The Home

TWENTY-SIX

Dr. Kracowski stared at the two-way mirror. "Impossible."

"Things are only impossible until they happen."

Kracowski watched McDonald's face in the reflection. They were in Thirteen, the room of miracles. That is, if Kracowski believed his own eyes instead of the empirical data. For the first time in his life, a shadow of doubt crossed the doctor's mind. "Is that why the Trust funded me?"

"We've been in the paranormal business for decades. Uri Geller was just a Cold War smoke screen. Think of the practical advantages of ESP, clairvoyance, remote viewing. You could sit in on any meeting, no matter how top secret."

"Congress would never fund such foolishness.''

"Yeah, and they would never fund a space-based missile system, either. What's a few billion siphoned off here and there? When it comes to national security, most politicians know enough to keep their noses out. And when did I ever say I was working for one government?"

"Okay. You want me to believe in Illuminati conspiracies, and you want me to believe in the supernatural. That's a lot to ask of a non-believer."

"You're not the first one to make a breakthrough." McDonald waved to the floor. "But your machines downstairs are doing something even our think tank people hadn't considered. Kenneth Mills never even had a clue, and in many ways, he was the pioneer in this field."

"You're fond of mentioning Mills, aren't you? Maybe he was brilliant, but his end results weren't. His wife's dead and his son suffers from a half-dozen behavioral disorders."

"Mills had a few personality flaws, sure. Like any genius. But his work with EMF opened the door to other people's heads. And you've taken things to me next level, Doctor. A level that, I'm afraid, is a little higher than we expected."

"And you're thinking I can't be trusted?"

"No. Like I told you, orders change."

"That explains the electric fence."

"We just think it would be best to keep everyone quarantined until we know more about what we're dealing with."

"Quarantined? You make it sound as if we're cultivating anthrax or manufacturing nerve gas."

"It's strictly 'need to know' at this point. If a few of the staff members went around town telling ghost stories, somebody might start snooping. And snooping leads to more snooping. Before you know it, along comes an idiot reporter looking for a Pulitzer and a book deal."

"Ah, that cliched little cloak and dagger bit. Who do you really work for, CIA or FBI or National Security Council?"

McDonald gave a toadish creak of laughter. "We're the guys who keep an eye on them"

"I think, McDonald, or whatever your name is, that's the first lie you've told me." Kracowski sat on the little cot where he had cured so many troubled children. He looked at the ceiling and wondered what it would be like to undergo an SST treatment himself. He didn't think he would notice any difference, because his neural patterns were perfectly aligned. There was nothing to cure. But would he be able to read minds? Or see ghosts?

He shook his head at the memory of the incident in the basement, those cold words slithering into his head.

"So all you have to do is keep with the program," McDonald said. "We're bringing in some of our people to verify your results. Independent observers, that sort of tiling."

"What you're trying to say is you're going to keep the lid on this forever."

"Maybe not forever. The United States government didn't keep the atom bomb secret once they started wiping out cities."

"I still don't see how you expect these"-Kracowski spat the next word-"ghosts to be manipulated. If they even exist."

"I think you can take 'if out of the equation." McDonald pointed to the two-way mirror.

Kracowski turned, and an image flickered in the glass as if trapped between the double panes. The image took a silver and white form, built itself a face. It was the woman, the one Kracowski had seen in the basement. This time, he had a corroborating witness to his illusion.

As they watched in silence, the woman ran her milk-vapor hands along the glass as if searching for a weakness, some small crack through which she could slip.

Kracowski realized he hadn't taken a breath in half a minute. McDonald was just as still. The woman's eye sockets, empty as abandoned mines, stared out as if not understanding this strange and solid world she had encountered. Her amorphous flesh pressed against the glass, and Kracowski found himself taking mental notes to record later in his journal. He was halfway through the first sentence when the image dissipated like smoke.

The room had grown so quiet Kracowski could hear the dull vibration of the machines in the basement. Even in a state of rest, the massive magnets had a gravitational pull. And perhaps some other kind of pull as well.

"Electromagnetic energy," Kracowski said.

"Looked like a ghost to me."

"No. Perhaps that's the force that draws them into our plane. This little intersection of dimensions we call 'reality.'"

"Reality. I'll believe it when I see it."

Kracowski waved his hand. McDonald was now insignificant, a spectator to Kracowski's brainwork. "From what little I've read about paranormal investigators, they use anomalies in electromagnetic readings as 'evidence' of otherworldly activity. Presumably, the ghosts disrupt the force fields when they appear. But what if it's the other way around? What if the electromagnetic fields attract them to our set of dimensions?"

"Just a few minutes ago, you were strictly by the numbers. Now you have a theory for cooking up ghosts."

"I'm a scientist, McDonald. A scientist's main job is proving why certain theories will never work. Discoveries are almost always made by mistake. Not many scientists are lucky enough to make a true discovery in their careers."

"And you're not making this one. Remember who you're working for." McDonald looked at the small camera lens in the corner of the ceiling.

Kracowski went to the door and tried the handle. Locked. He turned, his cheeks hot.

McDonald dug in his pocket and held up a shiny object. "I carry the keys from now on."

Kracowski nodded toward the glass where the image had appeared. "I don't think they need keys. And I'm not sure barbed wire is going to hold mem, either."

"We'll see. Until then, you keep cooking mem up, and I'll worry about what to do with them."

As McDonald unlocked the door and tapped out the code on the newly installed electronic lock, Kracowski stared at the mirror and wondered how he could best get inside McDonald's head.