Time Bomb And Zahndry Others

I looked at Pak and Christophe, standing quietly by trying not to look offended. "Did it help?"

"Of course it did," Christophe said, sounding a little hurt. "The technique itself is perfectly straightforward—"

"Yeah. Right." I turned back to Maxwell. "So what's the problem? Either Dr. Pak moves into the White House until after the dust of the election has settled, or else Dr. Christophe goes ahead and makes Thompson a new doll. Surely he can spare another set of fingernail clippings—he can probably even afford to give up the extra hair."

"You miss the point," Maxwell grated. "It's not the President's pain treatments we're worried about."

"Then what—?"

"You mean you have forgotten," Christophe put in, "how voodoo dolls were originally used?"

I looked at the doll still in Pak's hand. "Oh, hell," I said quietly.

—

"Our theory is that it is the protein signature in the hair and nail clippings that, so to speak, forms the connection between the doll and the subject," Christophe said, gesturing broadly at the dolls in the vault. "Once that connection is made, what happens to the doll is duplicated in what happens to the subject."

I gnawed at my lip. "Well... these dolls were made specifically for medical purposes, right? Is there anything about their design that would make it impossible to use them for attack purposes? Or even to limit the amount of damage they could do?"

Christophe's brow furrowed. "It is an interesting question. There was certainly no malice involved in their creation, which may be a factor. But whether some other person could so bend them to that purpose—"

"If you don't know," I interrupted brusquely, "just say so."

"I do not know," he said, looking a little hurt.

"What's all this dirt for?" Maxwell asked, poking a finger experimentally into one of the row planters.

"Ah!" Christophe said, perking up. "That is our true crowning achievement, Mr. Maxwell—the discovery that it is the soil of Haiti that is the true source of voodoo power."

"You're kidding," I said.

"No, it's true," Pak put in. "A doll that's taken away from Haiti soon loses its potency. Having them in Haitian soil seems to keep them working indefinitely."

"Or in other words, the doll they stole will eventually run out of steam," I nodded. "How soon before that happens? A few hours? Days?"

"I expect it'd be measured in terms of a few weeks, maybe longer. I don't think we've ever gotten around to properly experimenting with—"

"If you don't know," I growled, "just say so."

"I don't know."

I looked at Maxwell. "Well, that's something, anyway. If it takes our thief long enough to figure out what he's got, it won't do him any good."

"Oh, he knows what he's got, all right," Maxwell said grimly. "Unless you really think he just grabbed that one by accident?"

"I suppose not," I sighed, glancing back at the rows of figurines. None of the others showed evidence of even having been touched, let alone considered for theft. "Dr. Christophe... is there anything like a—well, a range for this... effect of yours? In other words, does the President have to be within five miles, say, of the doll before anything will happen?"

Christophe and Pak exchanged looks. "We've treated patients who were as far as a hundred miles away," Pak said. "In fact—yes. I believe President Thompson himself was on a campaign trip in Omaha two months ago when we treated a stomach cramp."

Omaha. Great. If this nonsensical, unreal effect could reach a thousand miles across country, the thief could be anywhere.

Maxwell apparently followed my train of thought. "Looks like I was right—our best bet is to try and narrow down the possibilities."

I nodded, eyeing the vault door. This wasn't some cheap chain lock substitute Pak and Christophe had here—only a genuine professional would have the know-how to get into it. "Alarm systems?" I asked.

"I've got the parameters," Maxwell said before either of the others could speak. "You think I've proved sufficient urgency now for us to head back and dig into your files?"

The President's life, threatened by the melding of two pseudosciences that no one in his right mind could possibly believe in... except maybe that the combination happened to work. "Yeah, I think you've got a case," I admitted. "How's the President taking it?"

Maxwell hesitated a fraction too long. "He's doing fine," he said.

I cocked my eyebrow at him. "Really?" I asked pointedly.

His jaw clenched momentarily. "Actually... I'm not sure he's been told yet. There's nothing he can do, and we don't want to... you know."

Stir up psychosomatic trouble, I finished silently for him. Made as much sense as any of the rest of it, I supposed—

"Wait a second," I interrupted my own thought. "I remember reading once that for acupuncture to work the subject has to believe in it, at least a little. Doesn't the same apply to voodoo?"

Christophe drew himself up to his full height. "Mr. Harland," he said stiffly, "we are not dealing with fantasies and legends here. Our method is a fully medical, fully scientific treatment of the patient, and whatever he believes or does not believe matters but little."

Maxwell looked at Pak. "You agree with that, Doctor?"

Pak pursed his lips. "There's some element of belief in it, sure," he conceded. "But what area of medicine doesn't have that? The whole double-blind/placebo approach to drug testing shows—"

"Fine, fine," Maxwell cut him off. "I suppose it doesn't matter, anyway. If the President has enough belief to get benefit out of it, he probably has enough to get hurt, too."

Pak swallowed visibly. "Mr. Maxwell... look, we're really sorry about all this. Is there anything at all we can do to help?"

Maxwell glanced at me. "You think of anything?"

I looked past him at the rows of dolls. There was still a heavy aura of unreality hanging over this whole thing.... With an effort I forced myself back to business. "I presume your people already checked for fingerprints?"

"In the entryway, on the windows, on the vault itself, and also on the file cabinet where the records are kept. We're assuming that's how the thief knew which doll was the President's."

"In that case—" I shrugged. "I guess it's time to get back to the station and warm up the computer. So unless you two know of a antidote to—"

I broke off as, for some reason, a train of thought I'd been sidetracked from earlier suddenly reappeared. "Something?" Maxwell prompted.

"Dr. Christophe," I said slowly, "what would happen if a given patient had two dolls linked to him? And different things were done to each one?"

Christophe nodded eagerly. "Yes—I had the exact same thought myself. If Sam's acupuncture can counteract any damage done through the stolen doll—" He looked at Pak. "Certainly you can do it?"

Pak's forehead creased in a frown. "It's a nice thought, Pierre, but I'm not at all sure I can do it. If the dolls are both running the same strength—"

"But they won't be," Maxwell interrupted him. "The Haitian dirt, remember? You can keep yours stuck up to its knees in the stuff, while theirs will gradually be losing power." He shook his head abruptly. "I can't believe I'm actually talking like this," he muttered. "Anyway, it's our best shot until we get the first doll back. I'm going to phone for a car—have all the stuff you'll need ready in fifteen minutes, okay?"

"Wait a second," Pak objected. "Where are we going?"

"The White House, of course," Maxwell told him. "Well, Baltimore, actually—the President's there right now getting ready for the debate tonight. I want you to be right there with him in case an attack is made."