"And then came the advent of the new class of drugs. The late 1940s and 1950s were a wondrous time For pills. It was more wonderful for the doctors than the patients. Instead of having to spend hours listening to troubled souls, you could scribble something on a notepad and send them off to the nearest pharmacy."
"Avoiding the real problem," Bondurant said.
"Neither of us approves of drugs," Kracowski said. "You, on religious grounds, and I oppose them because they distort the brain's harmonics."
"But then you get to fix them," Swenson said. "You can realign their energy fields."
"You're pretty smart for a doctor," Kracowski said to her, with an edge of sarcasm she didn't grasp. "But I'd rather the patient be healed in the first place and not have to submit to treatments. Harmony is the brain's natural state. We can blame civilization, socialization, and, yes, religion, for the pressures and stresses that have thrown the modern brain out of balance."
"I've read your theories, Doctor." Bondurant literally ached for that whiskey now. If only God would grant him eight ounces of ninety-proof bourbon. "But there are mysteries that science will never be able to solve. Like the ghost."
"You and your damned ghost. I still say it's nothing but wishful thinking mixed with the power of suggestion."
Bondurant's stomach tensed. This was going to be difficult. "I saw one myself."
The room grew so quiet that Bondurant could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Dr. Swenson stopped picking lint from her blouse.
Kracowski narrowed his eyes. "Your hunchback, I presume? Thanks to the power of suggestion?"
Bondurant shook his head ashamed scared. "No. This was a woman. Last night. I heard a noise in the hall and followed it. When I cornered her and asked her what she was doing, she turned and disappeared into the wall."
Bondurant wiped his eyes, hoping to erase the memory of her face. But that long scar grinned at him still.
"She had a scar across her forehead" Bondurant said, the words large in the hushed room. "A lobotomy scar. Done from the top, not up through her nose."
"And her clothes? I suppose she was dressed in hospital garments." Kracowski smiled and spoke as if he were narrating a B-grade horror movie. "Naturally, since she must have been the ghost of a patient who died here long ago. Evil lives in the walls, doesn't it, Bondurant? Evil, evil, EVIL."
Swenson slapped at him. "Quit it, you're creeping me out."
Kracowski laughed. "I'm afraid our dear Francis has been working too many late nights."
To Bondurant, he said "Reading the Bible in the wee hours? Or is it the whiskey that fulfills your spiritual needs these days?"
Kracowski had commented on his drinking, Bondurant's well-kept secret, of which neither the Lord nor Wendover's directors would approve. But he couldn't answer in his defense because, through the small square of glass set in the conference room door, the crazy old woman was looking in, wearing her double grin. Kracowski, his back to the door, couldn't see. If indeed there was anything to see.
"I don't want to hear any more foolishness about ghosts," Kracowski said. "The breakthrough won't take much longer, so keep your head until then. All that matters is that I continue my treatments. For the good of the children."
"For the good of the children," Swenson said.
"For the good of the children," Bondurant echoed, smiling weakly back at the woman at the window. But she had already gone, into the wall or back through the mists of time. Or maybe into the arms of the dead.
EIGHTEEN
Vicky slipped out of the shadows and crossed the hall. Sneaking out of the Green Room at night was too easy. She loved challenges, and Wendover hadn't provided many so far, at least when it came to security. Though the back doors were bolted and locked, some of the entrances had to be left accessible in the event of fire. No, they weren't entrances, because doors opened both ways. They were exits.
About once a week she sneaked outside, usually to lie in the grass and look at stars or count blue splotches on the moon. She had never been tempted to go over the wall and make a serious break for freedom; she could think of no destination that would allow her to escape her own grotesque body. She was so damned fat she should be easy to spot, like a Goodyear blimp in a circus tent.
The home had an overnight security guard, whose main duties were to quell fights among the boys or to make sure nobody was getting high on smuggled contraband. Watching out for runaways wasn't in the job description. He was probably watching TV in the rec room, eating greasy burritos and slamming Diet Coke, with a Snickers bar in his pocket for later, all sweet and gooey and peanutty, the kind that would make lumpy brown vomit and scratch your throat as it came back up. He had never caught her even though her footsteps were like an elephant stampede in the halls.
Vicky wondered what Freeman would think of her sneaking around. She reached out to read him, or "triptrap" as he called it, but her mind was clouded. The effects of the last treatment had faded. She caught the dim hubbub of distant thoughts, but couldn't be sure where they came from, or if she was imagining them. Maybe it was all wishful thinking. Or the babble of angels. Or schizophrenia.
She went past Bondurant's offices. Light showed in the crack beneath the door. The old bastard was probably in there right now, fantasizing about paddling girls. Damned if she'd ever be bent over his desk. She'd feed him his glasses first, or die trying.
She heard voices inside the conference room and saw someone outside the door. She ducked back around the corner, then stooped low and waited. The old pipes in the walls thrummed as someone flushed a toilet on the second floor. Vicky leaned forward and peeked but the hall was empty.
Bondurant, Dr. Kracowski, and the ditzy bimbo, Swenson, had been having a powwow. Vicky moved past the conference room, ducking under the window, her belly tight from being folded. From there, she had an easy jaunt to the front door. Though it was well lighted the main entrance was the best place for an escape. The electronic key pad blinked red. They didn't expect anybody to dare sneak out that way, especially a four-hundred-pound water balloon with legs. She punched in the code, sixty-five star, then pushed open the door, and the sweet night air rushed over her.
Autumn had a taste, at least here in the Appalachian Mountains. Tonight it was dark orange, like pumpkin, invisible food that didn't make you stuffed to the eyeballs. The grass was moist with dew, and the lawn sparkled under the security lights. The mountains were unseen but they had a presence all the same, of a great weight looming on the horizon. She ran barefoot around the side of the building.
She was in the back of the home, passing by a row of shrubs, when she heard a noise in the shadows. A couple of times she had spooked a rabbit on her dark walks. But this sounded bigger than a rabbit. Lots bigger.
She turned as a chunk of shadow separated itself from the larger night. Just her luck. The guard, surprised while taking a leak in the laurels. Or knocking down a satisfying Snickers.
"Okay, you got me," she said. A shame, too. The night was glorious.
"Not yet, but soon enough." It wasn't the guard.
"Deke?"
"Yeah, Vomit Queen."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Fairy-hunting. Didn't find no fairies, though."
She looked around. The back entrance was locked for the night. The lake was too far, and though she might lose him in the pines, he would probably take her down as she ran across the open lawn. She could always yell and hope someone inside the building heard her. But all the windows to the rear were dark, and the walls were thick stone.
Deke came several steps closer and the moonlight caught his face. His eyes were pools of used motor oil. She didn't like the way he was smiling. She wondered if any of his buddies were crouched in the bushes, waiting for him to draw first blood before jumping the prey themselves. As fat as she was, mere was plenty of meat to go around.