by Bill Myers
Besides, she was an overachiever, a workaholic — the type who buried themselves in their job, looking to their work for all of their fulfillment and self-esteem. He had run a background check on her that hadn’t been conclusive, although he assumed that her workaholism was a reaction to something unpleasant in her not-so-distant past. But the reason made little difference. The point was that someone like this could be exploited in far more profitable ways than for a little roll in the hay. And it was so easy. All he had to do was appear unsatisfied with her work and imply that she could do better. Or toss a brief compliment her way if she had nearly killed herself over a project. “Praise junkies,” he called them. Like devoted dogs, they would kill themselves just to hear a kind word from their master. Everybody had an Achilles’ heel, and by exploiting hers, Reichner was able to squeeze out twice the amount of work he would have gotten from a healthier employee.
Yes, he was a man who knew what he wanted, and he always knew how to get it.
“You said he had red hair?” he asked.
“And a goatee,” Sarah added. “Looked like he was in his mid-twenties.”
Dr. Reichner stood back up and took another sip of coffee. “What about his teeth?”
“Pardon me?”
“Were his teeth crooked?”
Sarah hesitated. “Well, yes. I’d forgotten but, yes, they were in terrible shape.”
Reichner nodded.
“You know him?”
Reichner said nothing. He was rethinking his conversation back in the mountains of Nepal. At least that portion of it involving Lewis Thompson, the kid who had blown up on him some eighteen months earlier. How odd: They’d just spoken of him and now, suddenly, he was resurfacing. Reichner turned back to her. “Did he say anything else?”
“No,” Sarah shook her head. “Just the same phrase over and over again — ‘You are the one, you’re not the one.’ ”
Reichner nodded and glanced around the room. “Have you been working with any new subjects here? Anybody showing exceptionally high PSI?”
Sarah shook her head. “No. Just the usuals. Though as I told you, some pretty weird stuff’s been happening here the past few days.”
Again, Reichner said nothing. He continued rearranging the pieces, first one way, then the other, trying to fit them together.
“So are you going to have him arrested?”
Reichner looked at her and frowned. “No. If it’s who I think it is, we have some history together. I should probably take care of this myself.”
“You don’t think he’ll come back?”
“No.”
Sarah glanced at the smashed mirror. “I don’t understand. I mean, what was his purpose?”
Reichner shook his head. “He wants very badly to destroy something or someone.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe …” A thought began to take shape. “Maybe it’s jealousy.”
“Jealousy?”
Reichner rifled through his thoughts, testing the theory. It seemed to hold. He nodded slightly.
“Of whom?”
He gave no answer.
After a moment, Sarah repeated, “You’re sure he won’t come back?”
Barely hearing, Reichner glanced at her. “What?”
“Here? You’re sure he won’t be coming back?”
He saw that she was worried and shook his head. “No, not here.” He picked up a shrapnel of glass from the console and examined it. “Whoever he wanted is close, but he’s not here.”
“How do you know?”
“ ‘You are the one, but you’re not the one.’ ”
“Then who?” Sarah persisted.
Reichner shook his head. He fingered the jagged edge of glass in his hand. “I don’t know. But whoever it is, it would be better if we found him first, before our friend does.”
Late Monday afternoon, Brandon stood in the delivery bay, tossing one twelve-pound box of flyers after another into the back of the delivery van. Burton’s Music and Video up on Lincoln Avenue was having a blow-out sale, and by the amount of print work they ordered, it looked like everyone in the county would know.
“Hey, Martus.”
He looked up to see Putnam, the foreman, approaching.
“Think on your way home you could drop some boxes off at the Institute? They’re still a couple short, so —”
Brandon cut him off. “Hey, I delivered exactly what you —”
“Easy, cowboy. My mistake. I take full responsibility.” He glanced up at Brandon. “At least this time.”
Brandon nodded. He’d overreacted. With all that was happening, he was definitely on edge. But Putnam wasn’t finished.
