The sudden “click” of the tape player’s automatic shutoff interrupted a rush of disjointed thoughts that had begun competing for Rayna’s attention as Al Frederick’s transcribed voice fell silent.
What was she to make of this? Did Al have what they used to call a “nervous breakdown”? Did he crack from overwork? How could Al Frederick—an experienced newspaperman whose job had both demanded and reinforced a healthy dose of skepticism—have taken that Zorne mumbo-jumbo seriously? Poor Aunt Vickie! No wonder they broke up!
As Rayna removed the tape from the machine, she noticed Al’s letter, which she had tossed onto the coffee table when she removed the cassettes from the permastore container. What was it he had said? Something about listening to all the tapes? She withdrew the letter from its envelope. Ah, yes. Here it was: “Please listen to all the tapes before you draw any conclusions.” Well, if Al was a little space happy at the time he recorded those tapes, at least he seemed to recognize the fact later on. He realized all this stuff would sound crazy. Still, he wanted me to hear him out, she thought. I suppose I owe him that much. He was always willing to listen to me.
“Okay, Al,” she said aloud. “Let’s try another one.”
She leaned forward, picked up the next tape in the sequence and examined it briefly before inserting it into the machine. Glancing up, she found herself momentarily distracted by sunlight dancing across the gently undulating water of her holographic seascape. Soothed by the peaceful scene, she smiled, pressed the “play” key, and settled back.
“Today is Monday, Nov. 1, 1971,” Al’s voice began. “It’s been quite awhile since my last log entry, but I’ll try to bring things up to date. The thing is, I’ve been awfully busy. A whole new world is opening up for me, and I just can’t seem to get a handle on it. I spent my three-week vacation up north working with Alec Zorne. Since then, I’ve been going to his place just about every weekend. In fact, I just got back last night. With Vickie in New York until late January, there isn’t much else I want to do with my time anyway.
“Zorne’s not at all what I expected a guy with his public image to be. He’s very serious about his work. He’s either a complete nut or else some kind of genius. Trouble is, his ideas are so tough for me to follow that I’m not sure I can tell whether he’s the one or the other. At least I have his book as some sort of kind of written guideline. That helps a little.”
A clicking sound indicated that Al had stopped and then restarted the machine.
“I’ve got to get myself a little more organized here. There’s so much to tell, and I’m still not sure I have it clear in my own mind. I suppose the best place to start is when I first went to see Zorne in his lab at the Bryant Institute, the experimental college where he teaches. Hard to believe that was just a month and a half ago....”
* * *
“Not much of a laboratory,” Al commented as Zorne ushered him into the room. “I was expecting something more like the pictures I’ve seen of labs at the big universities.”
“I don’t know about your expectations, but we operate pretty much on a shoestring,” Zorne said. “We have the essentials here—” he gestured about the room “—but no frills.” He stopped walking and scratched his head, his face wrinkled in reflection. “Well-l-l-l, come to think of it, there are some things we could use that are more than just frills. Faster, more efficient computers, for instance. But we manage.” He smiled. “When we win that new grant money based on the work we’re going to do together, we’ll be able to expand our facilities.”
Al nodded expressionlessly and looked around. The lab was larger than a classroom but smaller than the newsman had imagined it would be. Along the back wall was a tank Al recognized as a cloud chamber. The left wall was dominated by computer equipment. There were two workbenches toward the front of the room, and a large storage cabinet shared the back portion of the right wall with several file cabinets.
“This is where we’ll be doing most of our work together,” Zorne said, patting a table in the left rear corner of the room. These electrodes are going to become old friends.”
Zorne was holding what looked like a mass of colored spaghetti attached to a number of small discs.
“What’s this thing?” Al asked, indicating the unfamiliar piece of equipment to which the electrodes were attached.
“A cousin of the electroencephalograph. I call it an ‘electroscan.’ I designed it to measure certain characteristics of the electromagnetic waves in the brain—characteristics that an EEG doesn’t pick up. I did my early experiments using an EEG, but it wasn’t telling me what I needed to know. The EEG was never intended to monitor the kind of oscillations that my equations were predicting. All you really need to know is that this gadget here measures the activity that I think is responsible for psychic phenomena.”
Suddenly, the lights flickered, went out briefly, and then brightened once more.
