by J. Thorn
For the briefest of moments, his reflection had that same stretched grin that Dad had worn just before ordering Freeman to visit his mother in the bathroom.
Like father, like son.
Pacino in “The Devil’s Advocate.”
Eastwood in “High Plains Drifter.”
De Niro in “Cape Fear.”
It was the kind of grin that killed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Richard Kracowski tapped a couple of keys, even though all the functions were programmed into the computer and ran automatically. Moving his fingers and studying the screen gave a bit of flair to the presentation. To a scientist, the cause and effect were plenty enough to satisfy; with these board members and McDonald in attendance, though, Kracowski felt the need to resort to some showy sleight of hand.
In Thirteen, the subject was recovering from the thunderburst that Kracowski’s fields had just shot into his skull and soul. The boy’s tremors faded, and a smile crawled among the slack features of his face. Kracowski had longed to see how this particular specimen would react to the treatment. Even for someone who had pushed the limits in both directions, Kracowski knew that this boy represented a paradigmatic leap in his research.
“What did you just do?” Robert Brooks said. Brooks was moist, his thick glasses misted by the humidity of his own skin. He covered the smell of sweat with cologne so intense that Kracowski almost wished the man smoked cigarettes instead.
But Brooks was a key player, one of the money men, a fat industrialist who made a fortune in hosiery production. Brooks’ factories had once been located in the Piedmont, but he’d moved the operation to Mexico to take even greater advantage of the labor pool. He’d left hundreds of Americans jobless, taken a large tax write-off for the abandoned property, and had increased his personal wealth fourfold. Yet Brooks fancied himself a humanitarian because he chipped in twenty thousand dollars a year to Wendover.
Kracowski despised such men, and McKaye was of the same stripe: well-dressed, milky, and of the belief that money bestowed virtuosity. The doctor had an immediate distrust of anyone who used a first initial in his name. That’s why he avoided the politics of fundraising and left the hand-shaking to Bondurant. Kracowski put on the show, Bondurant sold the tickets.
And McDonald? The man stood quietly apart, a faint smile the only crack on the stolid face. Physically, he was as blunt as a toad and his head sat on his shoulders as if pressed into clay. The dark eyes seemed to soak light from the room, and the colors of the computerized charts reflected off McDonald’s forehead.
Kracowski let Brooks’s question linger for a few moments more, tapping the keyboard as the printer spat its data and the zip drive backed up the programming. The computer drives were encased in a ceramic-and-lead-lined box, and a counter electrostatic field had been created to protect the drives from the erasing capabilities of stray magnetism.
“I still have to hone a few details, but soon you’ll be reading about it in the Journal of Psychology,” Kracowski said.
“It’s been very successful in early clinical trials,” Bondurant cut in. “We’ll all be proud to have it associated with the good name of Wendover Home. And, of course, associated with you gentlemen as well.”
The boy on the other side of the mirror gazed at them, unseeing.
Brooks tugged at his tie, his jowls straining against the tightness of his collar. “That didn’t look entirely healthy to me. What do you call this business again?”
Kracowski swallowed a sigh. “Synaptic Synergy Therapy. The principles are very simple. The brain operates on a series of electrical impulses and relays. You’re no doubt aware of electroconvulsive therapy, which was popular in the middle of the last century.”
“Shock treatment, you mean? Like in that Jack Nicholson movie, ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’?”
“Hollywood and the mental health field are both built on illusion, Mr. Brooks. Electroshock still has supporters, and its effectiveness in treating some cases of depression is well-documented. Some patients report short-term memory loss and depersonalization. Of course, the treatment can be taken to extremes, as happened in the ‘Deep Sleep’ controversy in Australia, where patients in drug-induced comas were given multiple and frequent shocks over the course of several weeks.”
“That was legal?” McKaye asked.
“An acceptable risk. On the bright side, of the sixty percent who survived Deep Sleep, nearly a third escaped without permanent brain damage.”
