by Stephen King
And the immediate future might be two years, Andy thought. Maybe five. They would want to keep an eye on him in case the mental-domination ability recurred, and maybe as an ace in the hole in case some unforeseen difficulty with Charlie cropped up. But in the end, he had no doubt that there would be an accident or an overdose or a "suicide." In Orwell's parlance, he would become an unperson.
"Would I still get my medication?" Andy asked.
"Oh, of course," Pynchot said.
"Hawaii ..." Andy said dreamily. Then he looked around at Pynchot with what he hoped was an expression of rather stupid cunning. "Probably Dr. Hockstetter won't let me go. Dr. Hockstetter doesn't like me: I can tell."
"Oh, he does," Pynchot assured him. "He does like you, Andy. And in any case, you're my baby, not Dr. Hockstetter's. I assure you, he'll go along with what I advise."
"But you haven't written your memorandum on the subject yet," Andy said.
"No, I thought I'd talk to you first. But, really, Hockstetter's approval is just a formality."
"One more series of tests might be wise," Andy said, and pushed out lightly at Pynchot. "Just for safety's sake."
Pynchot's eyes suddenly fluttered in a strange way. His grin faltered, became puzzled, and then faded altogether. Now Pynchot was the one who looked drugged, and the thought gave Andy a vicious kind of satisfaction. Bees droned in the flowers. The scent of new-cut grass, heavy and cloying hung in the air.
"When you write your report, suggest one more series of tests," Andy repeated.
Pynchot's eyes cleared. His grin came splendidly back. "Of course, this Hawaii thing is just between us for the time being," he said. "When I write my report, I will be suggesting one more series of tests. I think it might be wise. Just for safety's sake, you know."
"But after that I might go to Hawaii?"
"Yes," Pynchot said. "After that."
"And another series of tests might take three months or so?"
"Yes, about three months." Pynchot beamed on Andy as if he were a prize pupil.
They were nearing the pond now. Ducks sailed lazily across its mirror surface. The two men paused by it. Behind them, the young man in the sport coat was watching a middle-aged man and woman cantering along side by side on the far side of the pond. Their reflections were broken only by the long, smooth glide of one of the white ducks. Andy thought the couple looked eerily like an ad for mail-order insurance, the kind of ad that's always failing out of your Sunday paper and into your lap--or your coffee.
There was a small pulse of pain in his head. Not bad at all. But in his nervousness he had come very close to pushing Pynchot much harder than he had to, and the young man might have noticed the results of that. He didn't seem to be watching them, but Andy wasn't fooled.
"Tell me a little about the roads and the countryside around here," he said quietly to Pynchot, and pushed out lightly again. He knew from various snatches of conversation that they were not terribly far from Washington, D.C., but nowhere as close as the CIA's base of operations in Langley. Beyond that he knew nothing.
"Very pretty here," Pynchot said dreamily, "since they've filled the holes."
"Yes, it is nice," Andy said, and lapsed into silence. Sometimes a push triggered an almost hypnotic trace memory in the person being pushed--usually through some obscure association--and it was unwise to interrupt whatever was going on. It could set up an echo effect, and the echo could become a ricochet, and the ricochet could lead to ... well, to almost anything. It had happened to one of his Walter Mitty businessmen, and it had scared the bejesus out of Andy. It had turned out okay, but if friend Pynchot suddenly got a case of the screaming horrors, it would be anything but okay.
"My wife loves that thing," Pynchot said in that same dreamy voice.
"What's that?" Andy asked. "That she loves?"
"Her new garbage disposer. It's very ..."
He trailed off.
"Very pretty," Andy suggested. The guy in the sport coat had drifted a little closer and Andy felt a fine sweat break on his upper lip.
"Very pretty," Pynchot agreed, and looked vaguely out at the pond.
The Shop agent came closer still, and Andy decided he might have to risk another push ... a very small one. Pynchot was standing beside him like a TV set with a blown tube.
