couldn't stand to be in enclosed places.
Which was why the boy was trembling now, because Thirteen was fairly cramped. Kracowski said something to Mario, which was picked up by a microphone in the ceiling. The displaced words came to Bondurant through the computer speakers.
'It's okay, son. I'm going to help you. But first you're going to have to do something for me. Can you do that? Por favor?'
The boy nodded, lips tight.
'You're going to have to think about something.'
The boy looked at the door, then at the mirror.
'It's going to seem a little scary at first, but that's the only way I can help you.'
The boy's brown face faded to light tan.
'You trust me, don't you, Mario?'
The computer recorded data from the patches that covered the boy's chest and head. The boy's heartbeat played out on a graph, along with a corresponding jagged line that had something to do with Kracowski's electrodes. An inset image showed a multi-colored map of the boy's cranial cavity on one corner of the screen. Bondurant concentrated on the graphics so he wouldn't have to see the boy's frightened face. Green, purple, and red fields marked a transverse image of the boy's brain.
'Think back for me,' said Kracowski, his voice low and soothing. 'Can you do that?'
Then, 'Good.'
The jagged line rose slightly as the boy's heart rate increased. The purple field on the brain scan shifted to red, measuring increased blood flow.
Through the microphone: 'I want you to remember what it was like in the storage closet.'
The line jumped, spiked, fell off rapidly, and jumped again. The red of the colored brain map pushed at the green.
'Dark,' said Kracowski. 'You feel the walls closing in, don't you?'
The line made a saw-tooth pattern, the peaks nearly touching the top of the computer screen. A tape machine whirred, recording the session. The computer printer spat out a paper version of the data being stored on the hard drive.
Kracowski's voice went even lower. 'You're trapped, aren't you? You scream and nobody can hear you.'
The boy's rapid panting was picked up by the microphone. Bondurant couldn't resist any longer. He looked away from the machines and through the mirror. Kracowski stood over the boy, fidgeting with the buttons on a small box that looked like a cross between a television remote and a control for a radio-operated toy. The boy's eyes were pressed so tightly together that they quivered.
'Now, Mario, what you're feeling is the negative energy inflicted by the experience,' the doctor said, as if the boy could understand those big words. 'The fear has disrupted your energy fields and blocked the normal flow of your emotions.'
The doctor poised a finger over his control box. 'I can help you. Now, it's going to hurt for just a moment, but I want you to keep thinking about that small, dark space.'
Kracowski pressed a button and the boy shook uncontrollably for a couple of seconds. Bondurant glanced with concern at the computer monitor and saw that the bottom line had flattened. The boy's heart had stopped.
Bondurant clasped his hands together and asked Jesus to have mercy, on both the boy and on Wendover's good standing.
In Thirteen, the boy had fallen back on the bed. Kracowski adjusted the controls on his handheld box, then thumbed a lever. Both lines on the computerized chart took a wild leap, then ran together in synch. The gap between the lines had narrowed, the top one no longer jagged and inconsistent. The red on the brain map softened and faded to a placid purple.
Kracowski bent over Mario and lifted one of the boy's eyelids. The doctor smiled, turned to the mirror, and nodded, then began removing the electrode patches. Kracowski turned off the lights and left the room.
A few moments later the office door opened. Bondurant pretended to study the odd items on Dr. Kracowski's desk. A human brain, crenulated and obscene-looking, floated in a jar of formaldehyde. The label on the jar read 'Do Not Open Until Judgment Day.' Bondurant shuddered at the sacrilege.
'Satisfied?' Kracowski brushed past Bondurant and dragged the sheaf of printed data toward his desk.
'As long as he's not dead.'
'He's not only not dead he's better than ever. How long have your therapists been working with the boy?'
'Six months.'
'Six months of suggestion and mind games and feigned kindness. And the boy's claustrophobia didn't improve.'
'Of course not.'
'Post-traumatic stress disorder, adjustment disorder, possible Axis IV diagnosis of situational heart arrhythmia due to anxiety. Far too much negative energy, wouldn't you say?'
Kracowski sat behind the desk. Bondurant stood like a servant awaiting orders. 'The boy's afraid of the dark. The Lord is the light,' Bondurant said.
'You found one answer, and it works for you, no matter the question.' Kracowski nodded at the bookshelf. 'But there are ten thousand paths to knowledge or God or truth. According to quantum theory, we don't even exist as separate entities because our atoms have no substance when you get close to the center. According to the Taoist philosophy, the closer you get to the center, the farther you are from where you were going. According to Dr. Richard Kracowski, the center and the outer limits are exactly the same.'
Bondurant looked at the dark window into Thirteen. 'What happens when he wakes up and starts screaming?'
Kracowski tented his hands, the fingers like painted bones. 'He won't scream.'
'Every night since his arrival, he has insisted on a night light.'
'That's one of your mistakes. You're treating the symptoms, not the underlying cause.'
'Sure. We also fed him, taught him, gave him individual counseling and group therapy. We allowed him to grieve.'
'You allowed him to grieve for a father who cared so little that he would lock away his own flesh and blood. You should have taught the boy to hate that bastard.'
'That's not the compassionate care that Wendover represents.'
'I'm not talking about the mission statements and slogans that you pitch at your child psychology conferences. I'm talking about perfect harmony and alignment.'
Kracowski tapped the computer screen. The brain map was now a deep cobalt blue. 'That, Mister Bondurant, is the color of healing. Cobalt blue is the color of God.'
Bondurant watched the computer monitor as it paced out the boy's steady heartbeat. 'So you heal them by killing them for a few seconds.'
'Synaptic Synergy Therapy works. Low voltage at the proper emotional meridians, applied just long enough to disrupt the blockage. Multi-wavelength electromagnetic fields to influence the brain's neurotransmitters and blood flow. Radiopharmaceuticals to chart the brain chemistry. And add the power of positive thinking.'
Bondurant turned. 'No matter that it disrupts the heart's functioning?'
Kracowski smiled, his cheeks creased into shadowed pits. 'A man of faith should know that the heart and mind are connected.'
'The girl. Did you give her an SST treatment as well as the rebirthing therapy?'
'You did want to cure her promiscuity, didn't you? Isn't that one of the things Moses forbade on his dear stone tablets?'
'God told Moses nothing about treating claustrophobia,' Bondurant said.
'Did you ever consider,' Kracowski said, leaning forward, 'that God might have told me instead?'
Bondurant swallowed. Kracowski was taunting him, knowing who controlled Wendover's purse strings. And the silent investors had kicked in a ten percent salary bonus for Bondurant. With great power came great responsibility and a ton more bullshit to swallow. Bondurant was about to speak when the computer began beeping and the printer scrolled more paper toward the floor.
