“How long has he been skating like that?” Childermass asked Ken, who was passing drinks around.
“About an hour and a half, sir.”
Robin fell again. They heard him howl, not in pain but in rage. He smote the ice with a fist before rising. He began to skate again, stiffly and doggedly, putting a great deal of effort behind his desire for speed.
“Can’t you calm him down?”
Granny Sig sipped her Calvados and said, “Every day he has three hundred milligrams of phenobarbital and fifty milligrams of Prolixin. On trial days we double that dosage.”
“What the hell are you saying? That’s enough to kill him!”
Granny Sig smiled ruefully.
“Psychopharmacology is an empirical science, based on a number of assumptions, the most important being that drugs can affect the normal and pathological functions of the brain at the synaptic level. But in Robin’s case the psychological parameters influenced by drugs are sharply limited. The problem seems to lie in his cerebral cortex, where most of the normal functions of the ego take place. Tranquilizers don’t have the desired effect on the hypothalamic area. Therefore—”
“His ego is monstrous,” Gwyn said. “And his normal drives are affected. Hunger, sex—he overindulges or he has no interest at all.”
“Yet he often behaves like a laboratory cat whose cerebral cortex has been removed—he can fly into a rage over nothing. In Robin’s case, as you know, that’s indescribably dangerous.”
For the moment Robin was motionless on the ice. He had his hands on his hips as he glared at something.
“What is he trying to prove out there?” Childermass asked, looking through the binoculars again.
“He feels he should be able to go from one triumph to another,” Gwyn said. “From miracles in the lab to a three-minute mile or a world speed-skating record. Even though he’s a better-than-average athlete, he’s not up to the demands he makes on himself. When he fails his frustration is intolerable.”
“How does he do in bed?”
Gwyn helped herself to another drink. There were two harsh spots of color on her cheeks. Granny Sig watched Robin as he resumed skating, making a wide loop on the ice. He seemed to have some spectacular feat in mind, and Granny Sig frowned.
“Robin,” Gwyn said clinically, “has frequent ejaculations. He usually remains fully erect between orgasms. He gets very little relief or gratification from the act, whether we perform orally or genitally. But he—” She turned away so Childermass wouldn’t see a glimmer of tears in her eyes. “He wants very much to please me. That’s something still in our favor. He needs me because he is—potentially schizoid, as we’ve said, and often frightened. He trusts me to help him—”
“In his better moods,” Granny Sig noted. “But at other times—”
“We fight,” Gwyn said. “It doesn’t mean anything. Robin feels compelled to test my loyalty.”
She had moved toward the window. What she saw startled her so badly some of the whiskey in her glass slopped onto her hand. Robin was skating directly at piled rocks that rose nearly four feet above the surface of the lake.
“Oh, God!”
Even as she prayed Robin leaped. Snow flew from one of the rocks as a skate blade nicked it, but he was up and over, a fraction of an inch from taking a serious head-first fall. He landed hard but with his skates under him, came to a wobbling spinning stop.
Childermass felt sick to his stomach.
“He’ll kill himself with stunts like that; I don’t care what his mental problems are, you two better get a grip on him if you know what’s good for you!”
Gwyneth, deeply galled, closed her eyes.
“He’s been working under enormous pressure for the past sixteen months. He needs to get away from here. We’ve planned a ski vacation, just the two of us—”
“No.”
“But I promised!” Gwyn said, her insistence touching on terror.
“You should know better. I can’t prove it, but I understand there’s a price of at least a million on Robin’s head. The Langley gang has the contract, they’re checking around, but so far even a million bucks hasn’t attracted a nonaffiliate good enough to penetrate Psi Faculty and do the job. It’s just plain suicide. Todfield knows that. Sure, he could put together a team strong enough to overrun our defenses. But he doesn’t want to go to war with me, and that’s exactly what will happen if he gets provocative. I’ll destroy the effete son of a bitch!”
Childermass tasted some of the Calvados that Granny Sig was drinking. “I don’t know if this is piss or vinegar,” he muttered, and set it aside. He wig-wagged his head at Gwyn. “No, no, as long as Robin is here I can be sure he’s untouchable. But if he leaves with you, in twenty-four hours you’ll both be dead.”
