Sibs

by F. Paul Wilson

But instinctively you knew right from the start that yours was an ability that had to be kept secret. You could do something that other people could not— although you suspected your sister Marta had some undiscovered capability like yours. So maybe it was genetic. You'd caught hints in the family history that there may have been others with a power like yours, but nothing definite. And those records are long gone now.

  But what does it matter, really? It is a fool's game to root about for causes. The why and how is irrelevant. You power exists, you know how to use it, you love using it. Where it comes from simply doesn't matter.

  Whatever the cause—accident or heredity—you knew your ability would cause fear in other people, so you kept it a secret for much of your childhood.

  With adolescence, you became bolder and perfected your technique.

  On Green Street, you pay the cabby and go into the Nite Owl Boutique to pick out some sexy clothes. The owner's eyes light up at the sight of Kara's familiar face—she thinks she's still dealing with Kelly. Dollar signs flash in her eyes and she comes over immediately to help.

  As you browse through the racks of low-cut tops and high-cut skirts, and undergarments with unconventional but strategic openings, you think about how far you've come. From listening in on emotions to taking absolute control over—all but owing—this fabulous body.

  Life is good.

  And going into psychiatry proved to be a stroke of genius, even if you do say so yourself. It gives you access to people with emotional problems, a majority of whom are women, since women as a rule are far more apt to admit to emotional problems and seek help for them. A certain percentage of those women, purely as a result of the law of averages, are young and attractive. You've skewed the curve in your favor by letting it get around that you treat nurses on a courtesy basis. When you find a young attractive woman who fits your criteria of suggestibility, you edge her down a circuitous path that will convince her that she might have a multiple personality disorder. When she allows you to hypnotize her, you establish contact, entering her mind and making a little nest for yourself there. It's akin to leaving a marker. After that, you can find her whenever she's in range—like reaching out in the dark and finding a familiar object—and take her over whenever she's sleeping. You make her body do a few rude things during the night, thus confirming the multiple personality diagnosis beyond all doubt. After that she's yours whenever you want her, as soon as she goes to sleep.

  The sleep part is important. Once you've worn a body a few times in sleep, you're capable of taking over whenever you wish. But if you do so while the individual is alert and conscious, the victim knows she's been taken over. She might even recognize you. That would never do. So you only take over patients who have been convinced they have a multiple personality disorder, and only when they are asleep.

  It's a delicate juggling act, really. You must keep them frightened and off-balance enough so they stay in therapy, but not so frightened and distraught that they become discouraged or disillusioned with you and go somewhere else. With the right amount of hope and a sufficient number of setbacks, you can keep them dangling indefinitely.

  And when you tire of them… you cure them.

  Some of them cure themselves by moving away. Your range is limited. You can reach as far as Hartford and the Catskills and a ways west of Philadelphia. And even when they are that far, there is no sensation of transit—one instant you're in your own body, the next instant you're in another's. But at the extremes of your range the bond is so tenuous, the strain of maintaining contact so enormous, that there is nothing to be gained by the effort. Except in Kara's case. During the weekend after she returned to her farm it exhausted you to make her body do a few simple things, such as writing on the mirror and the like, but it was worth the effort. It brought her back to New York.

  You've never failed. Your arrangement has worked perfectly for years and there is no reason it cannot go on for as long as you live. No matter how old your brain and your own body become, you can always have a young body to occupy.

  You carry your packages from the Nite Owl and find a cab to take you to the Helmsley Palace on Madison and 50th. You rent a room there—registering as Janine Wade—paying in advance in cash. Then you stop at the pharmacy to pick up some make-up and essentials. Half an hour later you walk Kara's provocatively dressed body down to the bar. In no time you have a Stetson-hatted Texan in tow. He's big, he's horny, and this is his last night in town. He's perfect.

  ▼

  2:45 A.M.

  You lay alone on the bed in Kara's body, vaguely frustrated. The Texan was all right, but after the Hindu last night he was something of a letdown. You can see that you're going to have to go back to picking up doubles again. You've shied away from that sort of thing since the fiasco at the Plaza two weeks ago, but you don't see that you have much choice if you're going to make these little jaunts worthwhile.

  You get up, wash off the make-up, use the Massengill vinegar douche you picked Hp earlier, and put the new clothing back in the Nite Owl bags. You've decided to store them in a locker at Grand Central. That way they'll be convenient to midtown and you won't have to waste so much valuable time going down to SoHo.

  Dressed again in the jeans and sweater and coat, you head for the lobby. The exhilaration of a few hours ago has worn off, and because the evening has not turned out as well as you hoped, you're feeling somewhat low. It's at times like these that questions of morality arise and circle you like whispering shades from unkempt graves.

  What right have I to do this?

