Wayne was taken almost to the end of the corridor, to a pair of large oak doors. Niles pressed a buzzer set into the wall, and a few seconds later Wayne heard the sound of the doors unlocking electronically. “Go right in,” Niles said. Wayne, his stomach twisted into nervous knots and his head aching again, stepped through the doors.
There were skeletons in the room. Skeletons of fish, birds, animals, and one of a human being, laced together with wire and standing in a corner beneath a track light’s beam. Smaller skeletons, of lizards and rodents, were placed under glass display cases. The doors closed automatically behind Wayne, and a lock softly clicked.
“Welcome.”
Wayne looked toward the sound of that voice. In front of glass-enclosed bookcases there was a teakwood desk topped with a green blotter. A man sat in a wide, high-backed black leather chair, a track light shining down upon a white, bald head. The room was wood-paneled, and on the floor was a dark blue Persian rug with gold figures. Wayne stepped closer to him, and saw that the head sat atop a mountain of caftan-dressed flesh; his face was made up of folds within folds, and small black eyes glittered. He smiled, showing tiny white teeth. “I’m so glad you could come,” the man said. “May I call you Wayne?”
Wayne glanced uneasily around at the mounted skeletons. There was an entire skeleton of a horse, caught in midstride.
Augustus Krepsin waited until Wayne had almost reached the desk, then extended a hand. Only after Wayne had shaken it did he realize Krepsin was also wearing flesh-colored surgical gloves. “Please, sit down.” Krepsin motioned toward a chair. “Can I offer you something? Fruit juice? Vitamins to perk you up?”
“No, thanks.” Wayne took the seat. “I had a sandwich on the plane.”
“Ah, the Challenger! How’d you like it?”
“It was…fine. Mr. Coombs is a good pilot. I…don’t know what happened to the others. They were in the car right behind us…”
“They’ll be along soon, I’m sure. I see you’re intrigued by my collection, aren’t you?”
“Well, I… I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
Krepsin grinned. “Bones. The very framework of the body. Strong, durable, highly resistant to disease, yet…sadly, often the first thing to weaken in a body. I’m fascinated by the mysteries of the human body, Wayne: its flaws and faults as well as its strengths.” He motioned toward the human skeleton. “What a grand design, isn’t it? Yet…doomed to return to dust. Unless, of course, you treat it and varnish it and wire it together so it won’t dissolve for a few hundred years.”
Wayne nodded, his hands clasped together in his lap.
“You’re a handsome young man,” Krepsin said. “Twenty-one next month, am I right? Lived in Fayette all your life? You know, there’s something about a Southern accent that’s so…earthy. I’ve become quite a fan of yours, Wayne. I had Mr. Niles obtain video tapes of some of your shows when he visited Nashville, and I’ve watched them all several times. You have quite a commanding presence for such a young man.”
“Thank you.”
Krepsin’s large head dipped in respect. “You’ve come a long way, I understand. Now you have an influential television show, a radio station that’s turning at least a hundred thousand in profits every year, and a publishing company that will break even sometime in 1974. You speak before approximately a half-million people per year, and your foundation is planning to build a four-year Christian university before 1980.”
“You’ve been checking up on me,” Wayne said.
“Just as your Mr. Hodges has been asking questions about the Ten High Corporation. It’s only good business.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “But I’m sure you know what needs to be known: I own Ten High. Ten High owns a controlling interest in Essex Records. You want to purchase Essex Records for a million and a half, and so you’re sitting in my study.”
Wayne nodded. He said calmly, “Is Essex worth that much?”
Krepsin responded with a soft laugh. “Ha! My boy, you made the offer. Is it worth that much to you?”
“Essex lost two hundred thousand last year alone,” Wayne replied. “It’s lost clout in the country-western music business, and Essex can’t afford to lure in hit-producing artists. I want to pump new money into it, and start it all over as a gospel label.”