“Damn!” Zorne erupted, rushing to the computers. “Not again!” He inspected the equipment with a quickness born of repeated experience.
“Well, at least this time the auxiliary kicked in!”
Al raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
“It’s the wiring in here,” Zorne explained. “When we set up the lab, they had to change the electrical system. The company that gave us the low bid on the job told us they could use the existing wiring, but now it turns out that my equipment is creating too much of a load. It all has to be changed, and it looks like that’s going to take months. Meanwhile, we keep getting these short-circuits and blackouts.”
Zorne shook his head unhappily. “Cost me some valuable information when this first started happening.” He gazed silently at nothing in particular for a moment, as if mourning the loss of his data.
“Last week,” he added, “the institute’s governing board finally agreed to spring for a small emergency generator that would cut in if the power dropped too far.” He leaned toward Al and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I made damn sure we got one installed right away, too—before they could change their minds.” Zorne straightened up once more. “I store as much as I can on tape, but that doesn’t help when the computer’s processing data. You lose power, and you lose a lot of valuable work. So I always worry when the lights flicker.”
The scientist turned and headed for the door, with Al following close behind.
“How about a cup of coffee?” Zorne said over his shoulder. “You’ll probably want to relax for awhile before we get started. Then I’ll need you to fill out some forms. I want all the paperwork in order. Otherwise, the establishment types at the foundations’ll never give this project any serious consideration. It’s too easy for them to just write me off as some crackpot.”
Al stopped suddenly and looked at Zorne.
“Are you?” he asked solemnly.
“Am I what?” Zorne responded, halting after a few steps and turning to face Al.
“Are you a crackpot?”
Zorne laughed good-naturedly. “Well, some of my students apparently think so. They call me ‘Crazy Azey’ whenever they think I’m out of earshot.”
“Azey?”
“Right. Azey. When I was a kid, I hated my name. The other kids—even members of my own family—used to tease me. ‘Smart Alec.’ That’s what they called me.” He smiled at the memory and shook his head. “I wanted everyone to use my initials instead of my first name. You know—A.Z. But one of my cousins—she couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4 at the time—she kept putting the accent on the wrong letter. After awhile, everybody just started calling me Azey. So now they can call me Crazy Azey.”
He paused, his eyes fixed frankly on Al’s. “Look, let’s be straight with each other. The study of psychic phenomena isn’t exactly accepted by the scientific establishment. Unfortunately, that leaves the field wide open for fakes and loonies. But we’re doing serious research here, Al. Just remember, the ‘respectable’ view used to be that the sun revolved around the Earth!”
“That coffee sounds fine, professor,” Al said after a moment’s thought.
“Make that Azey,” Zorne corrected as he led Al out the door of the three-story main building, across a patch of green lawn and into a smaller and much less elaborate structure that housed the institute’s cafeteria.
“You know, I don’t think I really mind it when they call me ‘Crazy Azey,’” Zorne was saying. “In a world as insane as this one, being called crazy is almost a testimonial to your sanity.”
Al surveyed the empty tables.
“Is this place always so empty?” he asked.
“Hardly. You should see it around lunch time. But it’s only a little past 10 o’clock now—class time for most of our students. Here,” Zorne said, pulling out a chair, “you just sit and relax. I’ll go get us some coffee.”
Al nodded and sat down. He drummed his fingers lightly on the tabletop as his journalistic eye examined his surroundings. But it wasn’t the cafeteria he was thinking about. There was something different about the institute—something besides an unusual curriculum and an unconventional faculty. The campus itself seemed makeshift. It reminded Al of those old movies that always ended with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland and their pals putting on a big show. “Backyard musicals,” they were called. The institute seemed like a backyard college.
“Ahhhh. Here ya go,” Zorne said, placing a cup of steaming black coffee before Al and putting a second cup on the table in front of an adjacent chair. “Oh. I forgot. Do you take cream? I just assumed you took it black for some reason.”
“You assumed right,” Al said. “Just a little sugar.”
Zorne held up a finger, as if requesting a moment of respectful silence, then reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew two sugar packets, which he dropped onto the table.
“I guess our mind nets must be operating in sync today,” Al quipped.
