'Have faith,' came the gentle voice. 'They can judge your mind, but they can't judge your soul.'
The shapes began spinning, as if Starlene were at the center of a double Ferris wheel that turned in two directions. The Miracle Woman blurred, the shapes became dots of smeared light against black, and the humming swelled into a chorus of moans. Starlene reached for her own eyes and found they were still closed, and the lights became thin streaks circling and circling, until at last there was only darkness.
Her pulse pounded in her neck. A soft light bathed her, and she shuddered in fear of more encounters with the things that walked the deadscape. The light became stronger and another disembodied voice pierced her skin.
'Miss Rogers, are you okay?'
Kracowski.
She opened her eyes. The ceiling was back in its proper place, the mechanism quieted. The mattress beneath her was solid. She tested the substance of her fingers and found they were again made of flesh.
She drew air into her lungs and looked at the mirror, toward where Kracowski would be standing behind it. 'What happened?'
Through the microphone: 'How are you feeling?'
'I don't know.'
'You're better, of course.'
'Better than what?'
'You've been aligned. You're harmonized. I have healed you.'
'But I wasn't broken.' She gripped the mattress, unable to trust herself to stand even if the restraints hadn't held her.
'That's what's so wonderful about SST. It heals even those who aren't aware they are in need of healing.'
She closed her eyes, and the images from the deadscape flickered at the back of her eyelids. She stared at the mirror instead. 'How long was I out?'
A pause came from the speakers. Then Kracowski said, 'You were dead for three seconds.'
If three seconds of death were that unbearable, Starlene wasn't sure whether the afterlife was a promise or a threat. Already the memories were scrambled and weak, and she couldn't trust what she had experienced.
Randy entered the room, and their eyes locked. For the briefest of moments, she thought she heard him speak, but then realized his lips hadn't moved.
Shed read his thoughts.
Something about the Trust and how McDonald needed to get rid of this particular problem known as Starlene Rogers. Though she was a cute little thing and would be fun for a tumble, she asked too many goddamned questions. She was trouble, he just knew it.
She rubbed her forehead after Randy released the restraints. She tried to read him again, but it was as if a fog had rolled in between them. She had almost convinced herself she had imagined the entire thing, the shock and the deadscape and Randy's thoughts, when Kracowski and McDonald entered the room.
She picked up McDonald's thoughts. He was wondering if the force fields could be aligned to scramble neural patterns so people like Starlene could be lobotomized without leaving scars. A brain death that left no evidence would be a useful tool.
And McDonald thought, before another fog rolled in, maybe Kracowski could be scrambled once he'd outlived his usefulness.
Starlene closed her eyes and waited for Randy to remove the electrodes.
THIRTY
Freeman peeked out the window. The kids were in gym class, and Freeman had faked a sprained ankle. He'd been sent to the rec room again, where he was supposed to rest and watch whatever uplifting program PBS was broadcasting. Instead, Dr. Phil was brow-beating a couple into a changing day in their lives. He turned down the sound on the television so the noise wouldn't distract him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the yellowed newspaper clipping. A tiny piece of it broke away as he unfolded it. The photograph had faded a little over the years, but it still had the power to reach off the page and squeeze Freeman's throat.
Dad's mug shot.
The headline above: 'PSYCHIATRIST ARRESTED IN WIFE'S MURDER.'
And then came the deck: 'Mills Was Respected in Mental Health Circles.'
Like all small-town papers, the Neuse River Tribune delivered sensationalism with a community touch. The article hinted at the gruesome nature of the crime with phrases such as 'mutilated corpse' and 'unsuspecting victim,' but also included eyewitness testimony:
'Dr. Mills was the nicest man you ever met,' said Doris Jenkins, who had lived next to the Millses for four years. 'He was quiet and always waved hello. You never would have expected something like this.'
Doris Jenkins, as Freeman recalled, had been an old witch who shook her broom at the kids whenever a stray football bounced into her roses. In her account to the press, she neglected to mention she'd never waved back. Now she was frozen in ink as the voice of authority. Whatever.
Freeman read the article all the way through, though he knew it by heart. His name was in the last paragraph. The poor kid who hadn't spoken since witnessing the terrible tragedy. The kid who was in an emergency foster placement until Social Services could figure out what to do with him.
The kid who grew up to be him.
Freeman carefully folded the article and returned it to his pocket. There had been other articles, page two follow-ups, and coverage of the trial before the DA pled Dad down because it was an election year and all the expert shrink witnesses were ready to declare Dad a basket case. But Dad had never again made the banner headline. That murder was the best the old bastard ever got.
Freeman closed his eyes and leaned against the mildewed sofa cushion. He could go to sleep here, with the sun dappled across his face from the window, nobody to bother him. Mercifully alone.
Something landed on his stomach.
He cocked an eye and saw Vicky standing over him. She wore brown today, a sweater that suggested two small shapes on her chest beneath it. Her skin was pale and vibrant, her eyes black. She nodded at the floor beside him.
A penny lay on the stained carpet.
'How did you find me?' he asked.
'How do you think?'
He tried a triptrap but he was on a definite downer. 'Do you have to follow me every second of the day?'
'Can't help it.' Vicky touched her head. 'You got inside here, and now I can't get you out.'
At least he was in her brain and not her heart. ESP he could understand because it made sense if you thought about electricity and radio waves and how the brain was just a bunch of wet wires. But that other stuff was way too freaky. It seemed bigger than the brain.
Freeman sat up with a fake groan. 'What do you think they're doing to Starlene?'
'Can't you triptrap her?'
'I'm beat. Even a genius like me can't turn it on all the time.'
'Depressed?'
Freeman put a hand over his pocket, where the clipping was safely hidden. 'Yeah, a little.'
'Memories are hell, aren't they?'
He looked at her. 'You're not going to make me talk about it, are you?'
'I just want to help.'
Freeman grabbed two fistfuls of ratty couch cushion and squeezed. He wasn't going to get mad. It wasn't her fault. She was like all the others, the shrinks, the cops, the social workers, the whole goddamned system, all of