The shadow picked up a small chunk of wood and tossed it in the water. It struck lightly and ripples spread, shimmering. Pynchot's eyes fluttered.
"The country is very pretty around here," Pynchot said. "Quite hilly, you know. Good riding country. My wife and I ride here once a week, if we can get away. I guess Dawn's the closest town going west ... southwest, actually. Pretty small. Dawn's on Highway Three-oh-one. Gether's the closest town going east."
"Is Gether on a highway?"
"Nope. Just on a little road."
"Where does Highway Three-oh-one go? Besides Dawn?"
"Why, all the way up to D.C., if you go north. Most of the way to Richmond, if you go south."
Andy wanted to ask about Charlie now, had planned to ask about Charlie, but Pynchot's reaction had scared him a little. His association of wife, holes, pretty, and--very strange!--garbage disposer had been peculiar and somehow disquieting. It might be that Pynchot, although accessible, was nevertheless not a good subject. It might be that Pynchot was a disturbed personality of some sort, tightly corseted into an appearance of normality while God knew what forces might be delicately counterbalanced underneath. Pushing people who were mentally unstable could lead to all sorts of unforeseen results. If it hadn't been for the shadow he might have tried anyway (after all that had happened to him, he had damn few compunctions about messing with Herman Pynchot's head), but now he was afraid to. A psychiatrist with the push might be a great boon to mankind ... but Andy McGee was no shrink.
Maybe it was foolish to assume so much from a single trace-memory reaction; he had got them before from a good many people and very few of them had freaked out. But he didn't trust Pynchot. Pynchot smiled too much.
A sudden cold and murderous voice spoke from deep inside him, from some well sunk far into his subconscious: Tell him to go home and commit suicide. Then push him. Push him hard.
He thrust the thought away, horrified and a little sickened.
"Well," Pynchot said, looking around, grinning. "Shall we returnez-vous?"
"Sure," Andy said.
And so he had begun. But he was still in the dark about Charlie.
INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO
From Herman Pynchot
To Patrick Hockstetter
Date September 12
Re Andy McGee
I've been over all of my notes and most of the tapes in the last three days, and have spoken to McGee. There is no essential change in the situation since we last discussed it 9/5, but for the time being I'd like to put the Hawaii idea on hold if there is no big objection (as Captain Hollister himself says, "it's only money"!).
The fact is, Pat, I believe that a final series of tests might be wise--just for safety's sake. After that we might go ahead and send him to the Maui compound. I believe that a final series might take three months or so.
Please advise before I start the necessary paperwork.
Herm
INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO
From P. H.
To Herm Pynchot
Date September 13
Re Andy McGee
I don't get it! The last time we all got together we agreed--you as much as any of us--that McGee was as dead as a used fuse. You can only hesitate so long at the bridge, you know!
If you want to schedule another series of tests--an abbreviated series, then be my guest. We're starting with the girl next week, but thanks to a good deal of inept interference from a certain source, I think it likely that her cooperation may not last long. While it does, it might not be a bad idea to have her father around ... as a "fire-extinguisher"???
Oh yes--it may be "only money," but it is the taxpayer's money, and levity on that subject i
s rarely encouraged, Herm. Especiallyby Captain Hollister. Keep it in mind.
Plan on having him for 6 to 8 weeks at most, unless you get results ... and if you do, I'll personally eat your Hush Puppies.
Pat
8
"Son-of-a-fucking-bitch," Herm Pynchot said aloud as he finished reading this memorandum. He reread the third paragraph: here was Hockstetter, Hockstetter who owned a completely restored 1958 Thunderbird, spanking him about money. He crumpled up the memo and threw it at the wastebasket and leaned back in his swivel chair. Two months at most! He didn't like that. Three would have been more like it. He really felt that--
Unbidden and mysterious, a vision of the garbage-disposal unit he had installed at home rose in his mind. He didn't like that, either. The disposal unit had somehow got into his mind lately, and he didn't seem to be able to get it out. It came to the fore particularly when he tried to deal with the question of Andy McGee. The dark hole in the center of the sink was guarded by a rubber diaphragm ... vaginal, that ...