Zorne grinned appreciatively. “Today it may be only a guess, but when we’ve finished our experiments, maybe we’ll be able to prove it.”
Al nodded and smiled a bit self-consciously. “I was wondering about the institute,” he said, reaching for a sugar packet. “Seems a little unusual for a college.”
“Yeah, I suppose it does. It’s really the old Jason Bryant estate. Plus a few additions, like the building we’re in now.”
“Bryant, huh?” said Al. “I think I remember handling his obit. Big-time operator. Seemed to have the Midas touch when it came to investments.”
Zorne nodded. “Yeah, but he was always a little awed by his own success. Never had any children, but he was a big supporter of education. Maybe because he didn’t have a chance to get much of it himself. He donated tons of money to various universities before he died.”
“He gave money to a lot of charitable causes and organizations, too, didn’t he? Pretty private guy, though, the obit said.”
“I guess so,” Zorne said. “I didn’t really know anything about the man until I came here. The point is, he provided in his will that half his assets should go into a trust fund for ‘an institution of higher learning devoted to broadening human horizons and finding creative solutions to the world’s problems.’ His widow, Alicia Bryant, was the one who decided to call the place the Institute for Human Potential.”
Zorne shrugged. “Frankly, I think the name makes us sound like a bunch of clowns who do nothing but contemplate our belly buttons, but....” He raised his hands, palms up, in a gesture of resignation. “Anyway, she’s on the board. It was her idea to convert the house to classroom use and move some other buildings onto the grounds. They’re mostly old houses that were going to be demolished to make way for new construction projects. The insides of most of those had to be remodeled, too.”
“Must’ve been an expensive project,” Al commented.
“True, but it was still cheaper than renting or buying space anywhere else nearby. Besides, it saved some pretty terrific old buildings, and it gives the place a kind of homey feeling, I think. You know—more human and less institutional.”
Al nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee.
“So,” Zorne said with a deep breath. “Have you had a chance to look over my book?”
“I looked it over, but I don’t think I understand much of it.”
“That’s all right, Al. You’ll understand enough by time we’re through. If you have any questions, be sure to ask.”
“But won’t it louse up your experiments if I know what the results are supposed to be?” Al asked.
“Naaah, don’t worry about that. The way our experiments are set up, it won’t matter much. For most of the experiments, you’ll be hypnotized.”
“What?”
“I said you’ll be hypnotized.” Zorne studied Al’s face for a few seconds. “Does that bother you?”
Al was still thinking it over when Zorne proceeded to explain.
“You see, one of the problems with psychic research has always been getting psychic events to occur under controlled conditions. The anecdotal information we have shows that psychic experiences are often associated with strong emotions and crisis situations. In order to find a physical explanation for paranormal events, I had to be sure I would have paranormal events to study.”
“And?”
“And that meant finding some way to induce paranormal activity. That’s why I started using various drugs. Many of them had a reputation for ‘expanding’ the mind. But the drugs were too unreliable. For some people, they seemed to increase psychic potential, but in others, there didn’t seem to be any change. Sometimes, the psychic potential of the same subject using the same drug seemed to swing from one extreme to another.” He paused to sip his coffee. “Still, I learned a lot. In the process of doing those early experiments, I developed a procedure that could effectively measure both psychic activity and psychic results. But the drug experiments didn’t give me enough control over experimental conditions to fine-tune my work. That’s when I decided to try hypnosis.”
Al nodded slowly. “Go on,” he said.
“With hypnosis,” Zorne continued, “I could establish in the subject’s mind all of the pre-conditions that seem to enhance psychic activity. I could induce certain emotions and convince the subject that certain things were happening objectively. Then I could test the subject’s psychic reaction and correlate the results with the activity measured by the electroscan.”
Al ran a finger around the edge of his coffee cup. “Just what does all that mean as far as I’m concerned?” he asked.
“It’s very simple, Al. I’m going to hypnotize you and have you try using your psychic energy to influence the tracks made by atomic particles in the cloud chamber. First, though, we’ll try it without the hypnosis. That way, we can establish a baseline of psychic activity for you.”
Over the next several weeks, Al became thoroughly familiar with Zorne’s lab.
“How’re things shaping up?” Al asked one day as the electrodes were removed from his scalp.
“Interesting,” Zorne said noncommittally. “Extremely interesting. In fact, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it.”
