The House of Thunder

by Dean Koontz

  Viteski. The first indication that something was amiss had come from him.

  Saturday night, when Susan had awakened from her coma, Dr. Viteski had been stiff, ill at ease, noticeably uncomfortable with her. When he had told her about her accident and about Willawauk County Hospital, his voice had been so stilted, so wooden, that each word had seemed like a cast-off splinter. At times he had sounded as if he were reciting lines from a well-memorized script. Perhaps that was precisely what he had been doing.

  Mrs. Baker had made a mistake, too. On Monday, as the nurse was finishing up her shift and preparing to go home for the day, she had spoken of having a hot date that night with a man whose shoulders were big enough “to measure a doorway.” Two days later, when Susan had asked belatedly whether the date was a success or not, Mrs. Baker had been lost for a moment, utterly baffled. For a long moment. Too long. Now, it seemed perfectly clear to Susan that the story about the lumberman and the bowling date and the hamburger dinner had been nothing but a spur-of-the-moment ad-lib, the kind of sharp and colorful detail that a good actor frequently invents in order to contribute to the verisimilitude of a role. In actuality, there had been no aging, virile lumberman. No bowling date. Poor pudgy, graying Thelma Baker had not enjoyed a wild night of unrestrained passion, after all. The nurse merely improvised that romantic tale to flesh out her characterization, then later forgot what she had improvised—untit Susan reminded her.

  Susan finished eating the cold, gummy oatmeal. She started on the hardened whole-wheat toast, upon which the butter had congealed in milky-looking swirls, and she washed it down with swigs of orange juice.

  The bruise, she thought as she continued to eat.

  The bruise was another thing that should have made her suspicious. On Tuesday afternoon, when she had been trapped in the elevator with the four dead fraternity men, Harch had pinched her arm very hard. Later, there had been a small bruise on her biceps, two inches above the crook of her arm. She had told herself that she had unwittingly sustained the bruise during the exercise period in the therapy room, and that her subconscious mind had incorporated that injury into the hallucination. But that had not been the case. The bruise had been proof that Harch and the others were real; it had been like the mezuzah in the sense that both the bruise and the religious pendant were fragments of supposed hallucinations that had survived the dissipation of the rest of those night-mares.

  Suddenly, Susan thought she knew why Harch had pinched her. He hadn’t just been delighting in the opportunity to torture her. He had pinched her a moment or two before she had grown dizzy, seconds before she had swooned and passed out on the wheeled stretcher. She now understood that the cruel pinch was intended to cover the sting of a hypodermic needle. Harch had pinched her hard enough to make her cry, and then one of the other three men had quickly administered an injection before the first pain subsided, before she could distinguish the second pain as a separate event. Once the four men had thoroughly terrorized her, there had been, of course, no way for them to bring a dramatic and credible conclusion to the scene, unless she conveniently passed out—because they were neither ghosts who could simply vanish in a puff of supernatural light and smoke, nor hallucinated images that would fade away as she finally regained her senses. When she had failed to oblige them by fainting, they had been forced to knock her unconscious with a drug. And they had covered the injection with a pinch because, after all, no self-respecting ghost would require the assistance of sodium pentathol or some like substance in order to effect a suitably mysterious exit.

  Susan paused as she was about to start eating a sweet roll with lemon icing, and she pushed up the sleeve of her hospital gown. The bruise was still there on her biceps, yellowing now. She peered closely at it, but too much time had elapsed for her to be able to find the tiny point at which the needle had pierced her skin.

  Undoubtedly, her tormentors had made other mistakes which she had failed to notice. Indeed, she wouldn’t have made anything of the mistakes that she had noticed, not if the Harch look-alike hadn’t accidentally left the mezuzah behind in the bathroom, for the mezuzah had set her imagination ablaze and had cast a bright light of healthy suspicion upon her memories of other curious incidents.

  All things considered, the conspirators had brought it off exceptionally well thus far; brilliantly, in fact.

  But who were these people? Who had put so much money and energy and time into the painstakingly detailed creation of this three-dimensional drama? And for what purpose?

  What in God’s name do they want from me?

  More than vengeance. No question about that. Something more than vengeance; something infinitely stranger-and worse.

  In spite of the quiver of fear that shimmered through her and caused her stomach to yaw and pitch, Susan took a bite of the sweet roll. Fuel for the engine. Vital energy for the fight that lay ahead.

  Reluctantly, she considered the role of Jeff McGee in all of this, and the pastry turned chalky and bitter in her mouth. She swallowed only with considerable effort, and that first bite of pastry went down as if it were a wet lump of clay. She nearly choked on it.

  There was no chance whatsoever that Jeff was unaware of what was being done to her.

  He was a part of it.

  He was one of them—whoever they were.

  Although she knew that she ought to eat to keep her strength up, especially now that illness was not her only or even her primary enemy, Susan was unable to take another bite. The very thought of food was repellent. With the sweet roll still tasting like clay in her mouth, she pushed her breakfast tray aside.

  She had trusted McGee.

  He had betrayed her.

