Mystery Walk

owns a controlling interest in Essex Records. You want to purchase Essex Records for a million and a half, and so you're sitting in my study.'

Wayne nodded. He said calmly, 'Is Essex worth that much?'

Krepsin responded with a soft laugh. 'Ha! My boy, you made the offer. Is it worth that much to you?'

'Essex lost two hundred thousand last year alone,' Wayne replied. 'It's lost clout in the country-western music business, and Essex can't afford to lure in hit-producing artists. I want to pump new money into it, and start it all over as a gospel label.'

'So I understand,' Krepsin said quietly. 'You're a very bright young man, Wayne. You have ... a great insight, as well as a very special ability. Tell me something, now, and your answer will never go beyond this room: I've watched your television shows over and over, I've seen the expressions of these people who pass through—what do you call it?—the Healing Line.' His head bent forward, jowls and chin hanging. 'Are you really a healer? Or is it . . . trickery?'

Wayne paused. He wanted to get up and leave this room, get away from this strange house and this man with the black eyes. But he remembered that his daddy had told him to trust Mr Krepsin, and he knew his daddy wouldn't tell him wrong. He said, 'I am a healer.'

'And you can heal any kind of sickness? Any kind of . . . disease?'

From a distance of time and space Wayne seemed to hear a whispered but accusing voice: Do you know what you're doing, son? He shut his mind on years of accumulated doubts that had haunted him in the night. 'Yes.'

Krepsin sighed and nodded. 'Yes. You can, can't you? I've seen it in your face; I've seen it in the faces of those you've healed. You conquer the fading flesh and brittle bone. You conquer the filth of disease, and drive out the germs of Death. You . . . hold the power of Life itself, don't you?'

'Not me. God works through me.'

'God?' Krepsin blinked, and then his smile was back. 'Of course. You could have Essex Records, as my gift to your Crusade. But I'd prefer to stay on in a consulting position. I like the idea of going gospel. There's a lot of money to be made in it.'

Wayne frowned. For an instant he thought he'd seen something dark and huge standing behind Krepsin— something bestial. But then it was gone.

'I know you're tired from the flight,' Krepsin said. 'You and I are going to get along very well, Wayne, and we'll have plenty of time to talk later. Mr. Niles is waiting for you at the end of the corridor. He'll take you downstairs for some lunch. I'd suggest a nice afternoon steambath and then a siesta. We'll talk again this evening, all right?'

Wayne stood up, an uncertain smile on his face, and Krepsin watched as he left the room in his sanitary cotton slippers. Krepsin peeled off his rubber gloves and dropped them into a waste receptacle beneath the desk. 'Plenty of time,' he said softly.

47

'Here ya go,' the cab driver said, and pulled to the curb. 'You sure this is where you want to get out?'

'Yes sir,' Billy told him; at least he thought it was the place. A crooked sign said Cresta Street, and the address on the small brownstone building was 1212. Across the street was a sad-looking little park with a rusty swing set and a few drooping trees; set around the park were other brownstone buildings and old two- story houses, many of which looked empty. The larger buildings of downtown Chicago loomed in the distance, filtered by gray haze.

There was a small round peephole in the door, and for a moment Billy felt himself being watched. Then locks began to click open—one, two, and three. He had a sudden urge to run all the way back to the Greyhound bus station, but he stood his ground.

The door opened, and standing within was a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. She had long black hair that hung almost to her waist, and Billy thought she looked Spanish. Her eyes were pretty and alert, but there was a trace of sadness in them. She glanced at his suitcase. 'Yes?'

'Uh . . . this must not be the right place. I thought this was the Hillburn Institute?'

She nodded.

'Well ... my name's Billy Creekmore, and I'm here to see Dr. Hillburn.' He fumbled in his back pocket for the envelope and held it out to her.

The girl said, 'Come in,' and then locked the door behind him.

The interior was a pleasant surprise. Dark wood paneling gleamed with oil and polish. There were clean rugs on the shining hardwood floor, and an abundance of green plants added a welcoming touch. The tempting aroma of good food wafted in the air. A staircase ascended to the second level, and just to the left of the front door, in a high-ceilinged parlor, a half-dozen people both young and old watched television, read, or played checkers. Billy's entrance caused a pause in their activities.

'I'm Anita,' the girl told him. 'You can leave your suitcase down here, if you like. Mr Pearlman,' she said, addressing one of the men in the parlor. 'It's your turn to help in the kitchen today.'

'Oh. Right.' The man put aside his Reader's Digest and went off through a hallway.

'Follow me, please.' Anita took Billy upstairs, through a series of well-kept dormitory-like rooms. There were doors marked Testing Lab 1, Audio-Visual, Conference Room, Research Lab I. The building was very quiet, with pale green linoleum floors and tiled ceilings. Billy glimpsed other people moving about, several of them wearing white lab smocks. He saw a young woman about his own age coming out of a testing lab, and he felt a quick spark of attraction as their gazes met and held. She was wearing jeans and a blue sweater, and Billy saw that her eyes were different colors: one was a pale blue, the other a strange deep green. The young woman looked away first.

Then Anita led him around a corner to a door marked Dr. Hillburn, Ph.D., Director. Billy could hear a muffled voice within. The girl knocked on the door and waited. A moment passed. Then: 'Come in.' It was a woman's voice, carrying an inflection of annoyance.

Dr. Hillburn was sitting behind a battered desk in a small office cluttered with books and papers. The beige- colored walls were adorned with framed certificates and brass plaques, and a window looked out over the Cresta Street park. A green-shaded lamp burned atop the desk, which also held a blotter, a metal can with a collection of pencils and pens, and several pictures of people Billy assumed were her children and husband. Her hand was clamped around a telephone receiver.

'No,' she said firmly. 'I can't accept that. The grant was promised us last year and I'll fight for it right up to the capital, if I have to. I don't care that all the funds are tied up, and I don't believe that anyway! Am I just supposed to shut down everything and go out on the street? God knows we're almost on the street as it is!' She glanced up and motioned for Anita to close the door 'Tell the esteemed senator that I was promised matching funds, dollar-for-dollar. No! We've cut our staff down to a skeleton crew already! Ed, just tell him that I won't stand for any more foolishness. I'll expect to hear from you by tomorrow afternoon. Good-bye.' She put the receiver down and shook her head. 'It's getting so deep over in Springfield you need waders to get through! Do you know what's ahead of us on the budget agenda, Anita? Consideration of a grant for a study of litter patterns on the north beach! I ask them for fifteen thousand dollars to keep our programs going for another year, and—' Her clear gray eyes narrowed. 'Who are you, young man?'

'My name is Billy Creekmore. You people sent me this letter.' He stepped forward and handed her the envelope.

'Alabama?' Dr. Hillburn said, with obvious surprise. 'You're a long way from home, aren't you?' She was a fragile-looking woman in a white lab coat, her eyes deeply set, alert, and very intelligent. Billy thought she was probably in her late forties or early fifties. Her dark brown hair, threaded with silver, was cut short and brushed back from her high, furrowed forehead. Though she had a gentle appearance, the sound of her voice on that telephone told Billy she could spit nails if angered.

Dr. Hillburn looked up at him for a moment after reading the letter. 'Yes, we sent you this some time ago. I think I recall the correspondence we got from this friend of yours, Mr Merkle. Anita, will you do me a favor please?