“So I understand,” Krepsin said quietly. “You’re a very bright young man, Wayne. You have…a great insight, as well as a very special ability. Tell me something, now, and your answer will never go beyond this room: I’ve watched your television shows over and over, I’ve seen the expressions of these people who pass through—what do you call it?—the Healing Line.” His head bent forward, jowls and chin hanging. “Are you really a healer? Or is it…trickery?”
Wayne paused. He wanted to get up and leave this room, get away from this strange house and this man with the black eyes. But he remembered that his daddy had told him to trust Mr. Krepsin, and he knew his daddy wouldn’t tell him wrong. He said, “I am a healer.”
“And you can heal any kind of sickness? Any kind of…disease?”
From a distance of time and space Wayne seemed to hear a whispered but accusing voice: Do you know what you’re doing, son? He shut his mind on years of accumulated doubts that had haunted him in the night. “Yes.”
Krepsin sighed and nodded. “Yes. You can, can’t you? I’ve seen it in your face; I’ve seen it in the faces of those you’ve healed. You conquer the fading flesh and brittle bone. You conquer the filth of disease, and drive out the germs of Death. You…hold the power of Life itself, don’t you?”
“Not me. God works through me.”
“God?” Krepsin blinked, and then his smile was back. “Of course. You could have Essex Records, as my gift to your Crusade. But I’d prefer to stay on in a consulting position. I like the idea of going gospel. There’s a lot of money to be made in it.”
Wayne frowned. For an instant he thought he’d seen something dark and huge standing behind Krepsin—something bestial. But then it was gone.
“I know you’re tired from the flight,” Krepsin said. “You and I are going to get along very well, Wayne, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk later Mr. Niles is waiting for you at the end of the corridor. He’ll take you downstairs for some lunch. I’d suggest a nice afternoon steambath and then a siesta. We’ll talk again this evening, all right?”
Wayne stood up, an uncertain smile on his face, and Krepsin watched as he left the room in his sanitary cotton slippers. Krepsin peeled off his rubber gloves and dropped them into a waste receptacle beneath the desk. “Plenty of time,” he said softly.
47
“HERE YA GO,” THE cab driver said, and pulled to the curb. “You sure this is where you want to get out?”
“Yes sir,” Billy told him; at least he thought it was the place. A crooked sign said Cresta Street, and the address on the small brownstone building was 1212. Across the street was a sad-looking little park with a rusty swing set and a few drooping trees; set around the park were other brownstone buildings and old two-story houses, many of which looked empty. The larger buildings of downtown Chicago loomed in the distance, filtered by gray haze.
Billy paid the driver—Four-fifty for a car ride? he thought incredulously—and stood with his battered suitcase in front of a wrought-iron gate and fence that separated 1212 from the other buildings. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected, but this place was far from it. The gate shrieked as he pushed through, and he walked up the steps to the front door. He pressed the doorbell and heard the faint sound of chimes.
There was a small round peephole in the door, and for a moment Billy felt himself being watched. Then locks began to click open—one, two, and three. He had a sudden urge to run all the way back to the Greyhound bus station, but he stood his ground.
The door opened, and standing within was a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. She had long black hair that hung almost to her waist, and Billy thought she looked Spanish. Her eyes were p
retty and alert, but there was a trace of sadness in them. She glanced at his suitcase. “Yes?”
“Uh…this must not be the right place. I thought this was the Hillburn Institute?”
She nodded.
“Well…my name’s Billy Creekmore, and I’m here to see Dr. Hillburn.” He fumbled in his back pocket for the envelope and held it out to her.
The girl said, “Come in,” and then locked the door behind him.
The interior was a pleasant surprise. Dark wood paneling gleamed with oil and polish. There were clean rugs on the shining hardwood floor, and an abundance of green plants added a welcoming touch. The tempting aroma of good food wafted in the air. A staircase ascended to the second level, and just to the left of the front door, in a high-ceilinged parlor, a half-dozen people both young and old watched television, read, or played checkers. Billy’s entrance caused a pause in their activities.