“A bodyguard—”
“I’d have to use twenty men—an army!—to protect him. And that would only attract unwelcome attention to Robin. No ski trip, Gwyneth. Try to find another way to amuse him, and take his mind off the daily grind.”
“All right then. But do this for me. Keep the girl in New York a while longer. Don’t bring her up here, that could be disastrous for Robin.”
“How so? He and Gillian are very close.”
“Psychic twinship, yes—”
“He’s been, what’d they call it, ‘Visiting’ her—”
Gwyn nodded. “I know, I know! He doesn’t often mention Gillian, though. He’s jealous, I think. Call it sibling rivalry if you will.”
Childermass chuckled; he found her diagnosis absurd. Granny Sig looked impassively at him, knowing her opinion was not desired.
“I’m warning you, Uncle! Gillian’s presence could cause big trouble. The competition might unhinge Robin completely—”
“I think you’re jealous yourself. Of a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“Oh, but that’s idiotic. We just don’t need her right now! Give me a week or two—”
“Because of what happened to her friend, Gillian is in a depressed state right now—in a frame of mind to accept our hospitality, to sever all connection with her family forever, so that she can’t do them serious harm. Also she wants to be with her twin. She needs him, or thinks she does. No, I can’t discuss it. The girl all but dropped in our laps. Now plans are in motion. We have to take full advantage of this opportunity.”
Gwyneth bowed her head abjectly.
“If I disappoint him—and let Gillian take up my time—oh, don’t make it impossible for me, there’s so much more Robin and I can accomplish, Uncle!”
“She’ll be here before dawn tomorrow. Now not another word from you.”
Gwyn bit her underlip. She was drawn to the window again. The amplified sun acted on her face like quicklime, melting it to bone and elemental terror. Around and around Robin skated, like a clockwork figure. Granny Sig drank, and studied Gwyn’s anguished reflection, and drank some more.
In pale Virginia sunshine Peter Sandza methodically worked his way around the combat pistol range at the Plantation, firing, from fifty yards, three-shot bursts with a Smith and Wesson K-38 match revolver, using speed loaders following each six-round position; sitting, prone, left and right hand barricades.
“Fantastic,” Nick O’Hanna said, following Peter’s progress through the course. “Only three hits in the nine ring so far.” O’Hanna was an expert shotmaker himself, and it was his match pistol Peter was using. “I doubt he’s done much shooting in the past couple of years, but his grand agg is going to be in the low 570’s.”
Todfield yawned; gunplay bored him.
Woolwine looked on patiently behind his mirror sunglasses.
“One of the many benefits of hypnotic hyperesthesia,” he said. “Peter’s vision is keener than it ever was. All of his senses are finely tuned. If he was efficient and deadly before, he is virtually unstoppable now.”
Peter fired his final six and went to collect his targets. He brought them back to O’Hanna, smiling over them.
“Look at this
cluster, Nick! Not a trace of the X-ring.”
“Great shooting, Peter. You haven’t lost your touch.”
Peter didn’t look at the other men; he hadn’t been told they were there, so in fact they didn’t exist for him.
Peter handed over the K-38 to O’Hanna.
“You’ve done a lot of work on those contact surfaces,” he observed. “No resistance at all. Real easy trigger, but the firing pin hit is solid every time.”
“Well, you see, I didn’t touch the mainspring, which is a common mistake. What I did was—”
A helicopter circled the compound at the river half a mile away. Todfield, who was standing only a few feet from Peter, turned to Woolwine and said, “Almost three o’clock. Time for Peter to be on his way.”
Woolwine nodded, checking his own watch.
“He’s ready.”
Todfield shifted his stance uneasily and said, “We could still change the game plan. We know the boy’s exact location. We could set Peter down within five miles of him.”
“He would not survive,” Woolwine said curtly.
“I don’t think he has much chance of succeeding the other way.”
