I stayed in the truck a while longer, thinking and waiting for the group to be assembled so I could sneak into the observation room unnoticed.
I saw Gartner Tuckman heading for the building with his briefcase in his hand. He was playing villain again, wearing black and glaring. I followed him into the building, keeping far enough behind to give him a chance to round up any séance members loitering in the hall.
At the head of the stairs, an uncanny fog shot with light lay across the floor. Strange traceries swirled in the Grey remnants. I peered at it, but couldn't understand it any better than the last time Id been near this room. Odd colors roiled through the puddle of Grey like lightning leaping cloud to cloud, and then the colors seeped toward the closed door to room twelve and oozed away. I felt it tug like a tidal race and then move away. I didn't see the yellow wad of tangled lines.
Frowning, I let myself into the observation room. Terry ignored me. I stayed on my feet and looked out through the double-paned glass.
Tuckman was in the séance room, standing near the observation mirror with his back to us. Some of the participants had taken seats at the table, but others had chosen to sit on the sofa. Ana was seated at the table in one of the hard chairs, along with the only séance member I hadn't interviewed yet—Wayne Hopke, the elderly military man. Ian, I noticed, was standing near the sofa, which put him in position to both look down Cara's blouse and hover over Ken like some mythic avenger—so he wasn't oblivious after all. All attention was turned to Tuckman, as he spoke in a mellow, soothing tone I'd never heard from him before.
". . begin today’s session," he said. "Our friend Mark Lupoldi has died in an accident. This is… a tragedy, and since I know we were all very fond of Mark it is a blow both to our project and to our feelings.”
Tuckman must have had a bit of theater training himself, to judge from his posture and delivery as he counterfeited sorrow. His shoulders were slumped a little forward and bunched as if he anticipated a blow. The angle of his arms indicated he was clasping his hands together and I imagined his knuckles were white. He probably had a convincingly sad mask arranged on his face.
I looked at the rest of them. Each wore some expression of surprise, startlement, or shock. Cara closed her eyes. Even through the double filter of the glass, I could see Grey sparks and flickers of yellow, red, and the unhealthy green I was beginning to associate with illness and distress. But I still could not see clearly enough to know which coil of energy belonged to whom. I ground my teeth with frustration; the thorough protocols that protected the project—and which I'd normally have cheered—were making my job difficult and there was nothing I could do about that.
"Although this sad event was in no way connected to our project," Tuckman continued, "it's entirely understandable if any of you feel you cannot go through with today's session or even if you want to withdraw completely from further participation. Mark was so enthusiastic about and devoted to the experiments that it is difficult to imagine them going forward without him. He has, of course, left an impression on all of us, colored our sense of the world and our work with his easy friendship and generous nature. We will all miss him.
"I know this seems abrupt, but in deference to everyone's feelings at this time, I think that we should postpone this session and consider if we wish to proceed at all—”
Dale Stahlqvist glowered. "What? Are you suggesting that we quit?”
Cara's eyes flashed open as all other heads turned to stare at her husband.
"Not 'quit, " Tuckman said, raising his hands. "Consider—" "Consider quitting," Dale snapped. "Just throw the whole thing out because we can't go on without Mark? That would put the lie to everything we've done—make the group meaningless—and I simply do not believe that's true. Mark worked as hard as any of us and I think he'd be appalled at such a suggestion. You mean well, Doctor, but it's the wrong thing to do.”
Tuckman sighed as the others began to ring a cacophony of rejection. They would see it through and they would start right now—for Mark's sake. Cara was the only one who remained silent, keeping her eyes down and her face impassive.
Tuckman deserved an Oscar for his performance. He didn't look smug or pleased when he gave in to their demands to continue as planned. He looked resigned and tired. He excused himself and told them to begin as soon as they felt comfortable.
Patricia was availing herself of a tissue as Tuckman entered the observation room. I wondered what had taken him nearly a minute in the hall. He brushed his hands over his hair and sat down. Now he did look a bit pleased.
"Terry," he said, "make a note of the fact that the group chose to go ahead and there are no plans at this time to replace Mr. Lupoldi." He shot me a smug look, then returned his attention to Terry. "How's the monitoring looking?”
"Everything is pretty normal so far, though there was a small spike in EMR activity when you made the announcement. It's returning to normal now.”
Tuckman nodded to himself. "Good. Now let's see what they do. . ”
For the first ten minutes or so they sat around the table and talked about Mark; then they started swapping stories about Mark and the séances and the whole thing took on the aspect of a wake.
Patricia suddenly giggled. "I'll bet Mark's with Celia," she said.
"Don't be stupid," muttered Cara.
The table gave a loud cracking noise and thumped up and down.
"Is that you, Celia?" Wayne Hopke asked, as usual assuming control of the questions.
The table thumped and skittered side to side, knocking Wayne and Cara out of their chairs. A hail of knocks roared on the tabletop. The rest of the group stood up to avoid the table's sudden agitation. A small bookshelf crashed over, spilling decks of cards and stacks of magazines onto the floor.
"Temperature's dropping. Electromagnetic activity is rising quickly." Terry glanced over his shoulder to catch Tuckman's eye. "I'm getting subaudibles.”
"What is it?" Tuckman demanded. "Is it from outside?”
"No, it's in the room. Can't tell what it is yet.”
"Mark it and analyze it later." Tuckman's gaze was intent on the scene in the other room.
The table was zooming back and forth with the séance group chasing after it and having difficulty keeping it under their fingers at all. The activity was nothing like the motion of the clamped tables that Ben had shown me. The table was almost writhing and making a horrible clatter as it warped the rug into folds and corrugations.
"Celia, are you there?" Wayne called again.
The table let out a bang.
"Is this Mark?" Patricia yelled.
Another sharp bang and then the table lurched against the fallen bookshelf. The stereo in the room blared a random segment of modern noise as the table stopped and trembled. Through the distorted music there came a loud pop.
Something hovered over the table in a flare of red light, spinning. Panting, the group drew around the table again. The light dimmed a bit and I could make out a flat, translucent shield shape about half the size of my palm, turning in empty air over the center of the table. Whatever was holding it there was strong enough for me to detect right through the double glass and I didn't like the feeling I got looking at that carmine glow, or the sudden sense of being tied to it.
Cara gasped and started to put out her hand. "That's mine!”
The thing flung itself into her face. She let out a short, sharp shriek and flinched, clapping her hand over her left cheek as she turned away from the impact of the thing. She crouched over and scuttled for the door. The table thumped one last time onto the floor, the eerie light dissipating.
"I think it's over," Terry had been saying as I bolted out of the observation room.