But that line of thought was not going to do anything to help fight the depression that was coming on. No matter which textbook the psychiatrist showed you, there was no escaping the idea that depression was your own fault, that you should somehow be able to just 'make yourself happy.' That was a snake-eating-its-own-tail argument, because you then felt sorry for yourself because you couldn't fix what was wrong. Guilty by reason of self-awareness.
'Why blame yourself?' he said aloud. A small air vent in the ceiling undoubtedly held a microphone. These guys were pretty smart, up on all the mental espionage tactics. No doubt the Trust had a mole in here somewhere. Maybe they could open a drive-through therapy business. Pull your car up to the window, blather out a list of symptoms, and receive a paper slip as you paid your bill.
The slip could contain Chinese fortune-cookie platitudes, like 'All the truth you need lies within,' or 'The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' You could even sell French fries on the side, or maybe an add-water baptism or instant communion 'Who else is there to blame, Freeman?'
Freeman's eyes twitched again, though this time involuntarily. The amplified voice had no doubt come from the face behind the mirror. Freeman wished he were on an up, so he could triptrap the hidden person and nip the brain drain in the bud.
'I don't blame my own face,' Freeman said.
'Excuse me?' came the male voice.
'I was just thinking that whoever's talking must be watching me from behind the two-way mirror. Because I'm certainly not talking to myself.'
'Disassociative personality disorder is not on your diagnostic axis.'
The voice was metallic and clinical, and the transfer through electronics and speakers kept it from being trustworthy. Not that Freeman would have trusted it anyway.
'I've never been shrunk except face-to-face,' he said.
'You've never been treated by me before, either. That's obvious, since you still have problems.'
'You're quite sure of yourself, aren't you?'
'Success breeds confidence, Mr. Mills. That's one of the things you'll learn in our sessions together, while we're on the road to healing.'
'Therapy is a two-way street.' Freeman wasn't going to let this bug watcher off easy.
'Just beware the exit ramps.'
'Not only are you too chickenshit to meet your clients face-up, your extended metaphors are pretty lame.'
The room grew silent as the microphone switched off. Freeman made funny faces in the mirror while waiting. The Clint Eastwood squint worked well in the regular population, but you had to give the shrinks a little something extra. Maybe go over the top like Pacino in Scar-face or Keifer Sutherland in practically anything.
Soon the voice came again. 'Are you ready to talk about it?'
It.
Freeman hated that word, at least when said by somebody who always capitalized It. And It only meant one thing in Freeman's sessions: the long scar on his wrist. Now, with depression sinking in and the shrink trying this new tack, Freeman almost told all about It.
About Dad and the blowtorch, or Dad and the ground glass, or Dad and the electricity, or Dad the evil fucking troll who fried Freeman's brain until it worked like a cell phone and anybody could beep their stupid messages into it anytime they wanted.
Yeah, goddammit, I got somebody to blame. Now that you mention it.
But before he could speak, as his lungs froze and his stomach clenched like a fist around the beige breakfast waffles, the voice was replaced by Bondurant's.
'We're waiting, Freeman.'
'No, I don't want to talk about it.' Bad enough for one brain drainer to pick at your skull, but when you were double-teamed 'Freeman, this is Robert Brooks. I'm a friend.'
Yet another voice. Another 'friend.' This was turning into a joke. Shrunken by committee. Did these clowns honestly think they were going to catch Freeman off-guard, grill him as if they were TV cops, keep hitting him with new lines of questioning until his spirit broke?
'How can you be a friend if I've never met you before?' Freeman asked.
'We're here to help,' said Brooks.
A brief argument flared in the background as Brooks forgot to switch off the microphone. Bondurant was telling somebody that Freeman was a kleptomaniac who should have his fingers held over the flames of hell.
The first voice that questioned him said, 'Freeman, I'm Dr. Kracowski. We've arranged a little demonstration for a couple of our supporters. All you have to do is relax.'
Relax. Freeman took a breath that tasted of mint ice.
'What I'm going to do will only hurt for a moment, and then you're going to feel better,' said the faceless Kracowski. 'Your depression will fade and you'll feel elated and energetic.'
'How did you know I was depressed?'
'Because I'm trained to observe, Freeman. Because I listen. Because I care.'
'What's this business about it only hurting for a moment?'
If there was any answer, he didn't hear, because- zzzzijff-his ears clanged and orange light streaked behind his eyes. The bones of his head tumbled like gravel in a clothes dryer. Hot wires jabbed into his spine and his intestines tangled into knots. A scream came from somewhere. Blood was sweet in his mouth.
Freeman stared at his reflection, scarcely able to recognize the boy in the mirror: the pain had written ugly years on his face, peeled back his lips, caused his head to tremble and his jaws to clench. Worse, he found himself unable to read his own mind. He fought for breath and waited for the wave of agony to crest.
For the briefest of moments, his reflection had that same stretched grin that Dad had worn just before ordering Freeman to visit his mother in the bathroom.
Like father, like son.
Pacino in The Devil's Advocate.
Eastwood in High Plains Drifter.
De Niro in Cape Fear.
It was the kind of grin that killed.
FOURTEEN
Richard Kracowski tapped a couple of keys, even though all the functions were programmed into the computer and ran automatically. Moving his fingers and studying the screen gave a bit of flair to the presentation. To a scientist, the cause and effect were plenty enough to satisfy; with these board members and McDonald in attendance, though, Kracowski felt the need to resort to some showy sleight of hand.
In Thirteen, the subject was recovering from the thun-derburst that Kracowski's fields had just shot into his skull and soul. The boy's tremors faded, and a smile crawled among the slack features of his face. Kracowski had longed to see how this particular specimen would react to the treatment. Even for someone who had pushed the limits in both directions, Kracowski knew that this boy represented a paradigmatic leap in his research.
'What did you just do?' Robert Brooks said. Brooks was moist, his thick glasses misted by the humidity of his own skin. He covered the smell of sweat with a cologne so intense that Kracowski almost wished the man smoked cigarettes instead.
But Brooks was a key player, one of the money men, a fat industrialist who made a fortune in hosiery production. Brooks's factories had once been located in the Piedmont, but he'd moved the operation to Mexico to take even greater advantage of the labor pool. He'd left hundreds of Americans jobless, taken a large tax write-off for the abandoned property, and had increased his personal wealth fourfold. Yet Brooks fancied himself a humanitarian because he chipped in twenty thousand dollars a year to Wendover.
Kracowski despised such men, and McKaye was of the same stripe: well dressed, milky, and of the belief that money bestowed virtuosity. The doctor had an immediate distrust of anyone who used a first initial in his name.
