by J. Thorn
This was just like the old days, when Dad hadn’t been afraid to juice himself in the interest of science, with Freeman as the star pupil. Kracowski called it SST, but Dad hadn’t needed a fancy acronym. Dad had simply called it “triptrap.”
“How is he?” McDonald said.
“He’s perfect,” Kracowski replied.
“No, I mean, did we learn anything?”
Dad turned his attention from Freeman to Kracowski. Kracowski shook his head at McDonald. “I can’t tell yet. My treatment is designed to work in an emotional vacuum. I’ll have to see how the subject responds to this disturbance.”
“Disturbance?” Dad screamed at Kracowski. “You’re the one that’s disturbing. I was right on the threshold of a breakthrough. All you’ve done is come in and stir the stew, but it’s my recipe.”
Freeman sighed with relief because Dad was out of his head for the moment and he could breathe and think again.
Dad pointed a finger at McDonald. “And your guys could have freed me a lot sooner. But, no, I guess I was disposable because you found Kracowski and figured one scientist was as good as another. Only you found out that you needed me because Kracowski here has these little moral qualms and will only push the buttons so far—”
McDonald crossed the room and backhanded Dad across the cheek. The blow was so intense that even Freeman felt it, the raw pain flickering across his mind like a lightning strike.
Dad fell to his knees, rubbing his cheek where he’d been struck. Dad smiled. “Not bad. With a goon like you in charge of this operation, maybe the Trust will take over the world yet.”
McDonald stared at the mirror, expressionless. “We tried to protect you, Mills. But murdering your wife was something even the Trust couldn’t bury, not the way you did it.” His eyes darted to Freeman. “Right there in front of witnesses.”
“It was in the interest of science,” Dad said. “I had to keep pushing him. And you have to admit, even though Kracowski’s had a little success, Freeman still outshines them all. He’s a regular triptrapper from hell, the world’s first workable spirit spy.”
“Results will speak for themselves.”
Freeman tried his tongue. “Sorry. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not playing anymore. You can shock me until my brain fries, like those eggs in the anti-drug commercials. But you’re never going to break me.”
Freeman sat up and glanced at Dad, then looked back at McDonald. “He couldn’t burn me out, and Kracowski doesn’t have the slightest idea what it’s all about.”
“Synergy,” Kracowski said. “Tapping the brain’s potential.”
“Wrong,” Freeman said. “It’s about control.”
McDonald’s lips tightened in a movement that would have passed for a smile on someone else’s face. “Control. The boy’s not so dumb after all.”
“Except you got it wrong, too. You can build bigger bombs and faster planes and deadlier chemicals, but there’s one thing you’ll never control.”
Dad had risen and leaned over Freeman again. Freeman turned away but Dad was already up from his troll hole and standing on the bridge, eating Freeman’s thoughts.
Dad straightened and laughed. “The little trooper thinks you’re not after ESP at all, McDonald. He thinks you’re wanting the ghosts. Is that why they call you secret government types ‘spooks’?”
McDonald said nothing. Randy waited by the door, arms crossed. Kracowski looked down at the floor as if trying to picture the strange spirits that swirled in the mists of the deadscape.
Freeman waited until the shock of Dad’s invasion faded, then reached out for Vicky. Anything was possible. The mind was an incredible machine, so incredible it could even be a weapon. But right now, all he wanted was one slim bridge between himself and somebody he could trust.
He triptrapped, but his thoughts couldn’t reach beyond the room.
Vicky had abandoned him. Despite her promises. But, then, hadn’t he learned a long time ago that you couldn’t count on anybody?
He was alone again, except for the mad, dead voices that still whispered from the corners of his soul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Starlene wanted a shower to blast the creepy feeling from her skin. But she couldn’t face the bathroom. No matter what Randy said she hadn’t seen. No matter that ghosts didn’t exist and that only God had the ability to inspire visions. God’s visions were fire and thunder, not feverish thugs and bloody corpses.
She went into the little bedroom she shared with Marie. Due to their rotating shifts, the two of them rarely stayed here at the same time. They both had places offsite, so the room was only sparsely decorated, and didn’t reflect their true personalities.
Starlene picked up a book, something thick and dull by the Southern novelist Jefferson Spence. She couldn’t concentrate on the meandering sentences, and after the author’s second clumsy allusion to snowy fields of cotton, she closed the book and looked out the window.
A soft mist hung over the lake. She half-expected to see the old man in the gown drift up from the water. Clouds had begun to gather over the mountains, pushed by a slow wind. The shadows of clouds crawled across the slopes, resembling great black beasts. The air was heavy with moisture.
A knock at the door caused her to drop the novel. It barely missed crushing her toe. She paused in the hall, making sure the knock hadn’t come from the bathroom. No, it was at the front door.
Bondurant nodded at her when she opened the door, then staggered into the room before she could ask what he wanted. His face was blanched and his hands trembled. He adjusted his glasses on his long nose and licked his lips.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Like I’ve seen a ghost?”
“Worse. Like maybe a mirror.”
