“Have to, to put away the tools. Some of these guys you wouldn’t trust with a lollipop stick.”
“But they trust you, eh?”
“A guy who can repair a toilet commands respect around here, let me tell you … And another rule is, no food in the facility.” Rob laughed out loud at the politeness struggling with dismay in Edwin’s face. “But I still have that half-box of cookies—let me get them.”
“I was telling Pastor Phillipson about you,” Edwin said. He took out a small Swiss Army knife and slit open the cellophane wrapping.
“Yeah?” Rob took a cookie. “I hear he doesn’t understand the value of attic insulation.”
Edwin pushed a cookie whole into his mouth, and laughed. “Mrs. Ruppert told the pastor you were an angel specifically sent from above.”
Rob almost choked on a mouthful. “You must be kidding. I hope you corrected them!”
“Come on, Rob, how could I? I made a promise I wouldn’t breathe a word about your shenanigans. So instead I told about how you saved Katie.”
Rob glared at Edwin, who leaned back grinning and propped his feet on Mrs. Ruppert’s blotter. “I don’t want a halo. I’d rather have a cape.”
“If you had a halo, we would get your remains.”
“I think I had better will my body to a dog food factory!”
Edwin laughed so hard he almost lost balance. When he recovered he sat up and said, “Last night I had an idea, a really good one.”
“Not another experiment!”
“This is perfectly safe and innocuous, Rob. Look, I’ll show you some of the elaborate and technical equipment I’ve prepared.” Edwin pulled a shiny new penny out of his jeans pocket and held it up between two fingers. “Okay.
You want to hear it?”
Rob relaxed. There was not a lot of trouble anybody could get into with a penny. “All right.”
“So let’s consider this penny. I flip it.” He did so, catching it neatly and clapping it onto his hand. “Call it.”
“Tails.”
Edwin looked. “Sorry, it’s heads.” He flipped it again. “Now—neither of us have looked at this penny, right? You don’t know if it’s heads or tails, and neither do I.”
“Right.”
“Is there any way, by the exertion of power, that you could influence the flip: make it come out heads or tails? Or find out which it is before I lift my hand?”
“No. This is all in the brain. No super-strength, no x-ray vision. The only way to do it would be to seize control of your hand—” Rob did so for a moment. “And lift it. Looks like it’s heads again.”
Edwin shook his right hand in the air. “Ack, that’s creepy. Okay, now what if I flip the coin and then go down the hall and show the guys watching TV. You could find out then.”
“No problem—I fish the information out of their heads.”
“Suppose then we change the game. Flipping coins is a matter of pure chance. What if we play blackjack, a game of both chance and skill?” He took two poker decks out of his parka pocket and laid them on the desk.
Rob shook his head. “I don’t think I know how to play, but you don’t want to play cards with me anyway, Ed.” “You would win—but how exactly would you be winning? The chance component you have no influence over, we’ve established that.”
“Ed, I can look through your eyes and see your cards.”
“Suppose you don’t read my mind to see my cards. Would you still have an influence on my judgment and skill?”
“I think so. Wanting things, feeling strongly about something, I notice that a lot of the time that’s what does it. The whole point of playing blackjack is to win. That alone would ensure that I couldn’t help it.”
“And if you made a concerted effort to play dead fair?”
“I guess I could try,” Rob said. “But it’d be tough to find players. How would people know I was trying?”
Edwin’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. “There is a way to know, Rob, At least, over time, and if you stick to one consistent system of play. The odds in blackjack have been analyzed to a fare-thee-well by statisticians.
I used to play around with the theory myself, in grad school. They’ve determined that when you play dealer’s rules the house has an edge of about six percent. Suppose you don’t deliberately pick up on anybody’s cards.
Over a very large statistical sample it should be possible to calculate exactly how much your powers are inadvertently affecting the play.”
“And where does that get me?”
“Rob, don’t you understand? You could tell if your abilities were leaking.