“That doesn’t sound like a smart risk,” McKaye said.
“The true test of any experiment is the outcome.” Kracowski leaned back from the computer monitor and let the others see the numbers and various formulae scrolling across the screen. He knew it meant nothing to them, yet still conferred power to him. The witch doctors of the Twenty-First Century needed fast processing speeds and obscenely-large hard drives.
“I’m feeling very much better,” said the boy in Thirteen.
“Praise the Lord,” Bondurant said.
“It’s really a basic procedure,” Kracowski said, before Bondurant could finish turning science into a miracle.
The doctor tapped some keys, brought up a three-dimensional model of the boy’s brain, and zoomed the image until various folds and crenulations could be seen. “The brain contains a hundred billion neurons. Each neuron communicates with ten thousand others through connections called synapses, which relay a series of electrical events that in turn create chemical changes in the brain. The number of possible combinations of neurotransmitter connections is greater than the number of atoms in the universe.”
Kracowski paused in his lecture. The men’s eyes had glazed over, except for McDonald’s, which gleamed with an unhealthy hunger. “Simply put,” Kracowski said, “the brain is a universe unto itself.”
Beyond the mirror, the subject was studying the ceiling. Freeman wouldn’t be able to see the giant electromagnetic field generators that hung above the tiles, nor could he know that the bed he was sitting on was wired to deliver small voltage doses. A PET scanner was built into the base of the cot, highly advanced equipment hidden by a dull sheet metal grid. In the basement, superconducting magnets were sealed inside tanks of liquid nitrogen which were themselves sealed inside tanks of liquid helium.
Kracowski had spent years designing his treatment rooms, each with slightly different specifications. Thirteen was the best of them, but Eighteen wasn’t bad. Still, until McDonald and the Trust had moved in with some serious support and technology, as well as the exorbitantly expensive liquid forms of the gases, SST had been little more than a theory. Now it was the tool that would take quantum mechanics into the human mind. Quantum psychology.
“Didn’t Dr. Kenneth Mills have a similar theory?” McDonald said. The others seemed to notice McDonald for the first time, with Bondurant wearing an expression of dislike. McDonald winked at Kracowski, knowing he’d lobbed him a softball over the heart of the plate.
“Mills had some primitive notions along these lines,” Kracowski said. “But his research was too incomprehensible and random.”
“As far as you know,” McDonald said. “Professional jealousy, perhaps?”
Kracowski spoke to Brooks and McKaye. “SST sends electric currents to the brain while at the same time realigning the impaired electromagnetic fields, or EMF, that govern emotion,” Kracowski told the group. “Recent research has shown that magnetism can increase blood flow. This treatment sends a carefully controlled set of wavelengths into the patient’s brain, all operating at non-ionizing radiation levels. You may have read about the alleged link between electromagnetic fields and alien visitation?”
McKaye started to protest, but Kracowski held up a hand. “No, I don’t believe in aliens, Mr. McKaye. But true believers say that’s why people can’t remember being kidnapped and taken away, because of the intense EMF. And there are suggested links between EMF and cancer, caused by exposure to cell phones or from living near high-voltage power lines. T
he research has been limited so far, and mostly designed to absolve the communications and utilities industries. There’s so much we don’t understand, but my work is showing the positive potential of appropriately harnessing the fields. If the brain is a universe, all I’m doing is putting the planetary orbits in order.”
Bondurant nodded and said to McKaye, “And, from a religious perspective, he’s restoring these children’s faith in themselves, so that they might be worthy of the Lord. It’s just another of His mysterious ways. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“It’s all harmony.” Kracowski grimaced and looked at his computer. The boy’s magnetic resonance scan was flickering, a disco lamp of green, red, and magenta.
Brooks pointed to the screen. “What in the devil is that?”
The boy’s cerebral cortex was displaying an anomalous reading. Kracowski checked the EEG. The graph twitched upward in a rapid-cycling peak, as if the circuits of the boy’s brain had fused together and his synapses were overloading. The boy was having a seizure.
