The Home

THIRTY-ONE

A man in a uniform stopped Kracowski's Nissan at the front gate. The guard had a clipboard tucked under one arm, his neck so closely shaven that the skin was raw. Kracowski let his window down and looked at his twin reflections in the guard's mirrored sunglasses.

"What's the meaning of this?" Kracowski said.

"Name, sir?" The guard's tone was even, almost bored.

"You've got to be kidding." He pointed to the small walkie-talkie clipped to the guard's belt. "Let me speak to McDonald."

The man shook his head, the shades giving nothing away. "We have no McDonald. Please give me your name, sir."

"I have a better idea. Why don't you give me your name, so I can have your ass reamed for not knowing who I am?"

Kracowski squeezed the steering wheel. McDonald and his damned spy games. How many other agents of the Trust had been scattered around Wendover that Kracowski didn't know about? Probably a couple in the basement, beyond the range of his surveillance system. McDonald himself had insisted on staying at one of the counselor cottages, the one vacated by the frightened cleaning lady.

At least the guard didn't appear to be armed. It's a wonder the man didn't have a submachine gun strapped to his shoulder. Couldn't have any kids sneaking out, not with McDonald's secret superiors calling the shots. The electric fence was bad enough, but Kracowski resented this final humiliation.

"I'm only following orders, sir," the guard said.

"Whose orders?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. I need to check your name against this list to make sure you're authorized."

"I do the authorizing around here," Kracowski said.

McDonald came from behind the stone fence and walked to Kracowski's car, a steaming Styrofoam cup in his hand. "What's the problem?" he said to the guard.

"No problem, Mr. Lyons. I'm just explaining our security precautions to this man. No one in or out unless they're on this list."

McDonald tapped the guard on the shoulder. "Good. I can vouch for this man."

"Yes, sir."

To Kracowski, McDonald said "Unlock the passenger door."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm on my way home. I was up very early this morning."

"Yes. Arrived at 6:04 A.M., you were in your office with Paula Swenson until just before dawn; then we conducted an SST treatment on Starlene Rogers. You had lunch in your office: tuna salad yogurt, and diet Sprite."

"Now wait a minute-"

"Unlock the door."

"Or what? Your rent-a-thug will write me a parking ticket?"

The guard's blank expression didn't yield. McDonald said "This thing has gotten bigger. I just thought you'd like to be brought up to speed."

"I thought this was on a 'need-to-know' basis. You keep changing your catchphrases on me."

"Don't be a smartass, Doctor. Don't forget who holds he keys to your future. To your career. To your ass. One word from me and all your electronic toys go bye-bye."

Kracowski looked in the rearview mirror. The stones of Wendover glowed in the sun, the windows bright with he afternoon. In those rooms were children who needed lis treatment. He had the power to make a difference in so many lives. And this group home was only the beguiling. If his theories played out as he believed then his lame would be synonymous with a new revolution in the field of behavioral health. Freud Skinner, Kracowski. A holy triumvirate.

But every revolution had its bloodshed, every freedom its price. ESP was the genie that came out of the lamp of knowledge, and the deadscape was the mystery hiding behind that one. If the Trust pulled the plug now, Kracowski might never make the final breakthrough. He unlocked the door and waited for McDonald to slide into he passenger seat.

" 'Lyons,' huh?" Kracowski said once his window was up. "Or is McDonald a fake, too? I'll bet your own mother doesn't even know your real name."

"That's 'need-to-know,' and right now, you don't. Drive."

"Where?"

"Your house."

Kracowski pulled through the gate. McDonald waved at the guard, who resumed his post, as stolid as the stone columns that supported the gate.

"Why have you put Wendover under siege?" Kracowski said. "And don't you think the locals are going to get a little suspicious with all these changes taking place? They don't get many secret government agents in these parts."

McDonald said nothing. He reached over and took Kracowski's briefcase from the back seat. "What's the combination?"

"You can't be serious."

"Listen, I'm not stupid enough to think you leave all your data on Wendover's computers. I want everything you have on Starlene Rogers."

"I'm not keeping any secrets. You're the one blowing smoke all over the place."

"Don't waste your breath. We searched your home computer, and we know all about the early experiments. The ones you hoped had been forgotten, snowed under by the bullshit system."

"No charges were ever filed against me, and Bondurant-"

"Bondurant's a drunken jackass. He's only useful in the event something goes wrong and we need somebody to finger. He's a born victim, anyway. But I guess you figured that out a long time ago."

Kracowski licked his lips and kept his eyes on the gravel road. To the right was farmland that sprawled out in uneven humps, broken by creeks and patches of woods. Wendover was three miles from Elk Valley, which was useful when the clients ran away, because they always followed the main road straight into town. They became like animals that had been caged too long, their survival instinct lost.