“Listen, uh …” He coughed slightly. “I heard what happened yesterday — you know, at the church and everything. Are you gonna be all right?”
Brandon reached for another box and tossed it in. “I’ll be fine.”
“’Cause if you’re not, if you wanted like a little rest or something, you got some sick leave coming.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? ’Cause, I mean I’ve got my rear end to protect here, too, y’know.”
Brandon hesitated. There was that phrase again. The same phrase he had heard in Thursday night’s dream, the same one Putnam had used during the false alarm Friday. Brandon shook it off and continued.
“Well, all right then. I mean if you’re sure.”
Brandon nodded and continued loading.
“So, you’ll catch the Institute this afternoon on your way —”
Suddenly a loud scream echoed through the plant. Putnam and Brandon spun around. Fifty feet across the floor, next to the press, Warner, the ponytailed operator, was on his knees, one hand holding another, both covered in blood.
“What the —” Putnam broke into a run. Brandon followed.
Frank was already there, quickly wrapping a rag around the screaming man’s hand. Blood was everywhere. Other workers moved in as Putnam arrived. But Brandon slowed to a stop. Already he could feel himself growing cold, a tightness spreading through his chest.
“Call 911!” Putnam shouted. “Get an ambulance over here!”
A worker started for the phones. Both Frank and Putnam remained at Warner’s side, trying to hold him down, trying to stop him from writhing.
An icy sweat broke out across Brandon’s face. He had known. Down to the tiniest detail — Putnam’s phrase, the press, Warner’s hand — he had been warned.
“Is somebody calling an ambulance!”
Just as Jenny had saved him from the Firebird, just as she had tried to save Warner’s hand, he had been warned. And, like it or not, his dreams, his visions, had started to come true.
CHAPTER 7
TWO HOURS LATER, BRANDON leaned against the vending machine in the employee’s lounge of Moran Research Institute and opened another bag of sunflower seeds. As Putnam had requested, he’d swung by to drop off the remaining shipment on his way home. Although Billy and most of the Institute’s staff had already gone, there were still a couple of cars left in the parking lot, so Brandon had entered through the loading dock and dropped off the boxes. Now, in the silence of the lounge, he closed his eyes and rested.
It had been another painful and confusing day.
Instead of waiting for the paramedics, Putnam and Frank had driven Warner to the hospital themselves. Word had it that the press operator would probably lose his hand. Brandon took a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. He had known. In the dream, Jenny had told him. Why hadn’t he warned them? Why hadn’t he been stronger, made a bigger deal about it way back last Friday? He popped a small handful of seeds into his mouth. Things were growing worse.
At the other end of the Institute, Sarah Weintraub was fighting her own internal battles by doing what she did best: working hard and late. The one-way mirror had not been replaced between Lab One and the observation room, so she was using the other pair of rooms. Except for the carpeting and a different set of coffee st
ains, they were identical.
Sarah was testing two more patients from Vicksburg State Mental Hospital. The first one, Sheldon, was a wiry man in his mid-fifties. He sat calmly with Sarah in the observation room and stared at a video image on the monitor. It was a scene of a dairy farm, complete with barn, cows, and a tractor. Karen, a heavy woman with mousy brown hair, sat in the leather recliner down in the lab, on the other side of the glass. Attached to her body were numerous sensors: GSRs, EMGs, and EEGs. Her face was bathed by the four red floodlights, and she wore the Ganzfield goggles (complete with the Ping-Pong ball halves) over her eyes. The relaxation tape of Dr. Reichner’s prerecorded voice played softly through the speakers.
“Tighten, tighten…and relax. Tighten, tighten…now relax. Good. Very good. Now your calves. Tight, tighter, tighter …”
The GSR showed the first anomaly. By measuring the amount of electricity her skin conducted, it indicated how nervous she was. And Karen was nervous. Very nervous. Instead of gradually relaxing during the test, her anxiety was actually increasing. Dramatically.
