He looked like a drunk or a bum. Still, he was a grown-up, and Freeman had learned that, in the homes, the lowest rank of grown-up was still way above that of the kids. Freeman waved to him, but the man continued his silent approach.
'Say, sir, do you know where my bag is?' Freeman asked, not putting any defiance into his voice. Sometimes strange janitors could be turned into allies. If they weren't perverts.
In Durham, Tony Biggerstaff had bribed the weekend supervisors so that they smuggled in all the R-rated videos the kids could stomach. Freeman never knew how Tony paid them off, whether with cash, drugs, his sister, or himself. He never asked and Tony never confessed. But without Tony's sacrifice, Freeman would have never come to appreciate the Holy Trinity: Eastwood, De Niro, and Pacino. Beat the hell out of Smurfs and Japanime, and taught you a few life lessons in the bargain.
The janitor drew closer, pale lips quivering. The man's hands trembled. There was something odd about his gait. His bare feet protruded beneath the ragged hem of his trousers, making no sound on the tiled floor.
What kind of a janitor goes barefoot?
'Do you work here?' Freeman looked up the hallway to see if Starlene was coming back.
The man didn't answer. He was close enough now that Freeman could see the pores on the waxy face. Dark half-moons lurked in the shadows beneath the staring eyes. A strand of drool hung from one wrinkled corner of his mouth. The legs moved on, the arms limp at the man's side. The smell of dusty old meat wafted over Freeman.
The man passed Freeman, close enough to reach out and touch, but Freeman didn't dare. You never knew which of these home employees would snap, which one was important, which one you might need to impress at some time or another. You never knew which of them held your future in his hands. True, this dried-up geezer didn't look like a counselor, but you also never knew which little game was actually one of their staged tests. And if this guy was with the Trust, he definitely had games behind his eyes.
Freeman waited to be asked why he wasn't in class with the others, but the man shambled past, staring ahead as if Freeman didn't exist. The feet were creased with a mapwork of turgid purple veins, the bones knotted and calcified, but they rose and fell steadily. The man walked as if he had a destination just beyond the wall and didn't realize that the wall stood in the way.
Freeman had another thought. Maybe this man wasn't an employee of the home. Maybe he was somebody who'd never left, never found a permanent placement. Maybe this was what happened to unwanted people when they grew old. For a moment, Freeman imagined himself in that soiled uniform, condemned to a lifetime of directionless trudging.
Freeman thought about triptrapping him, getting into the geezer's brain, but the manic buzz of an hour ago had faded to zilch. Plus, every read came at a price, in headaches and confusion and loss of identity. For one thing, he'd learned that everybody was screwed up, everybody's thoughts and emotions were strange and twisted. One voice in his head was plenty enough, and maybe even one was too many.
The old man disappeared around the corner. Freeman stepped back into the Blue Room and let the door slip closed with a whisper of air. He felt more alone than he had in years. It was almost as bad as the closet Dad used to lock him in, where the wires and weird lights and pain first caused him to triptrap. And caused him to do bad things, think bad thoughts.
He went to his cot and sat quietly, like a death camp inmate, until the other kids arrived.
FOUR
Bondurant stood outside the padded room known as Thirteen, though no number was posted by the door. The room seemed to him more like 'Room 101' from the George Orwell novel 1984. In the novel, Room 101 was where characters faced their ultimate fears. Here at Wendover, the room was where Dr. Kracowski practiced his alternative therapies. The end results were similar.
'Is she conscious yet?' he asked through the open door.
'She's fine.' Kracowski straightened from leaning over the bed that held the patient. The doctor was six-four, thin and pale, eyes dark and intense. He put his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat as if he'd read an instruction manual on scientific posturing.
On the bed, a cotton blanket pulled up to her chin, was the girl. Bondurant noted with relief that her chest rose and fell evenly with her breathing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyelids twitched, but other than that, she looked like any healthy thirteen year old. He wondered what she was dreaming.
'She responded to the therapy,' Kracowski said. 'She suffered a little trauma, but when she comes around, she'll be farther along the road to recovery.'
Bondurant wasn't sure he wanted to know more about the technique the doctor had used this time. Womb therapy, Kracowski had explained, where they smothered the subject in pillows and urged her to be reborn. It sounded as sacrilegious as all his other therapies. Bondurant might as well enter a metaphysical bookstore and throw a dart at the shelves. Reiki, qi gong, channeling, past-life regression, primal scream, and dozens of other healing modalities made their way into the alphabet soup of Kracowski's treatments. Some of those were marginally accepted but to Bondurant's mind all were as flaky and godless as traditional psychotherapy. And Kracowski did it all in the name of that ultimate devil's tool, science.
Kracowski also had his own original techniques, crafted from pieces of obscure disciplines and arcane spiritual beliefs. Those were the ones that scared Bondurant the most, but Kracowski kept them hidden away in his mental medicine bag. All Bondurant knew was that the new treatments were linked to the machinery in the basement and the solemn-faced visitors who checked on Kracowski's progress. Silent investors, with silent motives.
'How many know about this?' Bondurant asked.
'Four. Swenson. You. Me.' He pointed at the girl on the bed as if he'd almost forgotten her. 'And her.'
Swenson. The knot in Bondurant's stomach loosened slightly. Paula Swenson was carrying on an affair with Kracowski. She'd certainly not want to mess up her chances at marrying into the doctor's millions by blabbing about a little mishap. The woman's marital odds were as poor as those of the several others who'd shared Kracowski's bed and research methods over the past few years. But Swenson didn't know these things, so she would keep her lips tight, if no other part of her vulgar body.
Kracowski felt under the blanket for the girl's wrist and checked her pulse. 'Fifty-five,' he said. 'She won't remember a thing.'
'You didn't drug her, did you?' Bondurant felt the edge in his voice, and knew his tone was bordering on insubordinance.
'You know I'm not a believer in drugs, Francis. For many of these children, that's part of their problem.'
'I didn't think so. I'm just always afraid of things that will leave a… trace.'
'The only trace I want to leave is the mark of healing.' Kracowski's eyes grew cold as he looked at the girl. She may as well have been a rare moth pinned to a cork board.
Bondurant paused at the door and looked down the hall to make sure no one was coming. Few of the staff were allowed access to the counseling wing. But some were too inquisitive for their own good. Starlene Rogers, for one. Always asking why the kids were taken from group therapy for individual treatment.
'I'm just being careful, Doctor,' Bondurant said. 'That's what you hired me for.'
Kracowski made a scissoring motion with two fingers. 'And don't forget how easily the strings can be cut.'
Bondurant looked up at the younger man, hoping his hatred was concealed. Kracowski was a philanthropist, but his philanthropy ended with the giving of money. He rarely spoke of the spiritual work of Wendover Home, that of setting children on the path to God.
Bondurant suspected that Kracowski was a Catholic, or, heaven forbid a Jew. But without Kracowski's backing, Wendover Home would have folded years ago, and the children would be scattered among various institutions, their chances for salvation further dimmed. And the doctor's newfound supporters had made the accounting ledgers a good bit healthier.
The girl's eyelashes fluttered and she rolled her head back and forth. A small moan escaped her lips. She