He leaned farther back in his chair, dreaming. When he came out of it with a start, he was disturbed to see that almost twenty minutes had gone by. He drew a memo form toward him and scratched out a note to that dirty bird Hockstetter, eating the obligatory helping of crow about his ill-advised "it's only money" comment. He had to restrain himself from repeating his request for three months (and in his mind, the image of the disposer's smooth dark hole rose again). If Hockstetter said two, it was two. But if he did get results with McGee, Hockstetter was going to find two size-nine Hush Puppies sitting on his desk blotter fifteen minutes later, along with a knife, a fork, and a bottle of Adolph's Meat Tenderizer.
He finished the note, scrawled Herm across the bottom, and sat back, massaging his temples. He had a headache.
In high school and in college, Herm Pynchot had been a closet transvestite. He liked to dress up in women's clothes because he thought they made him look ... well, very pretty. His junior year in college, as a member of Delta Tau Delta, he had been discovered by two of his fraternity brothers. The price of their silence had been a ritual humiliation, not much different from the pledge hazing that Pynchot himself had participated in with high good humor.
At two o'clock in the morning, his discoverers had spread trash and garbage from one end of the fraternity kitchen to the other and had forced Pynchot, dressed only in ladies' panties, stockings and garter belt, and a bra stuffed with toilet paper, to clean it all up and then wash the floor, under constant threat of discovery: all it would have taken was another frat "brother" wandering down for an early-morning snack.
The incident had ended in mutual masturbation, which, Pynchot supposed, he should have been grateful for--it was probably the only thing that caused them to really keep their promise. But he had dropped out of the frat, terrified and disgusted with himself--most of all because he had found the entire incident somehow exciting. He had never "cross-dressed" since that time. He was not gay. He had a lovely wife and two fine children and that proved he was not gay. He hadn't even thought of that humiliating, disgusting incident in years. And yet--
The image of the garbage disposal, that smooth black hole faced with rubber, remained. And his headache was worse.
The echo set off by Andy's push had begun. It was lazy and slow-moving now; the image of the disposal, coupled with the idea of being very pretty, was still an intermittent thing.
But it would speed up. Begin to ricochet.
Until it became unbearable.
9
"No," Charlie said. "It's wrong." And she turned around to march right out of the small room again. Her face was white and strained. There were dark, purplish dashes under her eyes.
"Hey, whoa, wait a minute," Hockstetter said, putting out his hands. He laughed a little. "What's wrong, Charlie?"
"Everything," she said. "Everything's wrong."
Hockstetter looked at the room. In one comer, a Sony TV camera had been set up. Its cords led through the pressed-cork wall to a VCR in the observation room next door. On the table in the middle of the room was a steel tray loaded with woodchips. To the left of this was an electroencephalograph dripping wires. A young man in a white coat presided over this.
"That's not much help," Hockstetter said. He was still smiling paternally, but he was mad. You didn't have to be a mind reader to know that; you had only to look in his eyes.
"You don't listen," she said shrilly. "None of you listen except--"
(except John but you can't say that) "Tell us how to fix it," Hockstetter said.
She would not be placated. "If you listened, you'd know. That steel tray with the little pieces of wood, that's all right, but that's the only thing that is. The table's wood, that wall stuff, that's fluh-flammable ... and so's that guy's clothes." She pointed to the technician, who flinched a little.
"Charlie--"
"That camera is, too."
"Charlie, that camera's--"
"It's plastic and if it gets hot enough it will explode and little pieces will go everywhere. And there's no water! I told you, I have to push it at water once it gets started. My father and my mother told me so. I have to push it at water to put it out. Or... or..."
She burst into tears. She wanted John. She wanted her father. More than anything, oh, more than anything, she didn't want to be here. She had not slept at all last night.
