by Bill Myers
The comment brought Sarah to a stop.
He looked back up. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Karen suffers from multiple personas.”
“What’s that?”
“She becomes different and distinct people at different times.”
“So?”
Sarah began to treat his cuts again, more slowly this time. “So at last count Karen’s number of personalities…came to four.”
The boy sat motionless. Sarah saw his larynx rise and fall as he swallowed. Without warning, he reached for his shirt. “I gotta go.”
“I’m almost done here, why don’t you —”
But he was already on his feet, slipping on his shirt, buttoning it.
She quickly sealed up the alcohol and tossed the cotton balls toward the trash. He was heading out of the room. She couldn’t let him get away, not yet. She grabbed her bag and moved into the hall after him. “You said you heard voices?” she persisted as she joined his side. “Three, maybe four?”
He didn’t answer. Her mind raced. Wasn’t this the same person who’d scored a direct hit with the Ganzfield test Friday? Coincidence? Maybe. But what about Karen’s reaction? What about his “hearing” her personalities?
“Listen,” she fumbled, “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Brandon.”
“Listen, Brandon — what would you think about stopping by here again sometime? After work?”
“For what?”
They continued down the hall.
“I don’t know. Maybe run a few tests. Get to know each other a little better.”
It was a lame attempt at flirting, and his look told her he’d recognized it for what it was. She flinched and tried a more candid approach. “Remember your perception last Friday — about the hot dog and the picnic?”
No response.
“First that, then Karen’s reaction to you — and now you say you heard voices, the same number as her personalities. Doesn’t that strike you as all just a little bit odd?”
They’d nearly reached the door to the parking lot. He still refused to look at her, but at least he answered. “You never stop working, do you?”
The response caught her off guard. Was she that obvious? He barely knew her, and yet — well, no matter. She pressed on. “Something happened in that room. You know it and I know it. And it wasn’t just with Karen. You’re the one who heard the voices.”
They had reached the door and he slowed, almost stopping. Then suddenly he pushed it open and headed outside. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Why?” She followed him, making sure the door locked shut before racing to catch up. Although it was early evening, the heat was intolerable. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Wouldn’t you like to know if you’re somehow…gifted? If there’s a way you could use those gifts to help others?”
She was at his side again, and again he gave no answer.
“Why not?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Doesn’t interest me, that’s all.”
She looked at him and felt her anger rising. So that was it. Vulnerable? Afraid? Hardly. That had been wishful thinking on her part. No, he was just like the others — jaded, self-centered, only looking out for himself — typical of so many men in her generation — younger, older, it made no difference. Her words came a bit sharper. “And if it doesn’t interest you, then it’s not important, is that it?”
“You got that right.”
Sarah came to a stop and watched as he approached his pickup. It was time to take off the gloves. “And what does interest you?” she called.
No answer.
“No, I’m serious. Pulling those sophomoric pranks with your buddies at the country club? Is that what’s important, is that what counts?”
He opened his door.
“Is it?” she persisted.
“Makes me smile.”
“Well, I don’t want this to come as too great a shock to you, but maybe there are more important things in this world than what makes you smile.”
Brandon hesitated, giving it a moment’s thought, then shrugged. “I doubt it.” With that he climbed into the cab and fired up the truck.
Sarah stood steaming. Somehow, once again, he had managed to push all of her buttons. She turned and stormed toward her own car. She had barely arrived and was reaching for her keys when she heard him call, “So — when will I see you again?”
A half-dozen zingers ran through her head, but none of them befitting a lady. No, the best thing was to simply ignore him, to not let him know he’d gotten under her skin.
“How ’bout a pizza?” he called.
She couldn’t tell if he was serious or trying to be funny.
“I’ll even spring for an extra topping.”
Well, at least she had her answer — and Robin Williams he was not. As she opened her car door she could sense him still sitting there in his pickup, watching her every move. This made her more self-conscious and awkward, which made her all the more angry.
Inside, her car reeked, probably the result of a half-eaten Whopper or one too many yogurts left all day in the broiling heat. She closed the door and reached for her seatbelt. The smell was enough to gag her, but she wasn’t about to roll down her window and risk more conversation.
She inserted the key and turned it. It ground away, but nothing happened. The carburetor. She stopped and tried again. “Come on,” she muttered, “not now, not now …” But no amount of coaxing helped. She stopped and blew the hair out of her eyes. Then, deciding she would not be intimidated, and having this irrepressible urge to breathe, she finally rolled down her window.
She tried the car again. Still nothing.
She could feel him sitting over there, no doubt smirking away.
She tried again. This time, not letting up. With dogged determination she kept turning the engine over and over again as it ground slower and slower — the battery showing surer signs of giving up the ghost.
She stopped and waited.
He called out. “Need a lift?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” she answered bitingly.
“No problem,” he replied. “It might even make me smile.”
Sarah ignored him and tried the car again until it finally ground to a halt. Wiping away the hair sticking to her face, she made one last attempt. But there was nothing left. Only a dull click followed by silence.
She could imagine him grinning, probably yucking it up. But she couldn’t sit there forever. They were a half mile outside of town and at least that far from the nearest service station.