"The combination," McDonald repeated.

Kracowski told him. McDonald flipped open the briefcase and rifled through the papers. He took the computer disks and tucked them into his pocket. "You're the trusting sort, aren't you? I figured you'd have a false bottom."

"I told you, I have nothing to hide."

"What about the data hidden on your hard drive at home?"

Kracowski looked in the mirror. Far behind mem was a black sedan with tinted windows. Most people who used mis road drove pick-ups. Kracowski rounded a bend and lost sight of me sedan.

"It's all theoretical, anyway. I would never have been able to prove it. Ghosts don't exist, McDonald."

"You're starting to come up with some catchphrases of your own."

"You can steal my disks and download my files and prowl through all the case histories, but you won't find a single shred of evidence that supports life after death."

"Except for the evidence I've seen with my own eyes."

"Eyes can lie, can't they?" He looked in the mirror. The sedan was still behind them, gaining fast. The farmland had given way to a planned development, big houses with landscaping and split-rail fences. The gravel road turned to asphalt and Kracowski pushed the accelerator.

"Slow down," McDonald said. "This isn't a James Bond movie."

"We're being followed."

"No, we're not. We're just both heading for the same destination at high speeds."

They reached the outskirts of Elk Valley, a smattering of gas stations and fast food restaurants mixed with ski rental outlets and roadside produce stands. The sedan dropped back to the speed limit as soon as Kracowski did, but maintained the distance between the two cars. Kracowski took a left and soon they were on the private road leading to the doctor's estate.

The house came into view between two magnificent oaks. It was a Colonial, white siding with black shutters, far more space than Kracowski needed living alone. He'd bought the property because of its eighty acres of pasture and forest, his boundaries reaching over the ridge so that no one could build above him. The mountains had always given him a sense of security, as if the dirt and granite would repel all invaders.

Kracowski parked by the barn and waited for McDonald. He'd decided that he would bide his time and see what kind of game the man was playing. McDonald waved to the sedan, which pulled to the front of the house. Two men got out of the car, the driver was dressed like the gate guard at Wendover, his familiar looking passenger in a rumpled gray jacket and tie. The back door of the sedan opened and Paula Swenson stepped into the sunshine. She wore sunglasses like the driver's.

"Time to meet your new partner," McDonald said, getting out of Kracowski's car.

McDonald led the way to Kracowski's house, fumbled in his pocket and came out with a key. Within seconds the door swung open and McDonald stepped aside so the others could enter.

"I thought you secret agents employed more sophisticated methods to gain illegal entry," Kracowski said.

"I've had a key almost as long as you have," McDonald said. "Thanks, Paula."

Paula almost smiled at him, then her face went blank again. Kracowski stared at her, for the first time wondering if what he had mistaken for admiration and affection in her eyes was actually animal cunning.

"Nothing happens by accident," McDonald continued. "You may think you moved here of your own free will, because of the important research you needed to conduct at Wendover, but didn't you ever wonder at how easily the red tape fell away? And why the Department of Social Services wasn't constantly breathing down your neck?"

"I should assume my house has been bugged?" Kracowski looked at the corners of the living room with new interest. "With tiny cameras planted all over the place? Where are they? In the mantel clock, maybe?"

"You're too trusting, Richard," Paula said. "You shouldn't have let me move in until you got to know me better."

Kracowski studied the two men from the sedan. The guard wore an unreadable expression that looked as if it would break before smiling. He'd taken off his sunglasses, but the eyes were as blank as windows.

The man in the gray jacket, on the other hand, had eyes that rolled in their sockets as if constantly on watch for phantoms. His face was wrinkled and pale, dark hair trimmed unevenly close to the scalp, sprouting out at the sides like some grotesque clown's. He smelled of institutional soap. His teeth worked together, chewing air.

"I want you to meet the man who is going to help you prove the existence of life after death," McDonald said. "Someone who was working for us in a similar capacity before he had… personal issues."

The anxious man nodded at the fireplace and picked a glass paperweight from a dusty hutch. He held it to one eye and squinted through it, his pupil made large and obscene.

"Dr. Kracowski, say hello to Dr. Kenneth Mills, esteemed clinical psychologist."

"A pleasure to meet me, Doctor," Kenneth Mills said. He turned abruptly and flung the paperweight into the fireplace, shattering it. Broken glass sprayed across the carpet. Neither McDonald nor the guard flinched. Swenson fumbled in her purse.

Mills grinned, showing sharp incisors to Kracowski. "I look forward to working with you. By the way, how's the boy?"

"Boy?" said Kracowski, blown off balance by the man's tempest.

The grin grew wider and sharper. "My son. Freeman."