coming in here soon after he moved in with his grandfolks, every Tuesday and Friday when new books and magazines arrived from the distributor in Santa Barbara.” He had put aside the Windex. He was arranging counter displays of chewing gum, breath mints, disposable lighters, and pocket combs. “Jim was a real reader then. You still a real reader?”