“Can I sit down?”
“That depends. Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”
He shrugged and looked behind him, then peered at the corners of the ceiling. “Have to be careful. You never know who’s listening.”
“Are you looking for invisible people?”
“Bugs.”
“We sprayed for those last month, remember?”
“I’m not talking about those kind of bugs. I’m talking electronic bugs.” Bondurant coughed, and the odor of liquor filled the room. Purple welts beneath his eyes gave him the appearance of a punch-drunk insomniac. Starlene didn’t know how much faith she could put in anything he said.
“Got anything to drink?” he asked, checking out the countertops in the kitchenette.
“Aren’t you on duty?”
Bondurant sighed and sat on the edge of an armchair. He didn’t remove his coat. “What happened when Kracowski zapped you this morning?”
“You know. You were there.”
He waved one hand in the air. “I saw him press some buttons and flip switches. I saw you in Thirteen. I saw you gasp and scream and stop breathing. And then it was over. But I want to know what happened.”
“Mr. Bondurant, I’ve questioned that treatment ever since I started working here. Are you telling me you’re just now starting to have some doubts?”
“What did you see?” He leaned forward, his face contorted, and she backed away and stood by the door. He didn’t rise from the chair, or she might have fled. “You’re in on it, too, aren’t you?” he said.
“In on what?”
“The whole thing. I thought you were a Christian.”
“I am a Christian. And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“They’re meddling in God’s domain. Only God can draw the line between the living and the dead.” He talked faster, spittle flying from his mouth. “Only God says who gets into heaven and who must walk through the fires of hell. So why is God, in His almighty wisdom, letting that heathen freak bring back the spirits of those who have already faced the Judgment?”
“Look, a lot of weird stuff is happening around here, but I don’t think you need to drag God into this. Put the bl
ame where it belongs.”
“That’s the whole problem. They’ve pushed God out of everything. The Supreme Court has locked Him out of the schools, the government pushes for a United Nations that only serves atheists, and now they’ve taken over Wendover, where I’ve turned so many lost souls toward the light of our Lord.” He pounded a fist against the padded chair.
“You’ve seen them, too. Not just the Miracle Woman, but the others.”
Bondurant’s lips moved, but no words came out. Color returned to his face, a shade of deep crimson that was less alarming than the previous gray.
“It’s all wrong,” he said.
Something fell to the floor in the bathroom.
“That’s one of them now,” she said. “What happened to Deke?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Please, Miss Rogers. Don’t make me—”
“Something’s in the tub.” A scratching had arisen in the bathroom, echoing off the ceramic tiles. Water, or some other liquid, dripped in an uneven rhythm.
“I didn’t let them in,” Bondurant said. “They said nobody would get hurt. They said they’d only be here for a year or so, then they’d go away and Wendover would have all the funding it needed.”
“Who are they?”
Bondurant shrugged, then slumped, defeated. The stirrings in the bathroom grew louder.
Starlene opened the front door and looked at the cold stone hulk of Wendover across the grass. “We have to get the kids out.”
“You don’t understand.” Bondurant fidgeted with his rumpled tie. “Nobody gets out. Not anymore.”
“You can sit here and wait for whatever happens next if you want. Me, I’m going to help the children I pledged to serve.”
Bondurant laughed, drowning out the moist noises from the tub. “Little Miss Do-Gooder. You and all the other people who think they can save the world through kindness. There’s only one way to save the world, and that’s by hammering the misfits into shape. You can’t love these brats into being productive members of society. All you can do is put the fear of God in them, by force, and let them burn in hell if they don’t choose the right path.”
“Tell that to the thing in the bathroom.” Starlene left the cabin, slamming the door behind her, and walked toward the small gravel lot that was tucked behind the trees. She could fit maybe fifteen kids in the bed of her pickup, then come back for the rest. She didn’t have a plan yet. She’d probably have to drop them off at the police station. Randy would help her. She had to find Randy.
Bondurant called to her from the cabin door. “Don’t leave me, Miss Rogers.”
She didn’t turn around. The wind picked up, and more clouds had gathered in the sky. The surrounding forest was alive with movement. Bondurant shouted something else but she couldn’t hear it.
Starlene reached her truck and locked herself inside, then started the engine. She put the truck in gear and glanced in the rear view mirror. She gasped and yanked her foot from the clutch so fast the engine died.
She turned around. Nothing in the bed of the pickup.
Not now.
But, moments before, Freeman had stood there, clutching the same red wedge of razor that Deke had held in the bathroom.
She shivered, restarted the engine, and drove to the main building.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Kracowski stood impatiently while McDonald gave Dr. Mills a tour of the basement. He resented this invasion. Bad enough that McDonald meddled in the experiments, but now he’d brought in a rival whose instability bordered on the psychopathic. Research of such a delicate nature was best pursued with a cool head, and Mills’s moods swings occurred almost as rapidly as his son’s.
At least Freeman was stuck under observation in the Blue Room for the moment, with Randy standing guard.