Your entire problem with this weird thing is that right now you can’t see it working. It’s inside your head, out of view. If you could discern it somehow, you’d have a chance to control it. You know that you can teach people to produce alpha brain waves, by letting them watch their own EEGs? Blackjack would give us a window to observe the workings of your ability. Over time you could learn to contain your powers, and we could chart your progress by analyzing your blackjack wins. We’d have hard numbers, data we could crunch and lay out in graphs or pie charts. And we would know when your control was perfect—when your loss rate gets to six percent.”
Rob stared across the desk at him. “Oh my god. I guess I better learn to play blackjack.”
Edwin opened the decks and began to shuffle the cards together. “I’m sure you’ve learned this. It’s a really easy game. Number cards count as their number, and picture cards are worth ten. Aces can be either one or eleven. The idea is to add up to twenty-one, without going over.”
They played a few hands. Rob won them all. “I’m not doing anything, either,” he said gloomily.
“Three hands isn’t enough data points. In theory any game that combines chance and skill would work—bridge, poker, gin. But blackjack is a particularly good choice.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because first we have to accumulate statistics, get a base line. Then, perfecting your control might take months of practice. I can’t play blackjack with you all that time. I have a research project, and a textbook deadline, all these things I have to do. Already there aren’t enough hours in the day. But we could go to the casinos in Atlantic City and scoop a lot of data fast.”
“That’s a good idea,” Rob had to admit.
“Have you ever been there? I haven’t.”
“Me neither.”
Edwin dealt again, two cards apiece. “Maybe we should go. You free this weekend?”
“I’m nothing but free,” Rob said with amusement. “Another card, how about.” Edwin dealt him another. “Good! Let’s leave on Friday. I’ll take off a couple hours early. I figure eight hundred hands will give us a nice base line. Take maybe twenty hours.”
“Twenty hours—that’s ten hours a day! Can anyone play that much blackjack?”
“Sure, lots of folks do. You’ll see. Hmm, that’s bust me. Lucky we’re not actually betting. Remind me—while we drive there I’ll coach you on how to bet. And the jargon. Unfortunately there’s no way to play blackjack in casinos without betting. That’s always the drawback to blackjack statistical research.”
Rob glanced at him. “You’re very knowledgeable, for a nice church-going fellow.”
“I’m a Nevada boy—put myself through MIT working at Caesar’s Palace. My father played clarinet in the band for the floor shows. Oh, and another thing, it would help if you— well, blended in. Has Mrs. Ruppert offered to revamp your wardrobe yet?”
“She made noises about it yesterday but I didn’t pay attention. I guess I should, if I’m going to be a high roller.”
“I’m hoping that won’t be a problem. “We’ll stick to the two-dollar tables.
We’re after numbers, not money.” He shot a merry glance at Rob. “This homeless thing is just a facade for you, Rob. A secret identity, if you like. Mrs. Ruppert is going to suit you up, reveal your true colors.”
Rob laughed at this. “Next time y
ou see that pastor, tell him I lured you into gambling.”
CHAPTER 4
It felt very strange to wear new clothes after all this time. Mrs. Ruppert, with job interviews in mind, took Rob to the Salvation Army store and bought him a blue jacket, a red tie, and a pair of khaki pants. He was surprised to find that his waist size had gone down more than two inches.
No wonder he had needed string to hold up his ragged old jeans. In the mirror he saw a figure that didn’t look unduly odd at all— weathered, tall, blond, a little too thin. Meeting the gaze of his reflection gave him a peculiar feeling, however—as if there was someone else, a stranger, behind those ice-chip eyes.
“I don’t know,” Edwin said when he arrived on Friday and saw the result.
“Maybe it’s because I’ve only known you in your old clothes.”
“I kind of miss them,” Rob admitted. He stared, awed, at the sleek vehicle at the curb. Edwin’s car cast a startling new light on his character. It was a sexy red Mazda RX-7 with a spoiler, a moon roof, and leather upholstery—curvaceous as a centerfold model. Somehow Rob had imagined that as a nice nerdy type Edwin would drive a very different sort of car.