Sarah checked the EMG. The results were the same: a marked increase in Karen’s muscle tension. The EEG followed suit, registering a rapid increase in beta waves, the brain waves present during stress and agitation.
Sarah reached for the intercom button. “Karen, are you all right? Sweetheart, just try to relax, okay?”
She glanced at the monitors. Karen’s anxiety levels continued to rise. She looked back through the glass. Karen was scowling, starting to move her head.
“Karen? Karen, try to remain still. Just listen to Dr. Reichner’s voice. Just listen to his voice and try to —”
She stopped, trying to locate the strange sound she’d just heard, something like a faint gurgle. She turned to Sheldon. He was still staring at the video picture, completely lost in it. She looked back into the lab. The sound was coming from Karen. Her head had begun to roll from side to side, and the sound grew louder. But it was no longer a gurgle. It was low and continuous, like a growl.
“Karen?”
No response. The growl increased.
“All right, Karen. Listen, sweetheart, we’re going to end this session. Okay? You can come back up now, all right? Just open your eyes and join us.”
The head rolled more violently.
Sarah pressed another button. She wasn’t sure where the stocky orderly was, but she needed him. “William,” her voice echoed through the Institute’s PA, “William, please come to Lab Two, stat.”
She turned back to the monitors. Some readings were beginning to spike, going off the screen. Karen’s growls intensified into muffled cries as she began twisting and squirming.
Sarah rose to her feet. Sheldon was still oblivious to anything but the picture on the screen. She turned, raced down the steps into the hall — and was shocked to see the boy from the country club approaching. She started to say something, to demand an explanation for his presence, when suddenly an unearthly shriek came from the lab.
She threw open the lab door. Karen was writhing in the recliner. The big woman screamed again, and Sarah raced to her. “Karen! Karen, listen to me!” Sarah pulled off the woman’s goggles.
Karen’s eyes darted around the room in wild, animal-like panic.
“Karen —”
Karen’s eyes froze on something. Over by the door. Suddenly she was scrambling, fighting to get out of the recliner.
“Karen!”
She struggled to her feet, breathing heavily. Then, pointing with a trembling finger, she growled, low and vehemently, “You.”
Sarah followed her gaze to Brandon, who was standing at the door. “Get out!” she cried. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her? Get out!” She spun back to Karen and tried to calm her. “Karen, listen to me.”
“No,” the voice hissed.
Sarah grew more firm. “I want to speak to Karen.”
“No!”
“Yes, I want to talk to —”
The woman shoved Sarah aside and ripped off more of the sensor wires.
“Karen —”
But Karen lurched toward Brandon.
When the woman headed toward him, Brandon had the good sense to back away. She was slightly smaller than he was — but there was no mistaking the look in her eyes: She meant business. She panted heavily, her eyes glaring into his. “You!” she seethed.
He gave an involuntary shudder. It had been a long time since he’d seen such hatred — but this was more than hatred. There was something else: a reverberation, a unison of voices, as if more than one person was speaking.
“What have you to do with us?” The woman glowered in the doorway. “Have you come to persecute us before our time?”
“Karen.” It was Sarah, approaching the woman from behind. “Karen, listen to me. I want to speak to Karen.” She touched the woman’s arm, trying to calm her. “I want to
speak —”
“NO!” With an anguished shriek, the woman spun around, grabbed Sarah by the shoulders, and threw her into a rack of equipment. Brandon immediately moved to help Sarah, but the woman turned and lunged at him, screaming. She hit him hard, and they staggered to the ground. She landed on top, screaming, punching, scratching, clawing, mostly at his face and eyes. Her strength was incredible. He was able to hold his own, but barely. Off to the side, he spotted Sarah coming at them again.
So did the woman.
She twisted and punched Sarah hard in the stomach, sending her staggering. But Brandon took advantage of the woman’s distraction and grabbed both of her wrists. They were sweaty and strong, already twisting, already breaking his hold, when suddenly another man appeared, a much bigger man. He came from behind and wrapped his arms around the woman’s arms and shoulders, binding her movement, pulling her off Brandon.
