right now, Wayne, pressed to the stones and trying to get in.'
'But . . . people are immune to all those things now,' Wayne said.
'There is no such thing as immunity!' Krepsin almost shouted. His lips worked for a few seconds before he could speak. 'Levels of resistance rise and fall; diseases shift, parasites mutate and breed. Bubonic plague killed six million people in Bombay in 1898; in 1900 it broke out in San Francisco, and the same bacillus that causes plague has been found in the ground squirrel. Don't you see? It's waiting. There are cases of leprosy in the United States every year. Smallpox almost spread into the United States in 1948. The diseases are still out there! And there are new bacteria, new parasites, evolving all the time!
'If disease could be controlled, so could death,' Krepsin said. 'What power a man would have! Not to have to . . . fear. That would make a man godlike, wouldn't it?'
'I don't know. I've . . . never thought about it that way.' Wayne stared at Krepsin's bulbous face. The man's eyes were fathomless pools of ebony, the pores in his flesh as big as saucers. His face seemed to fill the entire room. Warmth coursed through Wayne, and a feeling of safety and belonging. He knew he
Krepsin rose from his chair with a grunt like a hippo rising from dark water. He lumbered across the room, drew aside the plastic curtain ringing his bed, and pressed a couple of buttons on the command console. Instantly images appeared on the three videotape screens. Wayne squinted and grinned. They were video tapes of his television show, and there he was on the three screens, touching people in the Healing Line.
'I've watched these again and again,' the huge man said. 'I hope I'm watching the truth. If I am, then you're the one person in the world who can do for me what I want.' He turned to face Wayne. 'My business is very complex and demanding. I own companies from L.A. to New York, plus many in foreign countries. I make a phone call, and stocks do what I want them to. People do anything to get close to me. But I'm fifty-five years old, and I'm susceptible to diseases, and I . . . feel things slipping away. I don't want that to happen, Wayne. I'll move Heaven —or Hell—to keep things as they
Wayne stared at his hands, clenched in his lap. Krepsin's voice echoed inside his head as if he were sitting within a huge cathedral. He remembered his daddy telling him to listen hard to what Mr. Krepsin had to say, because Mr Krepsin was a wise and just man.
Krepsin put his hand on Wayne's shoulder. 'I've told you my fear,' he said. 'Now I want to hear yours.'
Reluctantly at first, Wayne began. Then he told more and more, wanting to get it all out of him and knowing Mr. Krepsin would understand. He told him about Ramona Creekmore and the boy, about how she'd cursed both of them and wished his father dead, about his Daddy's death and rebirth, how she was making him have nightmares and how he couldn't get her face, or the demon boy's, out of his mind.
'She . . . makes my head hurt,' Wayne said. 'And that boy . . . sometimes I see his eyes, staring at me like . . . like he thinks he's
Krepsin nodded. 'Do you trust me to do the right thing for you, Wayne?'
'Yes sir I do.'
'And I've made you feel comfortable and safe here? And I've helped you sleep and forget?'
'Yes sir. I . . . feel like you believe me. You listen to me, and you understand. The others ... I can tell they're laughing at me, like up on the Tower. . . .'
'The Tower?' Krepsin asked. Wayne rubbed at his forehead but didn't reply. 'I want to show you how sincere I am, son. I want you to trust me. I can end your fear. It would be a simple thing. But . . . if I do this thing for you, I'll soon ask you to do something for me in return, to show me how sincere
The pills were working. The room had begun to slowly spin, colors merging together in a long rainbow scrawl. 'Yes sir,' Wayne whispered. 'They should burn in the fires of Hell forever.
'I can send them to Hell, for you.' He loomed over Wayne, squeezing his shoulder. 'I'll ask Mr. Niles to take care of it. He's a religious man.'
'Mr. Niles is my friend,' Wayne said. 'He comes in at night and talks to me, and he brings me a glass of orange juice just before I go to bed. . . .' Wayne blinked and tried to focus on Krepsin's face. 'I . . . want some of the witch's hair. I want to hold it in my hand, so I'll know. ...'
The huge face smiled. 'A simple thing,' it whispered.
Indian summer had lingered late. The blue evening light was darkening as yellow leaves stirred on the trees and a few of the dead ones chattered on the roof of the Creekmore house.
Ramona turned up the lamp wicks in the front room as darkness gathered outside. A small fire burned in the hearth, her chair pulled up so she could warm herself near it—she followed the Choctaw custom of building little fires and stepping close, instead of the white man's belief in making a bonfire and standing back. On a table next to her a lamp burned, a metal reflector behind it, so she could read for the third time the letter she'd gotten from her son today. It was written on lined notebook paper, but the envelope had Hillburn Institute and the address in nice black print up in the left-hand corner. Billy had been in Chicago for almost two weeks, and this was the second letter he'd sent. He described what he'd seen of the city and told her all about the Hillburn Institute. He'd had long talks with Dr Mary Hillburn, he'd said, and also with the other doctors who worked on a volunteer basis.
Billy said he'd met some of the other people, but many of them seemed withdrawn and kept to themselves. There was a Mr. Pearlman, a Mrs. Brannon, a Puerto Rican girl named Anita, and a scruffy-looking hippie named Brian; all of them, it seemed, had had an experience with what Dr Hillburn termed 'theta agents' or 'discarnate entities.' Billy also mentioned a girl named Bonnie Hailey; she was very pretty, he'd written, but she stayed apart from the others and he saw her only infrequently.
He was taking tests. Lots of tests. They'd punched him with needles, wired electrodes to his head and studied squiggles on long pieces of paper that came from the machines he'd been connected to. They'd asked him to guess what kind of geometric shapes were printed on something called Zener cards, and he was keeping a diary of his dreams. Dr. Hillburn was very interested in his experiences with the shape changer, and whenever they talked she took everything down on a tape recorder. She seemed more demanding of him than of the others, and she'd said that she looked forward to meeting Ramona sometime. Next week there would be hypnosis sessions and sleep deprivation, not something he particularly looked forward to.
Billy said he loved her, and that he'd write again soon.
Ramona put his letter aside and listened to the wind. The fire crackled, casting a muted orange light. She'd written a reply to Billy and had mailed it this afternoon. It had said:
Son, you were right to leave Hawthorne. I don't know how things will tum out, but I have a lot of faith in you. Your Mystery Walk has led you out into the world, and it won't end in Chicago. No, it'll go on and on, right to the end of your days. Everybody's on their own kind of Mystery Walk, following the trail of their days and doing the best with what life throws at them. Sometimes its mighty hard to figure out what's right and wrong in this mixed-up world. What looks black can sometimes really be white, and what appears like chalk can sometimes be pure ebony.
I've been thinking a lot about Wayne. I drove over there once, but his house was dark. I'm afraid for him. He's pulled toward you, just like you are to him, but he's scared and weak. His Mystery Walk might've led him into teaching others how to heal themselves, but it's been warped now by greed and I don't think he can see his path clearly. You may not want to stomach this, but if ever in your life you can help him, you have to. You're bound by blood, and though the Walk took you off in different directions, you're still part of each other. Hate's easy. Loving's damned hard.
