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 control 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."
"We'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 sick grin, then 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 insane is invisible. It all depends on which side of the bars you're standing."
McDonald tried the door. The hinges scraped as he swung it nearly closed. The blue glow of the machinery was mostly cut off from the outside, and the only light in the cell was from McDonald's flashlight. Kracowski shivered, imagining the horror of being shut up in solitary confinement here.
Mills noticed his discomfort. "Claustrophobic, Doctor?"
"Have you ever heard of 'empathy'?"
"I've successfully avoided that weakness. It tends to make you worry a little too much about other people."
"So all you care about is yourself," Kracowski said.
"Wrong. You're the one who's in this for personal gain. I'm after something that's bigger than all of us."
A soft shuffling arose in the hall outside. McDonald opened the cell door and shined his light in a sweeping arc. "Who's there?" he called in his authoritative voice.
No one answered. Kracowski stood behind McDonald and peered into the shadows. The hum of the machinery grew louder, and the glow from the main basement area pulsed like a heartbeat.
"That's not supposed to happen," Kracowski said. "The program is triggered by the computer in my office."
"I know who it is," Mills said, sitting on the corroded and moldy cot.
Kracowski grabbed at McDonald's flashlight. The agent elbowed him away. The hum increased in intensity, like a jet engine warming for takeoff.
"Something's wrong," Kracowski said.
"She wants to play," Mills said.
McDonald directed the beam onto Dr. Mills's face. The man's eyes were as large as Ping-Pong balls, the irises glittering with a faraway and secret pleasure.
Then Mills broke into laughter, the kind that Kracowski had heard during his internship at Sycamore Shoals Hospital; on the upper floor, the terminal cases, those who had crossed over into a land beyond reason; a land where only a few were invited, and from which no one ever returned.