“I’m Anita,” the girl told him. “You can leave your suitcase down here, if you like. Mr. Pearlman,” she said, addressing one of the men in the parlor. “It’s your turn to help in the kitchen today.”
“Oh. Right.” The man put aside his Reader’s Digest and went off through a hallway.
“Follow me, please.” Anita took Billy upstairs, through a series of well-kept dormitory-like rooms. There were doors marked Testing Lab I, Audio-Visual, Conference Room, Research Lab I. The building was very quiet, with pale green linoleum floors and tiled ceilings. Billy glimpsed other people moving about, several of them wearing white lab smocks. He saw a young woman about his own age coming out of a testing lab, and he felt a quick spark of attraction as their gazes met and held. She was wearing jeans and a blue sweater, and Billy saw that her eyes were different colors: one was a pale blue, the other a strange deep green. The young woman looked away first.
Then Anita led him around a corner to a door marked Dr. Hillburn, Ph.D., Director. Billy could hear a muffled voice within. The girl knocked on the door and waited. A moment passed. Then: “Come in.” It was a woman’s voice, carrying an inflection of annoyance.
Dr. Hillburn was sitting behind a battered desk in a small office cluttered with books and papers. The beige-colored walls were adorned with framed certificates and brass plaques, and a window looked out over the Cresta Street park. A green-shaded lamp burned atop the desk, which also held a blotter, a metal can with a collection of pencils and pens, and several pictures of people Billy assumed were her children and husband. Her hand was clamped around a telephone receiver.
“No,” she said firmly. “I can’t accept that. The grant was promised us last year and I’ll fight for it right up to the capital, if I have to. I don’t care that all the funds are tied up, and I don’t believe that anyway! Am I just supposed to shut down everything and go out on the street? God knows we’re almost on the street as it is!” She glanced up and motioned for Anita to close the door. “Tell the esteemed senator that I was promised matching funds, dollar-for-dollar. No! We’ve cut our staff down to a skeleton crew already! Ed, just tell him that I won’t stand for any more foolishness. I’ll expect to hear from you by tomorrow afternoon. Good-bye.” She put the receiver down and shook her head. “It’s getting so deep over in Springfield you need waders to get through! Do you know what’s ahead of us on the budget agenda, Anita? Consideration of a grant for a study of litter patterns on the north beach! I ask them for fifteen thousand dollars to keep our programs going for another year, and—” Her clear gray eyes narrowed. “Who are you, young man?”
“My name is Billy Creekmore. You people sent me this letter.” He stepped forward and handed her the envelope.
“Alabama?” Dr. Hillburn said, with obvious surprise. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” She was a fragile-looking woman in a white lab coat, her eyes deeply set, alert, and very intelligent. Billy thought she was probably in her late forties or early fifties. Her dark brown hair, threaded with silver, was cut short and brushed back from her high, furrowed forehead. Though she had a gentle appearance, the sound of her voice on that telephone told Billy she could spit nails if angered.
Dr. Hillburn looked up at him for a moment after reading the letter. “Yes, we sent you this some time ago. I think I recall the correspondence we got from this friend of yours, Mr. Merkle. Anita, will you do me a favor please? Ask Max to go through the M files and bring me the letters from Mr. Reginald Merkle.” She spelled out the name, and then Anita left. “Now. What can I do for you, Mr. Creekmore?”
“I’ve…come because your letter asked me to.”
“I expected a reply by mail, not a visit. And besides, that was some time ago. Are you here in Chicago with your family?”
“No, ma’am. I’m here alone.”
“Oh? Where are you staying, then?”
Billy paused, smelling disaster. “Staying? Well, I…left my suitcase downstairs. I thought I’d be staying here.”