Rob wedged himself into the low-slung seat and shut the door. The car had such tight suspension, and was so close to the ground, it was like sitting in a roller skate. It made a powerful contrast to Rob’s own minivan. From the state-of-the-art CD sound system came the supple voice of Barbra Streisand singing Broadway show tunes. Rob said, “And I thought of something else.”
Edwin let in the clutch. “Oh? What?”
“I’m going to learn how not to win at blackjack, right?”
“Strange but true,” Edwin said, nodding. “Ideally, months of training and careful coaching will finally enable you to lose your shirt.”
“But until I do learn, I’m going to win. Won’t this be cheating the casino, sort of?”
Edwin’s grin lit up his face. “Funny you should mention that. I thought of it too.” The light turned green and the car swung with smooth power out into Colesville Road. “During the first few sessions, I expect you’ll take the poor fellows to the cleaners. That would be a severe blow to an honest business.”
“It would be terrible. We can’t do that!”
Edwin didn’t slow down. “But suppose the casino was a dishonest one.”
It was a new idea. Rob thought about it. “Are there any?”
“My very question to Gary.”
“And Gary is?”
“Katie’s dad, my brother-in-law. He’s also the number three guy at the FBI office in Albany, New York.”
“You know somebody everywhere, Ed. It’s amazing.”
“Well, my older sister deserves most of the credit for my acquaintance with Gary. He especially urged me to keep out of the Lady Luck Casino Royale, the least savory establishment on the boardwalk. It’s a money-laundering operation for a Colombian drug cartel, and under investigation by New Jersey’s Casino Control Commission. I think the Lady Luck has earned a visit from you. You want to fight crime? We fight crime.”
With the flick of a button Edwin cut off Barbra in midcroon. He revved the Mazda’s engine and tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel, humming and singing an old TV theme song: “Batman, Batman, Batman!” Rob leaned back in the bucket seat and laughed.
It was more than a three-hour drive to the Jersey shore, and Edwin insisted
on taking time out for a proper dinner outside Wilmington. The autumn evening had closed in by the time they reached Atlantic City. The neon casino signs stained half the sky with their glow. As they drove through the tawdry tourist area looking for the motel Rob said, “And people come here for fun?”
“They say the beach can be nice. Not my cup of tea, though—too developed.”
“It’s not a place for kids.” For Rob that was the ultimate condemnation.
Edwin had selected a motel from the AAA guidebook. It was too far from the casinos to be first class, a fact Rob entirely approved. The room had cable TV, two double beds, and an instant coffee machine in the John. “I’m beat,” Edwin yawned. He slung his overnight bag onto a bed. “Early start tomorrow, okay?”
Perhaps because of the unaccustomed quiet—there were always noisy residents in the dorm at the Open Door Center— Rob slept deeply. He found himself in a perfectly familiar place: the basement of the house in Fairfax. He realized he was asleep and dreaming, but doing the weird stuff too. Somehow the inner domains were connected—not continuous, but hooked up in some ways. You learn more every day, Rob thought. Maybe this is the only way I can access my subconscious self. And that’s why this is the basement. When I’m upstairs, I’m awake.
The silly symbolism delighted him, and he set out to enjoy it. To
deliberately guide a dream along was a new experience, and this was a particularly friendly setting for it. He moseyed over to the furnace and had a look at the air filter. Maybe a new one next month. He admired the cross-brackets he had installed between the ceiling joists, to correct a sag in the dining room floor above. The sump pump seemed to be doing fine too.
The basement had never been livable because it was so low. Over by the sump pump Rob had to duck his head under the ceiling beams. Since he was six feet tall, that meant the floor would have to be lowered more than a foot to bring the basement up to code. Such a major renovation would have been a gross overimprovement to the Fairfax house. But this house is me, Rob realized. Here, I could do it. I could do anything.
He sat on a cobwebby old crate and considered this. All major home improvements are rooted in the basement, as Rob well knew. And there were things he didn’t like about himself. Anyone who could think or do some of the things Rob had, only this year, could use some renovation. I could make myself into a happier person, a better person, he thought. The equivalent of installing ceramic tile flooring and a whirlpool tub.
