Fire Of Heaven 02 - Threshold

by Bill Myers

  He brought the van to a stop and rolled down both front windows to keep the insides from roasting. The outside air hit him like an oven. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and pushing a hundred and five. And with the Indiana humidity, forget the oven — it was more like a sauna.

  From his side mirror he spotted a grizzled Afro-American approaching. It was Billy, the one-man shipping and receiving staff.

  “You’re late,” the old man groused.

  “C’mon, Billy,” Brandon said as he popped open the door. “What’s a week or two between friends?” He stepped out into the pounding sun. “Am I gonna have to unload this, or will your pet gorilla take care of it?”

  Billy shouted over his shoulder. “Simpson! Simpson, get your sorry butt out here!”

  A gangly teen suddenly appeared from the comforts of the air-conditioned building. He was summer help, an obvious favor somebody in management owed a friend. Unfortunately for the kid, Billy wasn’t impressed by anybody in management.

  “Let’s move it, boy!”

  The kid hopped off the loading dock and quickly moved to the back of the van.

  “Come on, come on!” Billy hounded him. “Let’s see if you can actually break a sweat today.”

  Brandon shook his head sympathetically and started for the building.

  “Hey, Martus?”

  He turned back to the old man.

  “Heard what you guys pulled off at the country club last night.”

  Brandon nodded. Good news traveled fast. But before he turned toward the building, Billy hobbled closer. “You guys ever decide to pull off something like that again …” He lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “You just count ol’ Billy in, you hear?”

  Brandon broke into a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned and headed toward the building, as Billy resumed his favorite pastime of chewing up and spitting out his summer help.

  Brandon entered the building. Inside, it was a good thirty degrees cooler. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim, recessed lighting as he started down the hall. The carpet was maroon with gray rectangular patterns, and the walls were paneled in thick oak. On both sides, running the entire length of the hall, hung modernistic pieces of art composed of torn paper and cardboard. He thought they were pretty stupid — and undoubtedly pretty expensive. Everything about this place was expensive.

  It hadn’t been a good day. Nor had it been a particularly good night. His dreams of Jenny were coming back again. The past three nights had been worse than ever — so real, so detailed. When they’d originally come, during those first few weeks after her death, they’d left him crying, sobbing her name, until Momma would wake him, until she would hold him and gently rock him as tears streamed down both of their faces.

  And now they were returning, more vivid than ever.

  The shrinks said it was just his guilt, a way of “achieving closure” and saying good-bye.

  His Christian upbringing insisted that the dead never come back and appear to the living — no wandering souls dropping by séances to say hi, or spooky ghosts sticking around to haunt houses. “Absent from the body, present with the Lord,” that’s what the Bible taught. And those attempting to make contact with the departed, to try to cross the barrier were called sorcerers, practitioners of the occult — a crime so heinous that in the Old Testament those who practiced it were to be put to death.

  But Jenny had seemed so real …

  And now his dreams of her had begun incorporating pieces of reality. Not accurately, not completely, but what had happened at the plant a few hours earlier was certainly no coincidence. Or was it? Part of him hoped so. But there was another part, the part that wanted so desperately to reach out to his little sister, to bury his face into her hair, to hold her and never, never let her go.

  For a moment Brandon felt his eyes start to burn with moisture. He quickly blinked it back. Those first few months had been an embarrassment, breaking into tears at the most inconvenient of times. It had taken quite a while to get a handle on his emotions, and he wasn’t about to let them start sneaking up on him again.

  Up ahead was another hallway, but he ignored it because to his immediate right was the employee’s lounge. The place was deserted. Just tables, chairs, and the twenty-seven-inch TV mounted up in the corner, currently featuring Oprah with her latest alien-abducted guest. Brandon wiped the sweat off his face with his T-shirt and headed over to check out the vending machines. With any luck there still might be some — ah, yes, there they were: barbecued sunflower seeds. There were still half-a-dozen packages left, about the same number as the last time he’d visited. Apparently, word of this delicacy had not yet spread. Their loss, his gain. It wasn’t much, but drowning his anxiety in a couple bags of these culinary delights wouldn’t hurt. He dropped in fifty cents, pushed D – 15, and watched the first pack fall into the bin. He repeated the process for another.

  After retrieving the bags, he tore one open and poured a few into his mouth. Excellent. Weird, but excellent. He walked back into the hallway. It was the end of the day and the place was deserted. And since he wasn’t particularly excited about going back out into the heat, and since he could stand a little diversion, and since Frank had always made such a big deal about the equipment — now would be as good a time as any to do a little exploring.

  • • •

  “I think I can handle her from here, Dr. Weintraub,” the stocky orderly said.

  “Are you sure?” Sarah asked. She looked dubiously at the sedated patient between them as they walked her down one of the Institute’s hallways. “Do you want me to call anybody at the hospital?” The three of them proceeded slowly down the hallway.

  “No, I should get her back there and settled in with as little fuss as possible. If you know what I mean.”