  She had loved him.

  He had taken advantage of her love.

  Worst of all, she had willingly relinquished control to him, had given to him the responsibility for her life, for her survival, something she had never given to anyone before, something she would never even have considered doing with anyone else she had ever known—except, perhaps, for her father, who had never wanted responsibility for her, anyway. And now that she had forsaken her lifelong principle of self-reliance, now that she had allowed Jeff McGee to bring her out of her shell, now that she had allowed him to take control with his warm assurances of concern and his tender statements of devotion, now he had failed her. Intentionally.

  Like all the others, he was playing his part in a conspiracy that seemed to have no other goal but to drive her out of her mind.

  She felt used.

  She felt like a fool.

  She hated him.

  The Milestone Corporation.

  Somehow, the events of the past few days were directly related to the Milestone Corporation.

  For several minutes she concentrated very hard on pushing back the black veil of amnesia that obscured all recollections of Milestone, but she found, as before, that the barrier was not a veil but a formidable shield, a veritable wall of lead, impenetrable.

  The harder she struggled to remember, the greater and darker her fear became. Intuitively, she knew that she dared not remember what work she had done at Milestone. To remember was to die. She felt the truth of that in her bones, but she didn’t understand it. For God’s sake, what was so evil about Milestone?

  She wondered about the automobile accident. Had it actually happened? Or was it a lie, too?

  She closed her eyes and tried to relive the few minutes on the highway immediately prior to the crash that (supposedly) had taken place four weeks ago. The curve in the road... rounding it... slowly... slowly around... then blackness. She strained against the unyielding amnesia, but she could not seize the memory. She was reasonably sure that it had never happened.

  Something frightening had transpired on that mountain road, just around that blind curve, but it hadn’t been an accident. They had been waiting for her there—whoever they were—and they had taken her by force, and they had brought her to this place. That was how she had acquired her head injury. She had
no proof of it, no memory of the kidnapping, but she also had no doubt, either.

  Twenty minutes after Susan finished her cold breakfast, Jeff McGee stopped by on his morning rounds.

  He kissed her on the cheek, and she returned the kiss, although she would have preferred not to be touched by him. She smiled and pretended to be glad to see him because she didn’t want him to know that she suspected anything.

  “How do you feel this morning?” he asked, leaning casually against the bed, smiling, supremely confident about his ability to keep her bamboozled.

  “I feel marvelous,” she said, wanting to hit him in the face with all her might. “Invigorated.”

  “Sleep soundly?”

  “Like a hibernating bear. That was some sedative.”

  “I’m glad it worked. Speaking of medication, I’ve scheduled you for a tablet of methylphenidate at nine o’clock and another one at five this afternoon.”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Oh? Diagnosing yourself now? Did you sneak out and acquire a medical degree during the night?”

  “Didn’t have to. I just sent for it in the mail.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “Cheaper than mine,” he said.

  “God, I hope so,” she said and smiled a smile she didn’t feel. “Look, I don’t need methylphenidate for the simple reason that I’m not suffering from depression any more.”

  “Not right at this moment, maybe. But another wave of deep narcoleptic depression might come at any time, especially if you have another one of your hallucinations. I believe in preventive medicine.”

  And I believe that you’re a goddamned fraud, Dr. McGee, she thought.

  She said, “But I don’t need any pills. Really. I tell you, I’m up!”

  “And I tell you, I’m the doctor.”

  “Who must be obeyed.”

  “Always.”

  “Okay, okay. One pill at nine and one at five.”

  “Good girl.”

  Why don’t you just pat me on the head and scratch me behind the ears like you would a favorite dog? she thought bitterly, even as she kept her true emotions hidden.

  She said, “Did you have a chance to look over my tests again last night?”

  “Yeah. I spent almost five hours with them.”

  You damned liar, she thought. You didn’t spend ten lousy minutes with them because you know 1 don’t have a medical problem of any kind.

  She said, “Five hours? That was above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you. Did you find anything?”

  “I’m afraid not. The EEG graphs didn’t turn up anything more than what I saw on the CRT readout yesterday. And your X rays are like a set of textbook illustrations labeled ‘full cranial sequence of a healthy human female.’”

  “I’m glad to know I’m human, anyway.”

  “Perfect specimen.”

  “And female.”

  “Perfect specimen,” he said, grinning.

  “What about the spinal tests?” Susan asked, playing along with him, softening her voice and permitting a trace of nervous strain to color it, carefully projecting exactly the proper amount of worry and self-concern. She beetled her brow to a carefully calculated degree, letting McGee read fear and doubt in the furrows of her creased forehead.

  “I couldn’t find any mistakes in the lab’s procedures,” McGee said. “There wasn’t anything the pathologist overlooked, nothing he misread in the data.”

  Susan sighed wearily and let her shoulders sag.

  McGee responded to the sigh, took her hand in his in an effort to comfort her.

  She resisted the powerful urge to pull loose of him and to slap his face.

  She said, “Well... now what? Do we move on to the cerebral angiogram you talked about yesterday?”