“That’s impossible,” Kracowski said.
In Thirteen, Freeman trembled, his teeth clenched, and his eyes rolled up inside his skull. He fell back on the bed, his arms rigid by his sides. His head flopped, knocking against the thin mattress so hard that Kracowski could hear it through the microphone.
“What’s going on?” Brooks shouted.
“Better call an ambulance,” McKaye said. McDonald said nothing, folded his arms, and watched the boy.
Kracowski met Bondurant’s look of panic with a concerned but calm smile. “That won’t be necessary, gentlemen. It’s only part of the procedure. This boy’s fields must be in particular disharmony to cause such distress.”
“Is he breathing?” Brooks asked, straining to peer through the glass.
The boy twitched and writhed. Kracowski was relieved to note that the boy’s tongue protruded between his lips, so at least he wasn’t suffocating himself. The doctor clicked up another screen and checked the data. The treatment should be winding down now, a current in millivolts running through the boy’s skin and bones. The electromagnetic pulses were running in a programmed and syncopated sequence, massaging the boy’s emotional trouble spots.
“What’s his diagnosis?” Kracowski asked Bondurant, even though he was familiar with the case file. He simply wanted Bondurant to run down the laundry list in order to make the resultant healing even more impressive.
“Rapid-cycle manic depression,” Bondurant said. “Suicidal tendencies. Kleptomania, antisocial behavior, cyclothymia, possible mild schizophrenia. Plus he’s an unrepentant little sinner.”
“See, gentlemen? This boy is very troubled. The deeper the disease, the harsher the cure must be.”
Brooks and McKaye stared at the epileptic boy. Brooks said under his breath, “If he dies—”
“I never let them die,” Kracowski said, managing to convince even himself.
Soon Freeman Mills would be properly aligned, if he lived long enough. McDonald would have his weapon and Kracowski would have his glory. Kracowski would succeed where Dr. Kenneth Mills and all his other predecessors had failed.
“Doctor,” McDonald said. “I think these gentlemen have seen enough. Why don’t you revive the boy?”
Bondurant’s glasses had fogged from the heat of the laboratory.
“Let it finish,” Kracowski said. He looked through the two-way mirror. Freeman thrashed beneath the restraints, his muscles twitching. There must have been some trick of reflection, because for the briefest of moments, Kracowski saw the boy standing at the glass, pressing his palms outward, his mouth open in a voiceless scream. Kracowski blinked and the illusion passed.
The boy was passive now, his jerks subsiding. Kracowski looked at the separate monitors, checked the EEG and the MRI scans. The boy’s heart was working steadily, blood flow to the brain normal, pulse up a bit but stable. He was alive.
He was more than alive. He was cured.
And, if Kracowski had arrayed the wavelength sequences correctly, the boy would score unusually high on the ESP card test. But no need for Brooks, McKaye, or Bondurant to know about that particular side effect.
“Mr. Brooks, Mr. McKaye,” Kracowski said to the pale men. “You have witnessed a miracle.”
“Amen,” whispered Bondurant.
“Did you see that?” McKaye said to Brooks.
“What?”
“The boy, standing at the mirror.”
“He was on the cot.”
“A trick of the light, Mr. McKaye,” Kracowski said.
Brooks pointed to the EEG reading. “That’s normal, then?”
“The boy experienced some spikes. Epilepsy is a kind of short in the electrical wiring of the brain. We don’t know what causes it, but I can assure you, everything is functioning properly now. The treatment has his synapses working better than they ever have.”
“Is that trouble likely to happen again?” Brooks wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Never,” said the doctor.
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Kracowski?” McKaye said.
“I have to be. These young children are entrusting me with their souls.”
“You, as well as the Lord,” Bondurant said.
Kracowski watched the computer absorb and store the data. The energy field was winding down. The lights in the lab grew brighter. The treatment was over.