  The question doesn't arise nearly so often as it did during the early days. But tonight it creeps back. You face it squarely.

  No right at all.

  Then why? Why do you do it?

  You know the litany. You do not flinch from the response.

  Because I can! Because I must! Because I love it! Because I cannot stop! But most of all because without it I might as well be dead!

  Besides. You are one of a kind, a law unto yourself. That is your justification. Isn't that enough?

  ▼

  3:30 A.M.

  Movement at the front of the Kramer building caught Rob's attention through his half closed eyes. He straightened up and squinted through the foggy windshield.

  Gates. Leaving his office.

  Christ! What had he been doing in there all this time?

  Gates began to walk uptown. Since Seventh Avenue ran downtown only, Rob couldn't follow. He took a gamble. He started the car and took the next even numbered street east up to Sixth Avenue, raced uptown to Twenty-first and came down the street with his lights out. He pulled in by a fire hydrant at mid-block and waited.

  Gates showed a few minutes later. He went up the steps to his front door and disappeared inside. Five minutes later all the lights went out.

  Rob debated extending the watch, then decided against it. He had a feeling Gates wouldn't be going anywhere until his office opened in five and a half hours.

  A wasted night. Or maybe not. At least he knew Gates hadn't been out snooping around Kelly's apartment playing mind games on Kara. But he was puzzled as to what it was in Gates' office that would keep him occupied until this hour.

  Sooner or later he'd find out. Rob had no doubt about that. Patience and vigilance—sooner or later they paid off.

  He turned on the headlights and headed home.

  ▼

  9:32 A.M.

  Ed had tried to age the coveralls quickly by bunching them up on the floor and stomping all over them. It had added wrinkles, but still they looked too clean. The same was true of the tool box he carried, even though he had taken a hammer to it.

  Nothing I can do about it now, he thought as he entered the Kramer Medical Arts Building.

  But he'd skipped shaving and showering this morning and was pleased with the slightly grubby effect.

  He walked up to the directory, found Dr. Gates listed on the third floor, and took the elevator up. That was when he began to sweat.r />
  This is crazy! I could get disbarred for this!

  The best thing to do was turn around now, go back to the apartment, and go to work late. He had called in sick this morning but he could always tell them the virus had passed as suddenly as it came and he felt fine now.

  No! You're going to do this. You're going to go through with it. No backing down.

  When the elevator door opened, he marched out and found Dr. Gates' office. The door was flush steel. He took a deep breath, readied his best grin and Bronx accent, and pushed it open.

  "Mornin'!" he said to the receptionist behind the desk. "How's it goin' t'day, sweetheart?"

  "Can I help you?" she said, fixing him with a frosty stare.

  "Yeah. Y'havin' any trouble witcher locks?"

  She shook her head. "No. Why do you ask?"

  "Complaints. Loadsa complaints. Mostly on da fourth floor, but de owners want me t' check ev'ybody out as long as dey got me here."

  "I can't allow you to disturb Dr. Gates' patients—"

  "Nah, don' werry. Jus de outta door here. Lemme see yer key set."

  She reached for her bag and then stopped.

  "I don't know…"

  Ed had been afraid of something like this, but he had a plan of action prepared: Bull your way throush.

  "I should look atcher rest room keys, too."

  Still she hesitated.

  "C'mon, lady. Watcha tink I'm gonna do, steal 'em? I ain't got all day. And if sumpin goes wrong wit da cylinder or da tumbluhs later, yer boss'll hafta pay outta his own pocket. Know what I'm saying'?"

  She handed him a ring with two keys on it— probably the lobby key and the office door key—plus the two restroom keys that she kept in her drawer.

  Ed smiled at her. "Tanks, sweets. Dis'll only take me a minute."

  He checked out the lock on the door. It was a simple dead bolt with a knob inside and a keyhole outside. He found the right key on the second try and turned it back and forth. It worked perfectly.

  "Hear dat?" he said, putting his ear down to the face plate as the bolt slid in and out. "Yer cylinders is dry. I'll fix dat in a jiffy."

  He took out the can of graphite spray he had bought this morning and squirted some into the keyhole. He tried the key again.

  "Much better! Okay, I'm gonna check out yer rest rooms and da front. Be right back."

  Without giving her a chance to protest, Ed closed the door and hurried down the hall. He took the stairs two at a time down to the lobby, walked quickly through the front doors, then sprinted down to the locksmith on Fourteenth Street. He threw the office and main entrance keys on the counter.

  "One copy of each! Quick!" he said, puffing.

  Jesus, I'm out of shape!

  The man behind the counter gave him a sidelong look, but made up the copies and charged him four bucks plus tax. Ed had a five ready. He slapped it down, told him to keep the change, then sprinted back to the Kramer building.