“The odds are better than you think given his courage, his daring, his genius for improvisation in the face of extreme danger. During the last few days I have spent nearly forty years with Peter Sandza exploring the instinctual life, the mythos of his emotional dynamism. We are all creatures of myth, shadowed by archaic images of life and death. I quickly discovered, behind the systematic amnesias, the deep-seated hysteria that has ruled his life. At the age of ten Peter accidentally shot his father to death while on a hunting trip. A classic archetype chillingly come true. His life from that moment was shaped by an act of unwitting violence. Having slain the godhead, Peter sought to atone for his error by undertaking a painful quest against what are commonly held to be the evils of the world. But the quest was largely a delusion proposed by the archetypal Black Magician, Childermass; it served as a time of testing and preparation. Peter compensated for what might have become a pathological monomania by marrying and fathering a son of his own, leading a ‘normal’ life at those times when it was necessary for him to lay down the banner and quit the arena for a while. Is this too complicated for you?”
“Aww, shit.”
Woolwine smiled thinly. “I’ll be brief. As we know, Peter’s true quest involves the taking back of his son from the arch villain, the Magician who so treacherously manipulated him. Mythologically it’s an apt conclusion. But to hasten the processes by which Peter is working out his destiny would be a fatal mistake. The fortress in which the boy is held is terrifically well-guarded. You would hesitate to send even your best men in there. Peter is certainly well-motivated to succeed; his hiatus here has in no way interfered with basic drive activity. But, symbolically and psychologically, it would be wrong for you to step in at this time and effectively end his quest. That comes under the heading of supernatural interference. It would throw him off stride, confuse him, make him vulnerable and prone to errors of judgment. He is not prepared for sudden success. In a way, he hasn’t suffered enough yet.”
“My God.”
“Oh, true.”
“Then why did he come looking for our help?”
“But it wasn’t help he craved, it was betrayal.”
Todfield shaded his eyes and looked hard at Peter, who stood talking obliviously with O’Hanna about gunsmithing. “Betrayal,” Todfield repeated, perplexed and unsettled.
O’Hanna glanced at his boss, who nodded. O’Hanna touched Peter’s arm.
“Peter, time for you to be going.”
They walked past Todfield and Woolwine and got into a ranch wagon for the short drive to the helicopter.
In the wagon O’Hanna gave Peter a .357 magnum Colt Python revolver with a four-inch barrel, a silencer, a Bianchi holster and extra 210-grain loads.
“Your ETA at Westchester County airport is four thirty-seven,” O’Hanna said.
Peter nodded, He took off his pigskin jacket and put the belt holster on.
“The car is a dark blue Cougar, New York license plate 776-WIH, registered to Richard Santry. It’s in the second row of the parking lot as you walk out the door.” O’Hanna pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket. “Keys, credit cards, driver’s license, two thousand dollars in fifties and twenties. I’ve packed a grip for you. Shaving gear, sweaters, shirts. Also tools of the trade: a Saber CM-300 Countermeasure System. That ought to come in handy.”
“Right.”
O’Hanna looked drearily out the window as they approached the helicopter.
“I—I wish there was more I could do, buddy.”
“You’ve done a hell of a lot. I’ll never forget it.”
They shook hands just before Peter climbed into the Vought Gazelle.
“Well, I hope they keep biting for you,” Peter said cheerfully.
“Yeh, hope so too.”
Peter closed the copter door behind him. As soon as he fastened his harness he fell deeply asleep.
O’Hanna stood clear while the helicopter lifted off. There was a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow no matter how hard he worked at it. He felt a sense of outrage which he would never be able to express.
He felt dirty all over.
As the helicopter flew away Todfield said to Woolwine, “What’s the operative word?”
“ ‘Commander.’ ”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Peter was a lieutenant commander in the Navy. He often referred—still refers—to his boy as ‘Skipper,’ and when he does so Robin invariably replies with ‘Commander,’ a term of both affection and respect.”
“I see. And so, assuming we aren’t putting our money on a dead horse—”
“Have a little confidence.”