Dr. Hillburn was silent; she nodded and spread her hands before her on the blotter: “Young man,” she said, “this is not a hotel. This is a workshop and research center. The people you probably saw downstairs, and those in the labs, have been invited here after long consultation. I know nothing about you, and to be perfectly honest I can’t even recall why we wrote you in the first place. We write hundreds of people who don’t answer us. Our labs certainly aren’t as well equipped as those at Duke University and Berkeley, but we have to make do on the budget we get from the University of Chicago and small grants. That budget is hardly enough to continue our tests and research on the individuals we select; and certainly there’s no room here for someone off the street.”
“I’m not here off the street!” Billy protested. “I’ve come a long way!”
“Of course you have, young man. But I’m saying that…” She looked up as a middle-aged man in horn-rimmed glasses and a lab jacket brought in a file folder containing several letters. “Thank you, Max,” she told the man, and when he’d gone she put on a pair of reading spectacles and took several letters from the folder. Billy recognized Dr. Mirakle’s spiky handwriting.
“What kind of place is this?” Billy asked her. “What goes on here?”
“Pardon? Don’t you know?” She glanced up at him. “The Hillburn Institute is a death survival studies clinic, sponsored in part by the University of Chicago. But as I say, we…” She trailed off, engrossed in something she was reading.
“What do those people downstairs do?”
“They…they’ve had experiences with manifestations or spirit controls.” Dr. Hillburn looked up from the letters and pushed the spectacles up onto her forehead. “Young man,” she said quietly, “you evidently left your friend Mr. Merkle deeply impressed. The experiences he’s written down here are…quite interesting.” She paused, returned the letters to the folder, and said, “Sit down, won’t you?”
Billy took a chair in front of her desk. Dr. Hillburn swiveled her chair around to stare through the window at the park, her face illuminated by pale gray light. She took her glasses off and put them in her jacket pocket. “Young man,” she said. “What do you think of our city?”
“Well, it’s noisy,” he replied. “And everybody’s running around so fast.” He didn’t tell her that he’d seen the black aura twice—once clinging to an elderly black man on the bus and once surrounding a young girl a few blocks away from the bus station.
“Have you ever been this far away from home before?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you must feel the ability you have—whatever it is—is very special. Special enough to leave Alabama and come such a distance? Why did you come here, Mr. Creekmore? And I’m not talking about the letter. Why did you come?” She turned toward him again, her gaze sharp and watchful.
“Because…my friend, Dr. Mirakle, said I should. And because my mother wanted me to. And…maybe because I didn’t know where else to go. I want to understand more of why I’m like I am. I want to know why I see things that other people don’t. Like the black auras,
and the entities that look like mist and carry so much pain, and the shape changer. My mother could see the same things, and her mother before her…and it’s likely that my son or daughter will be able to, as well. I want to know as much as I can about myself. If I’m in the wrong place for that, tell me now and I’ll leave.”
Dr. Hillburn had been observing and listening to him carefully. She was a trained psychiatrist as well as a parapsychologist with two books on death survival studies to her credit, and she’d been looking for telltale signs of emotional instability: inappropriate gestures or grins, facial tics, a general irritability or melancholia. She sensed in Billy Creekmore only a genuine desire for self-knowledge. “Did you think, young man, that you could just present yourself on our doorsteps and we would offer easy answers for all your questions? No. I’m afraid that’s not to be the case. As I say, this is a workshop; a damned difficult workshop, I might add. If there’s any learning to be done, we learn together. But everything has to be verified through extensive tests and experiments. We don’t deal in trickery here, and I’ve seen enough psychic fakers in my lifetime. Some of them have sat where you’re sitting now. But sooner or later their tricks fail them.
“I don’t know anything about you, except from what I’ve read in these letters. As far as I know, you don’t understand a thing about death survival research. You may have a psi ability—though I’m not saying I’m convinced you do—but as far as I’m concerned it may only be a figment of your imagination. You may be a publicity hound. You may even want to disrupt the work we’re trying to do here, though God knows we have enough disruptions. Do you believe you can communicate with the dead, young man?”