  He took the elevator up to allow him to catch his breath, then strolled back into Dr. Gates' office. The receptionist looked relieved to see him.

  "Here y'are, sweetheart. Ev'ryting works fine. No problemo."

  "Thank you," she said, her cool and distant manner returning.

  Now came the fun part of his plan: the psych-out. If he left too fast she might start wondering about him. So Ed had decided to make her want him to leave.

  "Say, y'doin' anyting tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "How about t'morra?"

  "Sorry, but I'm involved."

  "Yeah, well, hey, I'm involved, too, but dat don' mean we can't go out an have a lil fun, if know what I mean."

  "I'm very involved, now if you'll—"

  He held up his hands.

  "Hey, sorree!"

  Just then the door marked "Consultation" opened and a middle-aged man stepped out.

  "Hiya, doc," Ed said.

  "That is not Dr. Gates," the receptionist said. "Now, will you please leave?"

  "Cert'nly. But how 'bout I drop by 'roun' five and we'll get a drink somewheres? Howzat soun'?"

  She ignored him.

  Shrugging dramatically, and with a great show of reluctance, Ed picked up his toolbox and left. He strolled to the elevator. The car that came for him was empty. When the doors closed and he was alone, he began to laugh. He leaned back and held his fists up to heaven.

  "You did it, you clever bastard, you! You fucking-ay did it!"

  His heart was pounding, he was bathed in sweat, but he'd never felt so alive in his life. And the best part about it all was that it had been fun! Jesus! He'd almost be willing to do this sort of thing for a living!

  The car stopped on the second floor and he straightened up. An old lady with a walker came in, assisted by a younger woman. Ed tried to look serious, but he felt too good. He rode the rest of the way down grinning like an idiot and jingling the two brand new keys in his pocket.

  But the grinning and jingling came to an abrupt, panicky halt when the elevator doors opened on the lobby and he saw Kara waiting outside. For an instant Ed couldn't breathe, couldn't move, then he noticed that she wasn't looking his way. Her eyes were down, her face pale, her expression blank. Her mind looked to be a million miles away.

  Ed wasn't going to wait for her to look up. He hoisted the tool box onto his shoulder, blocking his face from Kara, then he pushed past the old lady, almost knocking her over, and hurried for the street, never looking back until he was a block away.

  And all along the way, he thought of Kara. She looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. He had to find a way to help her, and he was convinced a clue to doing that lay in Dr. Gates' office.

  Well, he'd find out for sure tonight.

  He was actually looking forward to that.

  ▼

  10:07 A.M.

  "I have spoken to the patient who sent you the note," Dr. Gates was saying, "and I can assure you, he will never bother you again."

  Kara tried to ignore the lie about the "him" behind the letter, telling herself it was just Dr. Gates' way of protecting patient confidentiality.

  She nodded without really listening. She had other things on her mind. Another erotic dream, for instance. She didn't remember much besides a cowboy hat… and Dr. Gates' presence.

  She yawned behind her hand.

  That was another thing. She was so tired lately. Maybe it was because of the dreams, maybe it was because she hadn't been able to workout all week. Or maybe the Halcion was staying in her system.

  Still, she didn't dare stop it because it seemed to be doing the job. The apartment key had been right where she had hidden it. She'd even tied a strand of her hair around it last night, and the strand was still in place this morning. So, if nothing else, she could be sure she hadn't left the apartment last night.

  Rob had stopped by first thing this morning. He looked exhausted. He said he had another stake out tonight so he wouldn't be able to stay over.

  Just as well. Kara intended to hit the sack early tonight. Very early.

  ▼

  2:33 P.M.

  Lieutenant Mooney had the Kelly Wade folder on his lap as he slumped in the swivel chair behind his desk. He was whining again.

  "Why are you doing this, Harris?"

  "I'm not doing anything, lieu. I'm just telling you that there's new evidence in the Kelly Wade case and it's got to stay open."

  "That's a kook letter! It doesn't count!"

  "It's addressed to Kara Wade and says, in effect, get out of town or wind up dead like your sister. Where I come from, that's a threat. And it may mean that Kelly Wade herself was threatened before she died."

  Rob watched Mooney mull that, watched him try to find a way to make an end run around it, watched him give up.

  "Damn it, Harris. Okay. So what are we doing with this 'threatening' note?"

  "It's down in fingerprints now. We got a set from the victim's sister yesterday, and we found a set of Dr. Gates' from when he register
ed for a handgun in 1980. Both of those are all over the bill and the check. But they've picked up a third set. That's the one we're running down now."

  "And when that comes up as blank as the set from the hotel room, what're you going to do?"

  "I'm going to start shaking Dr. Gates' tree and see if any rotten apples fall out."