Scott Nicholson - The Home

Starlene folded her arms. The evening was growing cold. Or maybe the chill originated from the challenge in Kracowski's voice.

"Sure," she said. "I'll be your guinea pig. You'd probably love to have a case involving an adult subject, anyway, to make your research more credible."

"Tomorrow morning, then?"

"I'm scheduled to rotate off duty tonight."

"I can have the schedule changed. Things will soon be very interesting around here. The state board is going to visit in a few days, and our directors are excited about what's happening here."

Down by the lake, Vicky and Freeman had stopped talking and were looking out across the water. Starlene followed their gazes, and that's when she saw the old man.

She was about to blurt out to Kracowski, to show him that the man with the wet footprints was real, that she wasn't prone to temporary insanity or hallucinations, but she saw the old man walking on water, four steps, five steps, and she was trying to deny the evidence of her own eyes when he disappeared.

Maybe she did need an SST treatment. Or maybe she just needed to have her brain fried to a crisp.

In recorded history, only one person had ever walked on water, and Jesus Christ was safely resurrected and borne aloft to Heaven. Unless Jesus had made his promised return right here in the Southern Appalachian Mountains, on the grounds of Wendover, then a different kind of spirit was on the loose.

The conference room was quiet, the lights low. Francis Bondurant fidgeted with the glass in his hand. He longed for another drink, but he didn't dare let Dr. Kracowski learn of his vice. At least on duty and in public, he was a ginger ale man.

Across the polished table from him, Kracowski and Swenson sat side by side. This room was where the Board of Directors held its quarterly meetings, and was several doors down from where Bondurant had imagined seeing the old woman the previous night.

No, not imagined-she was REAL, she stared at me with that grinning forehead scar and Bondurant tossed down a couple of fingers of the ginger ale. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his suit, realized he was sweating, and loosened his tie. More oxygen to the brain never hurt, though surely his heart was thundering enough to send plenty of air to his skull. ' "You're melting," Kracowski said. "What's going on?"

"It's like this, sir-"

Paula Swenson smiled at Bondurant's term of subjugation and moved closer to Kracowski. She had selected the alpha male and her eyes said she had nailed him until death or a hefty divorce settlement, whichever came first. She cared not one bit for the children, for the Home, or for Wendover's good standing. She made her reputation on her back, not on her feet.

Bondurant clenched one fist beneath the table, imitating the grip of The Cheek Turner, picturing Swenson bent over his desk and squeaking, softly at first and then in real pain, as he brought the paddle down again and again and again "Now you're evaporating as well," Kracowski said.

Bondurant wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. "Too many things going on at once. Those two directors showing up on short notice, your experiments increasing in frequency, the staff changing over, and state inspectors coming by in a few days. This McDonald guy lurking around all the time. And these new supporters, I know they're a godsend but it's hard to get a handle on them."

"Pressure is internal, not external," Kracowski said.

"That's a good one," Swenson said. "You'll have to write that down."

"I already have."

"It's just"-Bondurant paused to finish his glass-"the staff has become a little unsettled."

"Unsettled?"

"Well, it's about the… you know…"

"If I knew, your calling this meeting would have been unnecessary."

"Yes, sir."

"My time is quite valuable. Should you ever need a private consultant, you'll find that you couldn't afford me."

"Lucky for Wendover that you're willing to work for free," Swenson said, as if hardly happy about it.

"I'm not working, I'm playing. I'm playing the biggest game of all, isn't that right, Bondurant?"

"Game?" Bondurant's hands trembled.

"The God game. Healing little souls, that's what we do here, isn't it? Redeeming the sins of society. Fixing God's mistakes."

Bondurant wished he had a little something in his glass. He'd even risk some whiskey. The knot in his throat tightened. Nothing to do but say it plain. "It's about the ghosts."

Kracowski had been leaning back in his chair, casual, perhaps with a hand on Swenson's thigh under the table. Now he sat forward and stared as if trying to decide to what species Bondurant belonged. After a long pause, in which the room's air grew more dense, Kracowski smiled. "Ghosts."

Swenson giggled. "Spooky-boo. So that's what's been coming to me in the night? I thought it was you, Richard."

She squeezed the doctor's arm but he pushed her away. "Not now, Paula. The man's serious."

Bondurant wished that he, like the mad woman he'd seen, could disappear into the wall. Kracowski despised weakness, and belief in anything that couldn't be proven was a weakness. "We've had three staff members make reports. One even quit over it," Bondurant said.

"What did these reports consist of? The same old campfire story about the old man in the gown? I've heard that one myself. Ever since I was four. Do you know what an urban legend is, Bondurant?"

He nodded in response.

"Well, Wendover seems to have its very own urban legend, the one about the dreary little hunchback they call 'Look-Out Larry.' I'm quite sure the so-called 'ghost' predates the existence of Wendover Home, and local townsfolk will be more than happy to share the legends their grandparents whispered about this place. Every town has a ghost, and every old building has one."

"Wendover's only a dozen years old but the building's been here for more than seventy years."

Swenson said, "Does that mean lots of people have died here?"

Kracowski laughed. "Nobody ever dies at Wendover. Do they, Bondurant?"

"Only for a little while," he said under his breath.

"What's that?"

"I said, 'Not like Enlo.'"

"Ah, the home where the little girl died from a restraint hold."

"Alleged restraint hold" Bondurant said. "That technique is approved by Social Services. The girl most likely had an undetected heart condition. But it should serve as a warning. Enlo was put on six months' probation."

"Too bad. You'd think a just God would let the girl's ghost return from the grave and dispense justice."

Swenson touched the doctor's shoulder. "You're funny, Richard. No wonder I like you."

Kracowski frowned at her. "Not in front of the staff. How many times do I have to tell you?"

Bondurant wondered if Kracowski really believed the staff didn't know about their little affair. But Kracowski wasn't common, he didn't deal in gossip, and to him, casual conversation about personal matters was poison. He lacked humanity even though he professed to work in human services. Even though Wendover and its clients were sport to Kracowski, he took the game seriously.

"There's still the problem of the reports, whether you believe them or not," Bondurant said. "The staff members talk among themselves. Things get whispered."

"I'll take care of that." Kracowski's eyes grew even darker.

"Three people saw the man in the robe. I don't think all three are crazy."

"But maybe two of them?" Swenson said.

"By the descriptions, I think 1 know who the man might be."

"Ah," Kracowski said. "Here it comes. One of your long-lost prophets, no doubt. I hope it's Ezekiel, who saw the chariot of fire. Or Elijah and the burning bush. All the Old Testament's best lunatics were pyromaniacs."

Bondurant fingered the rim of the glass. He bowed his head and prayed for strength. Confession was good for the soul, but the opening line was always a tough one. "You know that when the home was finished in the 1930s it became a state psychiatric hospital?"