Al swung around in his chair, watching closely as the physicist took several paces toward the laboratory door, stopped and inhaled deeply. Then Zorne walked to a file cabinet at the back of the room. He opened a drawer, removed several folders, and returned to the table where Al sat expectantly.
“Do you remember the talk I gave the night we met?” Zorne asked as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Yeah. Sure,” Al said. “Well, in a general sort of way, I do. I remember that what you said got me interested enough to go up and talk to you afterward, but as for the details....” He clucked apologetically. “It all sounded pretty fantastic, but then, what happened to me in the newsroom was fantastic, too. I hope you didn’t expect me to understand everything you said. Remember, Azey, I don’t have a physics degree.”
“Unfortunately, a physics degree doesn’t guarantee an open mind.” Zorne sighed and shook his head. “It’s always amazed me how people who consider themselves scientists can dismiss an idea or, in this case, a whole field of study, as ‘impossible’ when the history of science is made up of turning the ‘impossible’ into ‘common knowledge.’
“At any rate, I have a special reason for asking you about my talk. Do you remember anything about what I called reality-matrix physics?”
“I remember the term,” said Al. “Can’t say I remember much about the idea, though. I tried to follow the explanation in your book, but I didn’t have much luck.”
Zorne nodded. “That’s about what I figured. It’s not a simple concept. At first glance, it seems to defy common sense. But that’s why I was eager to work with you. You see, if you actually did what you said you did when Roberts was shot, then you would be the perfect subject to help me test my reality-matrix hypotheses.”
“Is that what all these experiments have been about?”
The scientist tapped a finger lightly against one of the folders. “In a way. I wanted to see whether you showed any signs of the psychic potential that my principal hypothesis says would be necessary to change reality.”
Al blinked. “And? Do I?”
“Oh, yes,” Zorne responded emphatically. “Your psychic potential is one of the highest I’ve measured. But so is your psychic inhibition.”
“My what?”
“Your psychic inhibition. Your resistance to psychic experiences. I really had to stack the deck with you under hypnosis to get you to release that psychic energy. But when you did release it.... Well, you were able to do almost incredible things with the tracks in the cloud chamber.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Azey?”
“I’m not quite sure how to put it. The work we’ve done so far...” Zorne flipped through some of the papers in the folders “...confirms my hunch that activation of your psychic potential is linked to your reality matrix. I’d like to work with you some more on this—to find out more precisely what triggers the release of that energy and whether you can learn to control the mechanism.”
A dreamlike sense of unreality fogged Al’s senses.
“Maybe I’d better explain a little more about reality-matrix physics,” Zorne said, scratching at his beard.
“Yeah,” answered Al, “I think maybe that would help.”
Zorne searched the room with his eyes and eventually spotted a deck of Zener cards that he had placed on the table earlier in the day in preparation for a clairvoyance experiment with another subject.
“See this?” he said, tapping the back of the deck. “What color is it?”
“Blue,” Al answered quickly. “What does this have to do with—”
“Patience, Al,” Zorne said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop at a busy intersection. “When you look at the back of this card, you see something you call ‘blue.’ So do I. But what you mean by ‘blue’ and what I mean by it may in fact be very different. We have no way of comparing what we actually see, though, so we just agree to call this stimulus ‘blue.’”
“Okay,” Al said. “So what?”
“That kind of perceptual difference goes much deeper. It applies to the nonphysical as well as the physical world. We each have our own set of attitudes, beliefs and values about the way the universe is and how it ought to be. I quantify that and call it a ‘reality matrix.’ You’ve heard the expression ‘looking at the world through rose-colored glasses’? It’s the reality matrix that colors the glass.”
“Go on. I’m with you so far.”
“Now, whether or not I turn it into a table of numbers, everybody has a reality matrix. People aren’t always conscious of it, though, despite the fact that it determines the way they see the world.” Zorne looked probingly at Al, as if he wanted to be sure he was making himself understood. “You have a very strong matrix, Al. No matter how much of a cynic you may think you are, you’re really an idealist at heart. Your beliefs and attitudes are strongly held and very important to you. In fact, they drive you.”
Al grunted. “Oh, come on, Azey. You playing psychiatrist now? How do you know what my beliefs and values are, much less how much they mean to me? You’re talking nonsense.”