“Come on, Karen,” he ordered, holding her in what amounted to a fierce bear hug.
“Our name is not Karen!” she shrieked as she fought.
But the man was a pro. “Right, well, whoever you are, just calm down now. Calm down …”
Brandon pushed himself against the wall, wiping the sweat from his face, trying to catch his breath. In the background, he heard a recording of a man’s voice with a slight German accent. “Tighter, tighter…and relax. Good, very good. And now your shoulders. Tighter, tighter…and relax. Excellent …”
“And that’s legal, using crazies to experiment on? Ow!”
Sarah continued cleaning the young man’s wounds, using the cotton balls and rubbing alcohol just a little too briskly. If he wanted to mouth off, that was fine with her, but he’d have to pay the price.
The rest of the staff was already gone. William, the hospital orderly, was on the road chauffeuring his two patients back to Vicksburg. Now it was just Sarah and the kid in the employee’s lounge. His shirt was off, and she applied her limited first-aid training to the scratches on his neck and back with a definite lack of bedside manner. “Our work with the mentally ill isn’t official. At least not yet. We’re still clearing up some red tape.” She hoped he wouldn’t miss her meaning. “I’m sure you can appreciate the damage it would cause us if word of their involvement leaked prematurely.”
He said nothing and she trusted he understood. She moved around to his back, grateful to be out of his line of vision. What was it about him that made her so self-conscious? He was just a kid, half-a-dozen years her junior, maybe more. And still she heard herself rattling on, sounding like some nervous schoolgirl. “Actually, the tests are harmless. Just some simple relaxation exercises —”
“And since it’s for science and they’re just loonies, it doesn’t make any difference if — ow!”
She’d got him good that time. She continued, doing her best to keep an even tone. “These loonies, as you call them, are people just like you and me — except the chemistry of their brain is slightly different.” It was time to move around to his front again, but she kept her eyes from his as she talked. “We have over fifty billion neurons in our brain
s. They fire ten million billion times per second. That’s a lot of information. A healthy person’s brain filters out much of that input before it reaches conscious level. We’re interested in those people whose brains can’t.”
She waited for a response, some indication that he was listening. There was nothing. What was with him, anyway? And still she heard herself continue: “The theory is that there is paranormal activity all around us but that you and I filter it out. Some of the mentally disturbed may not be able to do that.”
He cocked his head up at her and she glanced down. A mistake. Once again those intense gray eyes locked onto hers. And once again she felt herself growing the slightest bit weak inside.
“What about the voices?” he asked.
She looked back at the cuts on his neck and dabbed them with cotton. “What voices?”
“You know — how’d she make her voice sound like it was more than just one person talking?”
Sarah slowed to a stop and looked back down at him. “You heard voices?”
“Didn’t you?”
She shook her head, this time holding his gaze. And it was then she saw it. A flicker of vulnerability. He was afraid. He was afraid and now, suddenly, he was the one who looked away.
She hesitated, then resumed dabbing the scratch along the top of his shoulder. When she spoke, she tried to sound casual. “How many voices did you hear?”
He said nothing.
Now his rudeness was beginning to make sense. He wasn’t acting out some misguided machismo. He was just afraid. She could tell by his increased breathing rate, the rapid pulse in his neck. She dabbed the cotton along a nasty gouge near his left clavicle and saw him wince. This time his discomfort gave her no pleasure. “I’m just about finished,” she offered.
He didn’t speak. She tried to do the same. But curiosity, professional and otherwise, got the better of her. “So. You didn’t answer my question. How many voices did you think you heard?”
He glanced up at her again — the strength of those eyes was now lost in his fear, and vulnerability. Once again she felt herself being drawn to him. He looked away and shrugged, but this time his feigned indifference was less convincing. “Three,” he said, “maybe four.”
