Scott Nicholson - The Home

Behind Vicky, the door to the rec room opened, and Freeman froze, his face inches from Vicky's. She smelled of shampoo and meadows and sunshine.

Isaac poked his head through the door. "What are you guys up to?"

Freeman released Vicky and stepped away from her. "Nothing. She had something in her eye."

Vicky looked at Freeman and grinned. "Gym over?" she said to Isaac.

"Some of the kids said Starlene Rogers went into Thirteen," Isaac said. "Kracowski's giving her the treatment."

"No way," Freeman said. "Nobody's mat dumb, even a grownup."

"I wonder if she saw the deadscape," Vicky said "You guys and your deadscape," Isaac said. "You're nutballs, did you know that?"

"So they keep telling us," Freeman said. "Let's go see what happened to Starlene."

"Wait," Isaac said. He stooped and picked up the penny from the floor. "Look what I found. Tail's up."

"That means bad luck," Vicky said.

"Is there any other kind?" Isaac said.

Allen came in, frowning, as if they were up to something sneaky just because no grownup had been supervising them. A bell rang in the hallway.

"You kids better hurry on to class," Allen said, disappointment in his voice. Probably wished he'd caught them smoking or something.

They walked past him, Isaac flipping the penny in the air. Freeman wondered now many more pennies Vicky had stashed away in her pockets and if he had enough thoughts for each of them.

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."