  Sarah knew exactly what he meant. She’d had ethical questions about using patients from Vicksburg State Mental Hospital ever since she came on board. Unfortunately, Dr. Reichner hadn’t. He was certain that some of the mentally ill had more highly developed paranormal abilities than others. And, thanks to his manipulative charm, along with the proper financial incentive discreetly slipped to the proper assistant manager, a carefully screened handful of patients participated in the tests. It was a dangerous game to play, but one that Reichner insisted was worth the risk.

  Sarah slowed to a stop in front of Observation Room Two, where they’d been viewing this subject since early afternoon. She turned and spoke directly to the woman. “Thank you for your help today, Francine.”

  The woman turned her head, but the glazed look in her eyes made it unclear whether she’d heard. Her mouth hung open, and she gave no response. Sarah watched sympathetically. Earlier she had tried to convince the orderly that sedation wasn’t necessary, that she could verbally talk the hysterical woman back down. But when Francine’s agitation turned physical, the orderly insisted that it was better to be safe than sorry.

  “Say ‘You’re welcome,’” the orderly said.

  Francine moved her mouth, but no sound came. Just a small trickle of saliva.

  Sarah pulled a tissue from her dress pocket and gently wiped the woman’s chin. It wasn’t exactly professional detachment, but Sarah could never feel detached, at least not with the physically or mentally impaired. She wasn’t sure why, though she suspected that much of it had to do with little Carrie, her sweetheart of a niece who suffered from Down’s Syndrome. Her brother and sister-in-law had known of Carrie’s condition long before her birth, but they had decided to go through with the pregnancy anyway — a choice that pricked Sarah’s own conscience. Maybe that’s why Carrie held such a powerful place in Sarah’s heart. And maybe that’s why the Francines of the world, the weakest, the most vulnerable, always brought out the mother and nurturer in her.

  Maybe. Then again, maybe it was her simple understanding that they were no different from her. That we are all cripples in some way. If not mentally or physi
cally then, at least for some, as in her case, emotionally.

  “Come on, girl,” the orderly said as he eased Francine’s arm forward and started her down the hall. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Bye-bye,” Sarah said.

  Francine looked at her, gave what could have passed as a smile, then shuffled off toward the exit. Sarah stood, watching, until they rounded the corner and disappeared. Then, at last, she turned and took the three steps that led up into the observation room.

  The back wall of the narrow room was full of racks of electronic equipment — recorders, computers, monitors. At the front was a console equipped with an intercom and a variety of complicated controls. Above the console was the one-way mirror, three feet by seven, that looked down into Lab Two, the very lab she’d worked in the night before — and the one housing the leather recliner where Francine had sat most of the afternoon.

  Sarah reached to the console and snapped off the four red floodlights that were directed at the recliner. The lab grew dark, although the recliner was still clearly visible. On its seat lay a set of headphones, a pair of clear safety goggles, and two halves of a Ping-Pong ball. These had been used to help ease Francine into a deeper state of rest. Through the headphones, Dr. Reichner’s prerecorded voice had taken Francine through the standard yoga relaxation exercises, tightening and releasing various muscle groups in her body. Meanwhile, the two halves of the Ping-Pong ball, with felt glued to their cut edges, had been placed over her eyes and held in position by the safety goggles. This was far more satisfactory than using a blindfold, which could press against the eyeball, creating distracting images. Meanwhile, the floodlights had filled Francine’s vision with lovely, red nothingness.

  The first hour had gone according to schedule. As soon as Francine had reached a relaxed state, another subject, in this case a retired Marine Corps officer who sat next to Sarah up in the observation room, stared at a randomly selected video image on a monitor. From here he had tried to mentally transmit to Francine what he had seen by sheer concentration. This was a common procedure, one Sarah had performed dozens of times. Everything had gone by the book — until, suddenly, for no explained reason, Francine had started growing agitated. They had tried to calm her, but nothing seemed to work. She had grown worse and worse until the orderly finally had sedated her and insisted that they stop the session.

  Sarah plopped into the seat behind the console and sighed wearily. Like it or not, this day had become just as unpredictable as the last three. What was going on?

  She punched up the DAT controls. Immediately, the speakers began to play back a voice. Francine’s voice. The one they’d recorded just minutes before the outburst.

  “And it makes my mouth all tingly inside. Everyone has it on their food and when they laugh I can see it on their tongues. It’s all yellow and icky. I wonder if I have it on my tongue and I’m afraid to laugh in case they see it. I must be very —”

  “Sounds like mustard.”

  The voice startled Sarah and she spun around to the open door. Silhouetted in it was a young man with long hair and impressive shoulders.

  Her nerves already on edge, Sarah demanded, “What are you doing sneaking up on people like that?”

  He gave no answer.

  “Who are you?”

  He entered the room. “I wanted to say thanks for last night.”

  Now she saw them. The eyes. The same piercing, steel-gray eyes she’d seen the evening before. “You’re the boy from the club.”

  He gave a half nod, holding her gaze. She sensed the power of his eyes again, the way they locked onto hers without letting go, making her a little unsteady inside. But she saw something else as well, something deeper, something very sensitive.

  She forced herself to take a breath, then demanded, “How’d you get in here?”