Ah, but there was the problem. He would be a different person. It would be like letting Julianne railroad him into becoming President. Just as with real houses, any changes had to be carefully worked into the existing building.
He was sitting, chin on hand, staring at the floor and thinking all this, when he noticed the crack in the concrete foundation slab. Rob jumped up and fell to his knees to examine the place closely. It was a very straight deep crack. Here under the low place it was rather dark, but Rob traced the crack with his fingers. It turned a right angle, and then another. It was a trap door.
The flashlight, in Fairfax, hung on its own recharging unit near the dryer.
Rob fetched it and shone the beam on the door. There was no bolt—very dangerous in a house with kids! But there was a crude handle, just a loop of leather protruding from the crack. Rob grabbed it and pulled. If there’s a sub-basement, then the sump pump shouldn’t be on this level at all, he thought. The jerks who sold and installed that pump are going to hear about this!
The door rose easily on well-oiled hinges. The space beneath was utterly black, swallowing up the feeble flashlight beam. But how deep could it be? Rob put the flashlight in his pocket, sat on the edge, and then hung by his hands. “Gosh, it goes down a ways,” he said aloud, and dropped.
It was a very long ways, at least twenty feet. Rob landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle a little, on a coarse dirt floor. At least the space was dry. There was only the smell of damp, no standing water. When he pulled out the flashlight and pushed the button nothing happened. He must have broken the bulb when he came down.
“It wouldn’ta worked here anyway.”
The hoarse whisper was electrifying. Rob’s heart seemed to turn right over in his chest. He couldn’t see anybody. Only a faint yellow light trickled down from the single light bulb in the basement above. He stood up with difficulty and gasped, “Who’s there?”
“Behind you.”
Rob whirled and half-fell backwards until his back hit a dirt wall. The space down here must be very small, only a deep slot or chute cut into the clay soil: an oubliette. When the sp
eaker stepped forward into the light he was only an arm’s length away. Rob recognized him instantly. He last saw that face glaring out of Courtenay MacQuie’s bathroom mirror. This is only a dream, he said to himself. A nightmare. I’ll wake up any minute. Still he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming.
“You think you’re so smart,” the tramp with the face of a madman said.
“I’ll show you. I know something you don’t.”
“What? “Rob whispered.
The old Rob grinned at him, a grimace full of glee and hate behind the jungle of hair and beard. “I’m not gonna say. You’ll have to go ask him.”
Somehow this spiteful answer increased the horror fivefold. Rob’s breath sobbed in his throat. Then he thought, the vicious bastard, he’s doing this to me. Sure this is a dream, but it’s also a vision. He is me—but I am him.
It’s my power he’s using to terrify me. Nothing can hurt me here. Here, I don’t need a flashlight. “Light!” he commanded, and the light came, a cone of sunshine as if a skylight had been let into the basement ceiling.
Rob’s eyes watered in the glare but he could see now a rusty cast-iron pipe running down one corner of the space here. Of course—the sump pump! He could have shouted with relief and joy. He scrambled, panting, to escape. The pipe was six or eight inches in diameter, easy to climb. Rob was almost at the top when he suddenly woke. Edwin was drawing the curtains, and the dawn light poured in across Rob’s face.
“If that didn’t wake you I was going to turn on the TV,” Edwin said. “No way I was going to touch you. Tell me that was just a nightmare, okay?”
Rob sat up, panting. “Oh my god, yes. How did you know?”
“I’m glad we’re moving on this containment thing.” Edwin spoke naturally, but Rob could see it was an effort. “You were right. It’s getting dangerous. It looked like heat lightning, I guess, around your head and pillow. Saw it when I came out of the John, and it almost scared me spitless … Tell you what. I always run before breakfast. You come too. We can go down the beach.” “All right.” Rob flung the sweaty covers aside and stood up. The pain in his ankle was a surprise. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed to look at it. The joint was only a little swollen. “Maybe I’ll just walk, okay?”
How Like A God Page 14