For his part, Hockstetter looked at her thoughtfully. The tears, the emotional upset ... he thought those things made it as clear as anything that she was really prepared to go through with it.
"All right," he said. "All right, Charlie. You tell us what to do and well do it."
"You're right," she said. "Or you don't get nothing."
Hockstetter thought: We'll get plenty, you snotty little bitch.
As it turned out, he was absolutely right.
10
Late that afternoon they brought her into a different room. She had fallen asleep in front of the TV when they brought her back to her apartment--her body was still young enough to enforce its need on her worried, confused mind--and she'd slept for nearly six hours. As a result of that and a hamburger and fries for lunch, she felt much better, more in control of herself.
She looked carefully at the room for a long time.
The tray of woodchips was on a metal table. The walls were gray industrial sheet steel, unadorned.
Hockstetter said, "The technician there is wearing an asbestos uniform and asbestos slippers." He spoke down to her, still smiling his paternal smile. The EEG operator looked hot and uncomfortable. He was wearing a white cloth mask to avoid aspirating any asbestos fiber. Hockstetter pointed to a long, square pane of mirror glass set into the far wall. "That's one-way glass. Our camera is behind it. And you see the tub."
Charlie went over to it. It was an old-fashioned clawfoot tub and it looked decidedly out of place in these stark surroundings. It was full of water. She thought it would do.
"All right," she said.
Hockstetter's smile widened. "Fine."
"Only you go in the other room there. I don't want to have to look at you while I do it." Charlie stared at Hockstetter inscrutably. "Something might happen."
Hockstetter's paternal smile faltered a little.
11
"She was right, you know," Rainbird said. "If you'd listened to her, you could have got it right the first time."
Hockstetter looked at him and grunted.
"But you still don't believe it, do you?"
Hockstetter, Rainbird, and Cap were standing in front of the one-way glass. Behind them the camera peered into the room and the Sony VCR hummed almost inaudibly. The glass was lightly polarized, making everything in the testing room look faintly blue, like scenery seen through the window of a Greyhound bus. The technician was hooking Charlie up to the EEG. A TV monitor in the observation room reproduced her brainwaves.
"Look at those alphas," one of the technicians murmured. "She's really jacked up."
"Sc
ared," Rainbird said. "She's really scared."
"You believe it, don't you?" Cap asked suddenly. "You didn't at first, but now you do."
"Yes," Rainbird said. "I believe it."
In the other room, the technician stepped away from Charlie. "Ready in here."
Hockstetter flipped a toggle switch. "Go ahead, Charlie. When you're ready."
Charlie glanced toward the one-way glass, and for an eerie moment she seemed to be looking right into Rainbird's one eye.
He looked back, smiling faintly.
12
Charlie McGee looked at the one-way glass and saw nothing save her own reflection ... but the sense of eyes watching her was very strong. She wished John could be back there; that would have made her feel more at ease. But she had no feeling that he was.
She looked back at the tray of woodchips.
It wasn't a push; it was a shove. She thought about doing it and was again disgusted and frightened to find herself wanting to do it She thought about doing it the way a hot and hungry person might sit in front of a chocolate ice-cream soda and think about gobbling and slurping it down. That was okay, but first you wanted just a moment to ... to savor it.
That wanting made her feel ashamed of herself, and then she shook her head almost angrily. Why shouldn't I want to do it? If people are good at things, they always want to do them. Like Mommy with her double-crostics and Mr. Douray down the street in Port City, always making bread. When they had enough at his house, he'd make some for other people. If you're good at something, you want to do it....
Woodchips, she thought a little contemptuously. They should have given me something hard.
13
The technician felt it first. He was hot and uncomfortable and sweaty in the asbestos clothing, and at first he thought that was all it was. Then he saw that the kid's alpha waves had taken on the high spike rhythm that is the hallmark of extreme concentration, and also the brain's signature of imagination.