Kracowski pushed the mic button. “How are you feeling, Freeman?”
The boy lifted his head. He motioned with his finger as if wanting them to move closer, though he could only see his own reflection.
“What?” Kracowski said.
“You sure he’s okay?” Brooks said. “He looks like he’s going to throw up.”
“He’s fine,” Bondurant said.
“Doctor,” Freeman said, staring at the mirror.
“You’re cured, son,” Kracowski said. “Healed.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, sir.”
“Your brain and soul are in harmony.”
“You are a very good doctor.”
“Is there any pain?”
“Pain?”
“While you were under, you had an episode.”
“Is that what you call it when you die a little?”
Kracowski released the mic button.
“He’s not supposed to know that, is he?” Bondurant said.
“He doesn’t know anything. He’s only a patient.”
Freeman spoke, but his words didn’t carry through the thick glass. Kracowski pushed the button.
“Neat little trick there, doctor. While I was dead, I saw a big ugly troll waiting under the bridge.”
Kracowski flipped a switch, throwing Room Thirteen and Freeman into darkness. The green light of the computer screens and the colors of the magnetic resonance image of Freeman’s brain intensified in the dimness.
“This exhibit is over, gentlemen,” Kracowski said.
“I think we’ve seen more than we want to see,” McKaye said. “We’d rather read about it in the journals.”
Bondurant led Brooks and McKaye from the lab. Kracowski traced his finger over the multi-colored image of Freeman’s brain.
“The mind is a universe,” he said to the walls. “My universe.”
“Don’t get too full of yourself,” McDonald said. “You think Freeman Mills ended up here by accident? You’re not the only one who gets to play God.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Freeman sat under the trees by the lake. The air tasted gray. He felt like those Vietnamese POWs who played Russian roulette in “The Deer Hunter.” The ones who lost, whose numbers came up, whose brains splattered across the room. Not like De Niro, who could take it, or even Christopher Walken, who wasn’t so tough but made it out alive anyway, at least for a while.
On the lawn near the main building, kids were playing games, running, shrieking. From this distance, he couldn’t triptrap anybody. Up close, they had nearly overwhelmed him,
swarming across the mental bridge like invading armies, their thoughts like bullets and their emotions like bamboo slivers.
If he stayed by himself, maybe he could sort things out. He remembered going into Thirteen, talking with some shrink through a two-way mirror, then some more shrinks, then everything going fuzzy. He had walked a strange land where shimmery people rose up from the dark floor and spilled out of the walls. People whose mouths opened in soundless screams. Scary people.
Then the lights were on in the room and he was staring at the ceiling, his muscles sore, and the shrink was talking to him through the microphone. Dr. Kracowski, the shrink said his name was. Actually, Freeman realized, the man hadn’t said anything. Freeman had walked into his mind and picked out that little nugget of information.
Freeman mined other ores from the doctor’s brain, obscure formulas and theorems, properties of electricity and wavelengths and other stuff that would have been dull in a classroom but became gold when discovered inside another person’s head. And there were other bits, a woman named Paula Swenson, skin business that would have made him blush if he’d understood more of it. And something about Dr. Kenneth Mills. Dear old Dad.
But before Freeman could dig in and get a really serious read, Starlene Rogers had knocked on the door to Thirteen, Kracowski had run from the laboratory to get her away, and then Freeman was in her head, sunshine and roses and a mobile home in Laurel Valley, Bible verses and boys in pick-up trucks, a cat named T.S. Eliot, Randy the house parent who might have too much chest hair for her taste but was otherwise an okay guy, college psychology textbooks, peach lip gloss, Lucille the hairdresser who had a way with a curling iron, the coming Gospel Jubilee at Beaulahville Baptist, a strange old man in a gray robe.
The same old man Freeman had seen in the hall and again in the dish room.
Except inside Starlene’s head, the man was wet and left footprints that stopped in the middle of the floor.