  He stepped toward the EMG monitor against the back wall and looked at it a moment. She could feel her senses sharpening, coming alive, aware of his every move. She tried to cover her uneasiness. “Excuse me?” she repeated. “How did you get in?”

  “Deliveries.”

  Besides the power and sensitivity, there was an earthiness, a lack of pretension. From his worn Levi’s to his T-shirt, what you saw was what you got. Still, she wasn’t exactly wowed by his social skills. She tried again. Another tack, not quite as abrasive. “That was quite a stunt you boys pulled last night.”

  “You use all this stuff?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “All these monitors and stuff, you use them?”

  “Yes. Well, most of them.” She shifted. Along with his power and sensitivity came an unpredictability that both attracted and challenged her. “Lately, we’ve — uh, been experimenting with the Ganzfield Technique.”

  He looked at her.

  Good, she had his attention, or at least part of it. “Ganzfield,” she repeated.

  His gaze was unwavering. She felt her face hike into a self-conscious smile, hoping for some response. There was none. She gave her hair a nervous push behind her ears and continued talking. “You see the lab down there?” She pointed through the one-way mirror to the room below.

  He crossed for a better view. As he leaned past her, their bodies were less than a foot apart. She cleared her throat. It was important that she keep talking. “A volunteer is subjected to sensory deprivation — that’s what the recliner and Ping-Pong balls are for.”

  He seemed unimpressed. She felt herself growing more flustered. “Once they’re relaxed, they try to visualize an image another volunteer is viewing on this TV monitor here.”

  “ESP?” the kid asked as he turned and moved past her. The room was so narrow that he accidentally brushed against her hair. At least she thought it was an accident.

  “Well, actually, we call it PSI.”

  Still not looking at her, he was examining more equipment.

  “Excuse me.” The edge had returned to her voice as she swiveled in her chair to more directly confront him. “Is there something specific you’re interested in here, or did you just decide to take a personal tour?”

  He didn’t look at her. “Not really.”

  “Then would you mind telling me why you’re here?”

  Finally he turned to her. There were those eyes again. His lips moved slightly. Was that a flicker of a smile? Was he flirting with her? Or was it something else?

  “What?” she asked.

  His smile grew — and then he looked down to the ground and shook his head.

  “No, please,” she demanded, “I would appreciate your telling me what is so amusing.”

  “You techies.” He glanced up at her. Was that still a smile? “You come in here with all your money, all your fancy equipment.” She strained to hear some teasing in his voice, some humor. “And all you’re doing is hanging out playing fancy video games.”

  The phrase hit hard. That was it. Eyes or no eyes, the kid had definitely hit a nerve. Maybe he was kidding, maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter, not now. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice level despite the anger. “These games, as you call them — they may very well answer some of humankind’s most basic questions.”

  The kid shook his head in amusement and moved past her toward the door.

  The civility in Sarah’s voice slipped a couple more notches. “Haven’t you ever wondered who you are? Where you’ve come from, where you’re going?”

  He reached the door and turned to her. “Haven’t lost much sleep over it.”

  “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

  It was meant as a slam, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I doubt that some flake staring at a family picnic is going to help anybody.”

  Sarah swallowed again, though now her mouth was bone dry. “I think it’s time you leave.”

  “You got that right.” He turned and headed down the three steps into the hallway.

  “Hold it — wait just a minute.”

  He turned back.

  “The tape I was playing. How’d you k
now the subject was describing a picnic?”

  “I heard it.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Sarah watched him carefully. “We never got that far, she never saw a picnic. The other subject was concentrating on it, but she never saw it.”

  The kid shrugged. “Guess it’s just my PSI.” With that he turned and was gone.

  Sarah remained sitting, staring at the empty doorway. Frustrated, unnerved. And, although she hated to admit it, very, very intrigued.

  “This is too weird. The board’s never done anything like this before.”

  “Shut up,” Lewis snapped.

  Pierced Eyebrow stared at the plastic, triangular pointer under his and Lewis’s fingertips. It continued moving as if under its own power, flying across the Ouija board, stopping at letters, spelling out words almost faster than Acne Face, the third member of the party, could write them down.

  Lewis also watched the pointer but with far less interest. He no longer relied on such barbaric forms of communication. So crude, so juvenile. This was nothing but a children’s board game that could be purchased at nearly every toy store in the country. “Communicate with the dead,” its advertising proclaimed. “Contact spirits.”

  Yeah, right.

  It was a kids’ game, plain and simple. He’d even read that it was the most popular kids’ board game in America. Hardly a tool for someone with his giftedness.

  But the past twenty-four hours had again grown intolerable. The voices had resumed their screaming. One shrieking over another, over another. Too loud and numerous for him to discern any meaning, they were now a continuous cacophony of screaming rages and incessant urgings.

  But urgings for what?

  SLAUGHTER, BUTCHER, OBLITERATE, KILL!

  Yes, but kill what? More animals? Not even the pig had satisfied them for long. He had to find some way to reduce the voices, to filter out the craziest screamings and understand what the others wanted.