Mills whistled in wonder as he inspected the machinery that created Kracowski’s energy fields. He said to McDonald, “If you had given me this kind of backing, you’d have had your breakthrough years ago.”
“Back then, all we wanted was mind control,” McDonald said. “ESP was a byproduct.”
“Isn’t that just like the government?” Mills said to Kracowski. “You give them the answers, and then they find new questions. At twice the cost.”
Kracowski said, “How do you know he’s even with the government?”
McDonald laughed. “Do you want to see some identification? I’ve got a card in every pocket, each with a different name and agency. You have a serious problem with trusting others, Doctor. You ought to see somebody about that.”
“I can make a few recommendations,” Mills said.
Kracowski didn’t like the way the men joked. This research was far more important than whatever espionage or brainwashing techniques were discovered. He didn’t expect McDonald to grasp the significance of the discovery, but surely Mills could appreciate the near-divine implications of life after death. Unless the man’s madness had removed him so far from the ordinary world that miracles were of no consequence.
“What’s the next step?” Mills asked.
“Off the cliff and into the void,” McDonald said. He tapped one of the tanks of liquid helium with the base of his flashlight. “We need to push some of the children a little bit harder and see if they crack.”
Mills rubbed his hands together, eyes dark in his pale face. The dim shadows of the basement made his cheeks look even more gaunt and fleshless. “Despite your theory of harmonization of the brain’s electrical patterns, Kracowski, I believe the effect works best when the brain is stimulated. Turn up the heat, and the kettle starts to boil.”
“So I gather, from reading what you’ve done to your son.”
“Don’t judge me, Doctor. He was the perfect subject, and one day he’ll understand that. Freeman will see that I sacrificed his emotional security for the good of the free world. And, ultimately, for the good of the human race.”
“Love of the world versus love of your own offspring. You’ll have to write that one up for the trade journals.”
“That’s enough,” McDonald said. “You guys can fight turf wars on your own time. Right now, I’ve got a mission to complete.”
McDonald switched on his flashlight and headed down the main corridor, into the cold, musty bowels of Wendover. Mills held out his elbow in a mockery of escorting Kracowski. Kracowski brushed past him and followed McDonald.
The building’s wiring was corroded in this section, eaten by rodents, and had not been restored when the building was renovated to serve as a group home. Kracowski had never expected these rooms to be used.
The agent reached the first cell. The heavy steel door was brown with rust. The door was solid with the exception of a sliding mechanism for delivering food trays. McDonald shined the light into the cell. Bits of mortar between the cinder blocks had been scraped away by one of the cell’s former tenants. Kracowski winced at the thought of the raw, bloody fingers scrabbling themselves to the bone.
“They knew how to treat them back in the old days,” Mills said. “None of this coddling and medication and turning out onto the streets. If they wanted to board their alien starships or dance with angels, they had to claw through the walls first.”
Kracowski didn’t like being down here, and not just because of the alleged manifestations. He wasn’t yet fully convinced the dead could cross back into this world, but he knew actual pain and misery and lunacy had existed in this cramped room. Perhaps emotions could cement themselves into the walls and become a part of a building’s molecular structure. He’d have to investigate the theory once he was done with McDonald and SST.
“This will do just fine,” McDonald said.
Kracowski didn’t like the way the man’s words were swallowed by the stale air. “What do you mean?”
“The next stage.”
“I thought we’d agreed I would do more treatments in Thirteen. At least for a few more months. We need to check our subjects against the c
ontrol group or we won’t be able to verify our results.”
“I think Dr. Mills was on the right track. Which of your subjects has exhibited the most potential?”
“Freeman.” Kracowski looked deeply into Dr. Mills’s eyes, but saw no hint of regret there. “He’s also the most emotionally disturbed of the patients.”
“Exactly,” McDonald said. “And the others showing a . . . talent?”
“Vicky Barnwell. Edmund Alexander. Mario Rios.”
“I’ve read the case histories. All problem children.”
Mills grinned. “Not a bad test pool. A manic depressive, a bulimic, a molestation victim, and a plain old basket case. A test group with gender and ethnic variety, no less.”
“I think we need to put a little pressure on,” McDonald said. “See how they respond. The field is stronger down here, if I understand your descriptions correctly.”
“But I can’t control and isolate the focus of the fields outside of Thirteen,” Kracowski said. “We’ll lose our standardization.”
“You can publish your little theories in all the shrink journals in the world for all I care, as long as you leave extrasensory perception out of it. And if you start babbling about ghosts to your esteemed colleagues, you’ll soon find yourself on the soft side of a padded wall. When the Trust needs to shut someone up, it’s easier to declare him insane than to kill him and risk a bad cover job. Right, Mills?”
Mills gave a double thumb’s up and turned his attention to the clogged stainless steel toilet in the corner of the room. “I think I’d rather have a bucket, myself.”
“So, do these walls bring back memories, Doctor?” McDonald asked Mills. “How does it feel to be called a lunatic?”
“Sticks and stones,” Mills said. “But I learned something. The line between the sane and the lunatic is invisible. It all depends on which side of the bars you’re standing.”