“Remember the questionnaire you filled out when we first started working together?” Zorne asked calmly. “I’ve had all my subjects fill them out. The computer analyzes the responses and puts together a general description of each subject’s reality matrix. I’ll admit the descriptions are pretty rough. The questionnaire needs refinement, and so does the program I wrote to analyze the responses. But then, I don’t think we can ever capture the full complexity of the human personality. I’m not trying to do that. I’m not a psychiatrist—or even a psychologist, although some of this may sound like psychology. I’m a parapsychophysicist, and what I’m looking for has to be physically measurable.”
“Then what’s your point?”
“As I said before, your psychic power seems to be linked with your reality matrix. Whenever I hypnotically suggested the existence of a situation that conflicted with your matrix, your psychic activity shot up significantly. The stronger the conflict, the greater the increase in psychic activity.”
Seeing the puzzled look on Al’s face, Zorne scratched his head and frowned for a moment. “Listen,” he said, “do you remember the time I asked you to try and make all the particle tracks in the cloud chamber travel in parallel paths?”
Al nodded. “Yeah. I couldn’t do it. In fact, I don’t think I had any effect on the tracks at all.”
“That’s right. Not even when I hypnotized you and asked you to do the same thing while you were in a trance. That’s when I decided to play my hunch. While you were still hypnotized, I planted a suggestion. I told you the world was on the verge of nuclear war. The only way to prevent it was for you to make the tracks parallel for 30 seconds. Like I said, you’re an idealist. Your reality matrix indicates that you have a very high regard for human life and a strong revulsion against war.”
“And?” Al prodded.
“Well, the tracks weren’t parallel for the full 30 seconds, but they did become parallel for—let’s see, now—” Zorne checked his records “—for 3.4 seconds. It was incredible! No one has ever been able to exert that kind of control over cloud chamber tracks. And you did that sort of thing more than once.”
“Pretty weird,” Al said, shifting about in his chair. “What do they call that? Telekinesis, isn’t it?”
“It’s much more than telekinesis,” said Zorne. “I’m convinced that John Martin Roberts is alive today because his assassination conflicted so strongly with your reality matrix.” Al swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“Your psychic potential couldn’t be contained anymore,” Zorne continued. “My guess is that the potential broke through in what I call a ‘psycho-affective spike’ when you heard the early reports about the shooting.
“What in the world is a ‘psycho-effective spike?’” Al asked.
“That’s ‘affective’ with an ‘A,’ not with an ‘E.’ You’re a journalist; so you probably know the difference. ‘Affect’ with an ‘A’ refers to emotion—in this case, emotion related to the conflict between your reality matrix and the so-called ‘real world’ around you.
“Basically, a ‘psycho-affective spike’ is a sudden surge of psychic energy caused by strong feelings. This ‘affective’ part of the spike is very important: It’s the emotional power behind the ‘psychic surge’ that shifts the reality matrix.
“As for the headline change, that probably resulted from a second spike triggered by editing the assassination story. If it hadn’t been for the emotional trauma associated with the release of your psychic energy, I don’t think you’d have any memory of the original headline at all. You wouldn’t even know that anything had changed.”
Al looked blankly at Zorne, trying to distill his chaotic thoughts into a rational comment or question.
“Maybe the psychic energy you released directly modified Roberts’ wounds before he had a chance to die, so that the doctors were able to save him,” Zorne went on. “Or maybe the psycho-affective spike split reality into alternative branches, with Roberts dying in one branch and living in the other. At this point, I’m not sure of the exact mechanism involved. We may never be able to find that out for sure. After all, we can only exist in one reality at a time.”
Al gazed disconcertedly at Zorne, then shifted his focus downward to the tabletop. His jaws ached as he fought to contain the fury of emotion inside. Part of him felt relieved. No—vindicated. Zorne was confirming that what Al thought had happened actually did happen. But Alec Zorne was still Alec Zorne. Azey seemed to approach their work together in a professional, competent manner, but Al could still hear Vickie’s disparaging remarks about Zorne’s public association with counterculture causes. Was all that political activity—which had cost Zorne so dearly—a reflection of integrity or of bad judgment? And if it was the latter, did that bad judgment carry over into Zorne’s scientific work?