  “No, no. Not yet. I still need to do a lot of thinking about the advisability of that. And you need to regain more of your strength before we can give it serious consideration. For the next couple of days, I guess we’re just in a holding pattern. I’m sorry, Susan. I know this is frustrating for you.”

  They talked for another five minutes, mostly about personal things, and McGee never appeared to realize that she was looking at him from a different and considerably less flattering perspective than that from which she had viewed him previously. She was surprised by her own acting ability and even rather pleased by it; she was as good as Mrs. Baker.

  I’ll beat these bastards at their own game, if I can only find out what the devil it is, she thought with more than a little satisfaction.

  But no one in this vicious charade was half as good an actor as McGee. He had style and control and panache. Although Susan knew he was a fraud, just five minutes of personal chitchat with him was nearly sufficient to convince her of his sincerity. He was so kind and considerate. His blue eyes were achingly sensitive and utterly unclouded by any sign of deception. His concern for her well-being seemed genuine. He was charming, always charming. His laugh was natural, never forced.

  But the most impressive thing about McGee’s act was the love that he radiated. In his company, Susan felt as if she were cradled in love, swathed in it, afloat in a sea of it, protected by it. Over the years, there had been at least two other men who had loved her—men for whom she had felt only affection—but in neither case had she been so intensely aware of the love given to her. McGee’s love was almost a visible radiance.

  Yet it was fake.

  It had to be fake.

  He had to know what was going on here.

  But when McGee left her room to continue his morning rounds, Susan was filled with doubt again. The possibility of her own madness rose in her mind for reconsideration. Hidden rooms, secret doors, a hospital full of conspirators? For what purpose? Seeking what gain? It seemed almost easier to believe herself insane than to believe that Jeff McGee was a liar and a fraud.

  She even put her head down on the pillow and wept quietly for a few minutes, shaken, not sure whether she was weeping about his perfidy or about her lack of faith in him. She was miserable. She’d had within her grasp the kind of relationship with a man that she had long desired, with the kind of man she had always dreamed about. Now it was slipping away, or perhaps she was throwing it away. Confused, she didn’t know which it was, didn’t know what she ought to believe or exactly what she ought to feel.

  Eventually, she reached under the pillow and pulled out the gold mezuzah.

  She stared at it.

  She turned it over and over again in her hand.

  Gradually, the solidity of that object, the stark reality of it, brought her to her senses. Doubt evaporated.

  She was not losing her mind. She wasn’t mad—but she was very angry.

  At nine o’clock, Millie brought the day’s first dose of methylphenidate.

  Susan took the capsule out of the small paper pill cup and said, “Where’s Mrs. Baker this morning?”

  “Thursday’s her day off,” Millie said, pouring a glass of water from the metal carafe. “She said something about washing and waxing her car this morning, then going on a last autumn picnic with some friends this afternoon. But wouldn’t you know it: They say we’re going to get a pretty good rain later this afternoon.”

  Oh, very nice. Very nice detail, Susan thought with a combination of sarcasm and genuine admiration for the planning that had gone into this production. Thursday’s her day off. My, what a thoughtful, realistic touch that is! Even though this isn’t an ordinary hospital, and even though Mrs. Baker isn’t an ordinary nurse, and even though we’re all involved in some unimaginably bizarre charade, she gets a day off for the sake of realism. Washing and waxing her car. A late autumn picnic. Oh, very nice indeed. A splendid bit of detail for authenticity’s sake. My compliments to the scenarist.

  Millie put down the metal carafe and handed the glass to Susan.

  Susan pretended to put the capsule of methylphenidate in her mouth, palmed it instead, and drank two long swallo
ws of ice water.

  Henceforth, she wasn’t going to take any of the medications that she was given. For all she knew, these people were slowly poisoning her.

  Because she was a scientist, it naturally occurred to her that she might be the subject of an experiment. She might even have willingly agreed to take part in it. An experiment having to do with sensory manipulation or with mind control.

  There was sufficient precedent to inspire such a theory. In the 1960s and 1970s, some scientists had voluntarily subjected themselves to sensory deprivation experiments, settling into dark, warm, watery SD tanks for such extended lengths of time that they temporarily lost all touch with reality and began to hallucinate.

  Susan was sure she wasn’t hallucinating, but she wondered if the second floor of the hospital had been adapted for an experiment in mind control or brainwashing techniques. Brainwashing sounded like a good bet. Was that the kind of research the Milestone Corporation was engaged in?

  She considered the possibility very seriously for a while, but at last she discarded it. She couldn’t believe that she would have permitted herself to be used and abused in this fashion, not even to further the cause of science, not even if it was a requirement of her job. She would have quit any job that demanded her to test her sanity to the breaking point.

  Who would engage upon that sort of immoral research, anyway? It sounded like something that the Nazis might have done with their prisoners of war. But no reputable scientist would become involved with it.

  Furthermore, she was a physicist, and her field in no way touched upon the behavioral sciences. Brainwashing was so far outside her field that she could imagine no circumstances under which she would have become associated with such an experiment.