Christa Faust - Fringe The Zodiac Paradox

Walter looked over at Nina and Bell, shaking his head in disbelief. This was almost too easy.

“I tell you what,” Walter said. “We’re planning another telepathy experiment tomorrow.”

“We were wondering if we could use that old cabin that belongs to Chick’s parents,” Nina said. “You know, the one up in Fairfax?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chick said. “My folks never go up there this late in the year, it’ll just be sitting there empty.”

“Perfect,” Nina replied. “We’ll head up there first thing—what do you say?”

“That sounds groovy,” Abby said. “Can me and little Bobby come along?”

“Not for this one, Abby,” Nina said. “This particular blend has certain ingredients that may not be safe for unborn children.”

“Oh,” she said in small voice. “Well, I could just help out then...”

“While we appreciate your offer,” Bell said, using his deep, soothing voice to maximum effect, “in this particular experiment, we’ve had problems with preexisting relationships affecting the telepathic connections that are formed under the influence of the blend.”

“Yes, yes,” Walter agreed, thrilled with what Bell had contrived. “We can’t risk one of the subjects bonding with a mind outside the circle. For experimental purposes, we need to make sure that no external influences are allowed to skew the results.”

“It’s okay, starshine,” Roscoe said, pushing a lock of Abby’s hair behind her ear. “You stay here in the city and keep the home fires burning. And when I get back, I’ll sing you a new song.”

“Okay,” Abby said. “Can we get pancakes now?”

“Pancakes,” Walter said. “Splendid idea.”

* * *

Alex and Chick took off with their two new lady friends to hit a different bar down the street, but Roscoe, Abby, Iggy and Dave, along with the other pregnant girl Sandy, all walked a few blocks to an all-night diner called Plucky’s Waffle Inn. The place was jam-packed with disco queens and hippies alike, and the ancient and unflappable woman who was the only waitress in the place seemed equally amused by all of them.

Not that it really mattered to Walter, but over the course of their late-night, early-morning breakfast, he found himself trying to figure out which, if any, of the band members might be the father of Sandy’s child. She seemed equally flirty and friendly with everyone, including him. He wasn’t so uptight as to be scandalized by an out-of-wedlock pregnancy, but he had to admit he was curious.

Not curious enough to come right out and ask her, though.

Besides, it was far more enjoyable to discuss music and mind-expanding drugs. Roscoe was ferociously smart, and full of new ideas in how the two can be combined to intensify the effects.

“Music is primal,” he was saying. “It plugs directly into that central core of human consciousness. It goes beyond language, beyond any division between the self and the other.”

“There’s been some really exciting work done on the effect of music on catatonic patients, as well as those suffering from severe forms of dementia,” Walter said. “Are you familiar with the L-DOPA trials performed on patients with encephalitis, by a young neurologist named Doctor Oliver Sacks? He published a book about it, came out just last year. Absolutely fascinating stuff.”

“I’ll have to check it out,” Roscoe replied. “Who’s got the boysenberry syrup?”

“I do,” Walter said, holding up the little jug and giving his pancakes an extra drizzle before passing it over.

He would have been happy to stay all night in that diner, discussing a wide variety of intellectually stimulating theories and enjoying good, home-style food, but he couldn’t forget what they were planning to attempt tomorrow—today, actually. How everyone would be at risk, and how much was riding on their success.

Roscoe and the other band members continued to joke and horse around on the walk back to Nina’s place, but Walter found himself quietly introspective, lagging a little bit behind the others. Until he remembered that the Zodiac Killer was probably still following them.

He quickened his pace to catch up with Nina and Bell.

28

The next morning—more like afternoon, actually— Nina shook Walter awake again, this time with the typewritten note for the killer in her hand.

“It’s time,” she said. “You have to plant the note before we leave for the cabin, or none of this is going to work.”

“Right now?” Walter said, rubbing sleep from his dry eyes.

“Yes,” Nina said. “Right now. Remember, there is no prearranged drop spot, so it doesn’t matter where you leave the note. Just make it look like you’re trying to be secretive. Make sure you go slow, and be obvious enough to be easily followed.”

He sat up and noticed that Abby, bless her, had made tea for everyone. He helped himself to a steaming cup as he slipped his feet into his shoes.

“All right,” he said, shuffling toward the front door. “Right now. I just hope this works.”

* * *

Allan watched from across the street as the curly haired hippie in the baggy tweed jacket left Miss Nina Sharp’s house alone, and headed west. He hesitated, just for a moment, then followed. Of the three, this was the one who interested him the most. The one to whom he’d felt the closest that night at Reiden Lake. The one he planned to kill last.

The hippie was clearly up to something. He was anxious, constantly scanning the street and jumping every time a car passed, but Allan wasn’t worried that he would be spotted. He lingered nearly a block behind, blending into the crowd. They passed a busy hamburger stand, a beauty parlor, and a head shop, around a series of seemingly random corners, and then doubling back.

But Allan was a seasoned hunter, and couldn’t be shaken that easily.

Then the hippie suddenly dashed across the street and down a narrow alley. Allan followed at a safe distance, leisurely and unruffled as if he had all the time in the world to get to his destination. He strolled slowly past the mouth of the alley, peering casually down its length.

The hippie had his back turned to Allan, and seemed to be counting barred windows as he walked very slowly down the alleyway. When he arrived under the seventh window, he stopped, crouched down and slipped something under a concrete block. Then he stood and continued on until he was out the other end.

Allan waited a few beats before entering the alley himself, then made his way over to the seventh window. He lifted the concrete block and spotted a folded note and a wrinkled map.

He unfolded the note. Read it. Smiled.

Things just got a whole lot more interesting.

29

Walter was still so tired that he wound up falling asleep in the back seat of the rented tan Buick LeSabre, before they even made it out of San Francisco. When he woke they were on a narrow winding road, passing through deep, green woods. It felt almost like time travel, as if he’d fallen asleep in 1974 and awakened in pre-colonial times, before the intrusion of European industry into the primeval forests of America.

The day was sunny, the windows were down, and the sharp, piney scent of the clean crisp air was uplifting and refreshing. He found he could almost forget about all the pain and death and madness.

Almost.

Nina turned off the main road and onto a bumpy, unpaved dirt track that bounced Walter around like popcorn in the back seat. He clung to the back of Bell’s seat, peering anxiously over his shoulder. The brightly painted bus carrying the members of the band was no longer following them.

“Are you sure this is the right road?” he asked.

“We can’t very well park right in front of the cabin,” Nina said. “The killer would see the car and know someone was inside. Even though he wouldn’t recognize the rental, the cabin still has to look empty. So we’ll ditch the car down below, and walk up.”