'Now, Paula, just because the children can't hear us doesn't mean we can let down our guard,' he said. 'After all, if you name a puppy 'Butt-Ugly,' it will suffer from poor self-esteem and the resultant depression. Even though the puppy doesn't know the meaning of the words. It's all projection and perception, setting up expectations.'
Starlene looked at her watch again. Three more minutes. She could put up with this insufferable pair that much longer, surely. This was nothing compared to the trials of Job or the rigors of a church bake sale.
'Tell me, Miss Rogers,' Kracowski said, waving his hand to indicate the children playing and shouting on the grounds. 'What do you see when you look at our young charges?'
'I see hearts in need of hope. And I think we ought to do more than just shock them senseless.'
Swenson glowered. 'Richard's treatments affect positive change at the subatomic level. He heals the whole person, from the inside out.'
Kracowski laughed. 'I don't need another advocate, dear. The results will speak for themselves once I collate my data and get my articles published.'
'That's what it's all about with you, isn't it?' Starlene knew she was risking her job, but she'd had enough of Kracowski's subterfuge and pompousness. 'As long as you get credit in the psychological community, you could care less about the kids.'
'I care more than you can imagine, Miss Rogers. Those kids out there, the ones who receive Synaptic Synergy Therapy, they are me. Or, rather, the way I was when I was young. Lost, confused, unsure of my place in the world. I had so much anger inside.'
'Did you plug yourself into a wall socket, or did you find somebody to talk to?'
'We're really not so different, Miss Rogers. I believe in optimism. That's a version of harmony, no matter if the harmony is induced by SST or through the attention of someone who pretends to care.'
'I care,' Starlene said. She watched Vicky and Freeman on the rocks by the lake. They seemed to be arguing about something. She hadn't seen Vicky so animated in weeks.
'I'm sure you do care,' said Swenson. 'You're brainwashed by the twin systems of religion and social sciences.'
'Paula, don't rush to judgment,' Kracowski said. 'We all need faith.'
'Faith,' Starlene said. 'I'll remember that tonight when I'm saying my prayers.'
The sun was lower now, touching the cut of the mountains, and shadows reached like fingers toward Wendover Home.
'I'll tell you what,' Kracowski said. 'Why don't you let me administer an SST treatment on you? If you're sound and healthy, it can do no harm. If you have any troubles, your emotional fields will be aligned to their proper state. And you'll see that I'm not some Victor Frankenstein running a chamber of horrors.'
Starlene folded her arms. The evening was growing cold. Or maybe the chill originated from the challenge in Kracowski's voice.
'Sure,' she said. 'I'll be your guinea pig. You'd probably love to have a case involving an adult subject, anyway, to make your research more credible.'
'Tomorrow morning, then?'
'I'm scheduled to rotate off duty tonight.'
'I can have the schedule changed. Things will soon be very interesting around here. The state board is going to visit in a few days, and our directors are excited about what's happening here.'
Down by the lake, Vicky and Freeman had stopped talking and were looking out across the water. Starlene followed their gazes, and that's when she saw the old man.
She was about to blurt out to Kracowski, to show him that the man with the wet footprints was real, that she wasn't prone to temporary insanity or hallucinations, but she saw the old man walking on water, four steps, five steps, and she was trying to deny the evidence of her own eyes when he disappeared.
Maybe she did need an SST treatment. Or maybe she just needed to have her brain fried to a crisp.
In recorded history, only one person had ever walked on water, and Jesus Christ was safely resurrected and borne aloft to Heaven. Unless Jesus had made his promised return right here in the Southern Appalachian Mountains, on the grounds of Wendover, then a different kind of spirit was on the loose.
SEVENTEEN
The conference room was quiet, the lights low. Francis Bondurant fidgeted with the glass in his hand. He longed for another drink, but he didn't dare let Dr. Kracowski learn of his vice. At least on duty and in public, he was a ginger ale man.
Across the polished table from him, Kracowski and Swenson sat side by side. This room was where the Board of Directors held its quarterly meetings, and was several doors down from where Bondurant had imagined seeing the old woman the previous night.
No, not imagined-she was REAL, she stared at me with that grinning forehead scar and Bondurant tossed down a couple of fingers of the ginger ale. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his suit, realized he was sweating, and loosened his tie. More oxygen to the brain never hurt, though surely his heart was thundering enough to send plenty of air to his skull. ' 'You're melting,' Kracowski said. 'What's going on?'
'It's like this, sir-'
Paula Swenson smiled at Bondurant's term of subjugation and moved closer to Kracowski. She had selected the alpha male and her eyes said she had nailed him until death or a hefty divorce settlement, whichever came first. She cared not one bit for the children, for the Home, or for Wendover's good standing. She made her reputation on her back, not on her feet.
Bondurant clenched one fist beneath the table, imitating the grip of The Cheek Turner, picturing Swenson bent over his desk and squeaking, softly at first and then in real pain, as he brought the paddle down again and again and again 'Now you're evaporating as well,' Kracowski said.
Bondurant wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. 'Too many things going on at once. Those two directors showing up on short notice, your experiments increasing in frequency, the staff changing over, and state inspectors coming by in a few days. This McDonald guy lurking around all the time. And these new supporters, I know they're a godsend but it's hard to get a handle on them.'
'Pressure is internal, not external,' Kracowski said.
'That's a good one,' Swenson said. 'You'll have to write that down.'
'I already have.'
'It's just'-Bondurant paused to finish his glass-'the staff has become a little unsettled.'
'Unsettled?'
'Well, it's about the… you know…'
'If I knew, your calling this meeting would have been unnecessary.'
'Yes, sir.'
'My time is quite valuable. Should you ever need a private consultant, you'll find that you couldn't afford me.'
'Lucky for Wendover that you're willing to work for free,' Swenson said, as if hardly happy about it.
'I'm not working, I'm playing. I'm playing the biggest game of all, isn't that right, Bondurant?'
'Game?' Bondurant's hands trembled.
'The God game. Healing little souls, that's what we do here, isn't it? Redeeming the sins of society. Fixing God's mistakes.'
Bondurant wished he had a little something in his glass. He'd even risk some whiskey. The knot in his throat tightened. Nothing to do but say it plain. 'It's about the ghosts.'
Kracowski had been leaning back in his chair, casual, perhaps with a hand on Swenson's thigh under the table. Now he sat forward and stared as if trying to decide to what species Bondurant belonged. After a long pause, in which the room's air grew more dense, Kracowski smiled. 'Ghosts.'
Swenson giggled. 'Spooky-boo. So that's what's been coming to me in the night? I thought it was you, Richard.'