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Zorne asked.
A cold knot of fear lodged itself behind Al’s breastbone. Whether Zorne was right or wrong, life would never be quite the same again. Either he possessed a terrifying power that he didn’t know how to control, or else he was crazy and Zorne’s theories were just so much hogwash. Odd, he thought. He had never really considered the implications before. He’d just wanted to prove to himself—and to Vickie—that he wasn’t losing his mind.
He blinked and shook his head, unconsciously hoping the movement would somehow distill sense from confusion, but everything remained stubbornly hazy.
“Al? Are you all right?”
“Sure,” Al responded sardonically. “What could be wrong? You just told me I’m some kind of psychic freak.”
“All I’ve told you is that you were right about what happened when Roberts was shot. Would you have preferred it if we’d found out it was all in your head?”
“I don’t really know,” a glum Al Frederick answered.
“Look, I didn’t guarantee the outcome of these experiments,” said Zorne. “I didn’t know what we’d find any more than you did. But I did think that you wanted to know the truth!”
Al shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and then straightened in his chair.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did—I do—want the truth. It’s just—well, even though I lived through it, it’s hard to accept. Especially as time goes by. I keep thinking maybe Vickie was right about my just being overtired and—”
Zorne heaved an impatient sigh.
“Look, Azey,” Al said, swallowing hard, “I’m a little confused here. You said I can change things, especially when they conflict with my reality matrix. Right? But didn’t you also say that everyone has a reality matrix? If that’s so, why isn’t everybody doing what I did?”
“Well,” Zorne answered, “I’m not sure, but I can offer an educated guess. You have a tremendous emotional investment in your reality matrix. That’s not true for everybody. For many of my other subjects, the matrix just exists as a sort of passive background.”
“So?”
“Because of the emotional component, a reality-matrix conflict creates more tension for you than it does for them. At any rate, the experimental results show a direct relationship between the degree of reality-matrix conflict and your psychic potential, as measured by the oscillations picked up by the electroscan.”
“Huh?”
“In other words, the bigger the conflict, the greater your psychic potential. And here’s something else, Al. Even if everyone has some latent psychic potential, there are bound to be variations from individual to individual—just like with intellectual ability or athletic skill. You happen to combine a very affective reality matrix with strong psychic ability. That combination may not occur very often.”
“In other words, I’m just lucky,” Al retorted with irony. “What about the other ‘lucky’ people in the world? I can’t be the only one.”
“That’s a good question, Al. Unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer—at least, not yet. Maybe other people are changing the world, too, only we can’t tell because we become part of the change.” He paused, pressing his lips together. “You know, this thing we call ‘reality’ isn’t as simple as most people think.”
“What do you mean?” Al asked with a frown.
Zorne rested his right hand against his chin, tapping his lips with his index finger. “Let’s just say that the more physicists find out, the more we realize how little we know. How little we can know, for that matter. Heisenberg showed that we can’t even look at something without changing it.”
Zorne gazed past Al’s ear at nothing in particular. “Some of the theories of quantum mechanics sound wilder than the wildest sort of science fiction. A world that consists of nothing but probabilities, with no physical existence at all until something is observed or measured.... Multiple coexisting alternative realities.... And then there’s Bell’s theorem....”
The scientist focused on Al once more. “But even with all that, reality-matrix physics is going to knock them for a loop.”
Al massaged his closed eyes and shook his head. “Enough!”
Zorne studied him silently for a moment, then picked up the folders he had put on the table earlier. Al shifted about restlessly, hoping for a swift end to the lab session. He had a lot to think about, and he needed time to digest it.
“Before I forget, Al,” Zorne said, leafing through the papers in the folders until he found what he was looking for, “I’d better give you some of these. They’re the forms I use for recording experimental data. I want you to keep track of what we do from now on, too. I want to find out just what you can do voluntarily to control your psychic energy. The record will help both of us.”
“All right,” Al nodded with an uncertain smile as he accepted the papers from Zorne. “One thing I’ll say for you, Azey. You have a great sense of timing.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Well, according to you, I just about snatched John Martin Roberts out of the grave.”
“I don’t think I’d describe it that—”
Al interrupted with a bittersweet laugh. “Look at the calendar, Azey. Happy Halloween!”