“Assuming that much, when Peter and Robin meet, God knows how, and Robin responds with the operative word—”
“Peter, if he happens to have a gun in his hand, will promptly shoot him through the head. If he has a knife, he will cut the boy’s throat. If Peter has only his bare hands, then he will kill with a blow to the solar plexus or the back of the neck.”
“Provided your conditioning works.”
“Haven’t we proved to your satisfaction, with other subjects, that it always works?” Woolwine said snappishly. “It’s so much hogwash that a man can’t be made to perform acts that go against certain instincts. You simply provide him with a rationale that supports an instinct more powerful than the one you wish to override. Peter loves his son, yes, but we should not forget that Robin has acquired mythological status in Peter’s unconscious. The circle is closing. Peter slew his father, Peter’s son will grow up to slay him. This primal fear will allow him to assume, temporarily, his own father’s role; he will defend himself as the father could not.”
“And when he comes to his senses and realizes what he’s done—” Woolwine shrugged. “The consequences for Peter will be unimaginably dreadful; shattering. Are you concerned?”
“No. Only the boy is my concern.”
“You must tell me more about him sometime.”
The suite which Gillian occupied was on the top floor of Paragon Institute. It was furnished comfortably but with no attempt at style. There was a park and river view. Gillian spent the better part of her days in the sitting room, in a rocking chair that faced the windows, while the heavyset woman who was assigned to keep an eye on her, a Mrs. Cunningham, did needlepoint and crossword puzzles and seldom spoke unless she was spoken to.
Gillian was tranquil but lucid on a combination of hypnotic barbituates and antianxiety drugs. She was as tame as a bird in a jar. She thought about her parents but didn’t miss them. She was able to talk calmly about Larue’s death with Dr. Roth and his assistant Dr. Maylun Chan We. The thing that killed was in her mind, but they explained to her that the medicine quieted it; she couldn’t hurt them or anyone else. Gillian felt a subdued gratitude, but no emotion was very strong or p
ersevered. The time passed comfortably for her. She listened to good music but was neither inspired nor compelled to play her flute.
There were two young women who spelled Mrs. Cunningham: a blonde whose hair was cropped as close as an alley cat’s, another with coal-black and lustrous locks. Kristen and Hester—for a couple of days Gillian smilingly confused them. But then it was Hester, the dark-haired one, who began coming often, who always brought the medication and stayed to chat while Mrs. Cunningham took a long breather. Hester became a friend. Gillian was distantly aware of the danger of ever having a real friend again, but she just couldn’t help liking someone as sweet-natured as Hester.
Twice each day, in the morning and again in the evening before dinner, Gillian left her rooms in the company of Mrs. Cunningham for the ten-minute in-house walk that, along with simple calisthenics and plenty of rocking, Dr. Roth had prescribed to maintain muscle tone. They went slowly along interminable hallways and down flights of stairs, meeting no one on the way. The first three days it was hard going for Gillian, but each time out they ended up in the kitchen where the cook, a black woman named Mayborn, had prepared a treat especially for Gillian. Mrs. Mayborn doted on Gillian and was expert at catering to the girl’s fickle appetite.
For her part Gillian appreciated catching her breath and being fussed over in the kitchen, which was long and narrow and a few steps below ground level. The floors were maple and the brick walls had been painted a creamy yellow; a wealth of copper-clad utensils dangled from the beamed ceiling.
Just outside there was a kind of courtyard or alley. Sitting at the butcher-block table in a nook of the kitchen Gillian could gaze out at piles of snow turning dog-piss yellow on the cobbles. People walked briskly by and cars drove in and out. It was a busy troubling world out there, forbidden to her.
On Wednesday morning, as she stared at the door—the Way Out—she suffered such a case of nerves that she dropped a cup and saucer on the floor. Mrs. Mayborn was solicitous and wouldn’t let her help clean up the mess; Mrs. Cunningham noted this deviation from her usual behavior and reported it to Dr. Roth.
The next time Roth saw Gillian he asked her if anything was bothering her. Gillian smiled placidly and said she didn’t think so. He patted her shoulder and asked her to please try and eat a little more because she needed to increase her strength. Gillian promised to try.
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