Okay, fine, maybe she’d lost this round, but it wasn’t over. Keeping her cool, she removed the key, grabbed her bag, and climbed out. Then, summoning whatever dignity she had left, she started for the pickup.
Reichner pulled up behind the white, rust-streaked VW bug just as Lewis Thompson was opening its door to climb in. The young man looked terrible — dirty, barefoot, stained Grateful Dead T-shirt. And the sweat. Even through his windshield Reichner could see the sweat running down the boy’s face.
Reichner turned off his Lexus, opened the car door, and stepped out into the intolerable heat. He’d always found this quarter-mile stretch of homes between Bloomfield and Second Avenue disgusting. Even when he had been working with Lewis, he’d made a point of avoiding this neighborhood, with its unpainted houses, sagging porches, and front yards sporting more abandoned cars than lawn. His distaste may have stemmed from memories of his own childhood poverty back in Linz, Austria, or simply from his contempt for people ignorant enough to live in such squalid conditions.
But none of that mattered. Right now he had to find out what Lewis was up to.
He slammed his car door, and the kid spun around, seeing him for the first time. Reichner walked to him, slow and deliberate. This was how he dealt with the kid — in exact contrast to the boy’s own agitation and anxiety. It was a means of establishing power and superiority.
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br /> “Dr. Reichner.” Lewis gave a nervous twitch that almost passed for a smile. He appeared distracted, torn between climbing into his car or staying outside to talk.
Reichner approached, keeping his voice low and stern. “Good evening, Lewis.” It was a voice that Lewis had learned to obey during all those months of experiments, a voice he would want to please whenever he could. Reichner had made sure of it. “Where are you off to?”
“I, uh — church.” Lewis was disoriented, looking at the horizon, the ground, anything but Reichner’s eyes. “I’m going to church.”
“We’ve not seen each other in some time.”
“Yeah, uh …” Lewis ran his hand over his sweaty face, then over his red stubble of hair.
“Why church, Lewis?”
Lewis winced, still looking everywhere and nowhere. Reichner watched and waited. It was obvious that the kid was hearing the voices again — and equally obvious that he was doing drugs to heighten their intensity. Such a pity. Because the more hallucinogenics he took, the more demanding the voices became, insisting that he take even more drugs, which he would, which only increased their demands — and around and around he would go. A vicious cycle that would eventually destroy his sanity, stripping away any rational will, until he’d lost all control. Reichner had seen it happen before, and he shuddered to think what this pathetic young man would be like in seventy-two, even forty-eight hours from now.
The voices Lewis was hearing were no doubt the same ones he had heard before, the same ones that had been so helpful in the beginning but had later destroyed their experiments. What a waste. He had shown such potential, such promise. During that period they had made astonishing breakthroughs, more rapid than anyone in the field of paranormal research — until the kid blew up. Until he was no longer able to control the voices and they began turning on him, controlling him. Now Lewis was only a shell of what he had been, his powers completely unfocused, and by the looks of things once again losing control.
“Why church?” Reichner repeated.
“Because…I’m not — I’m not sure.”
“Why church, Lewis?”
“I don’t know!” The eruption was sudden. “I don’t know, all right?”
Reichner said nothing, allowing his silence to play on the boy, making it clear that penance was due for the outburst. Lewis fumbled with his keys, repeating the words, mumbling them softer now, an obvious apology, “I don’t know, I don’t know …” He turned, then clumsily, haltingly, entered the car.
“You don’t want to go, Lewis. Not yet.”
Lewis hesitated. Reichner could tell that the kid wanted to shut the door, that something inside him was driving him to shut it. But he couldn’t. The doctor smiled. Apparently all those months of hypnosis still gave him some control over the boy. He continued, keeping his voice low and even. “As a matter of fact, you would really prefer to step back out of the car for a moment.”
Lewis’s face showed the struggle. He had to obey his internal voices, but he just as desperately needed to please Reichner. Reichner watched and waited, curious to see how much power he could still exert over the boy. Finally, Lewis rose unsteadily from the car. He seemed more disoriented than ever.
Reichner was pleased.
“What do you want?” Lewis tried to sound angry, but he still could not look Reichner in the eyes.
“Why the church, Lewis?”
“I don’t know, all right?” His breathing was heavy. Reichner guessed that his internal torture was overwhelming — needing to obey his internal voices, needing to obey Reichner’s. Suddenly the boy began to pace, repeating the words. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Reichner knew he was telling the truth. Lewis seldom lied. He decided to change the subject. “I understand you paid us a little visit Saturday morning.”
For the first time Lewis’s eyes darted to Reichner’s, then away. It was an admission of guilt. He resumed pacing.
“Talk to me, Lewis.” Reichner waited. “Talk to me.”
“He was there!” Lewis blurted. “He was there, but he wasn’t!”
“Who was that, Lewis? Who was there?”
Lewis’s eyes flashed at him, seething in anger. “You know who.”
“Why don’t you tell me, Lewis.”
“The fake! The impostor!”
Reichner waited.
“The one you’re trying to replace me with.” Lewis stopped pacing and turned to confront him. “But I’m the one! I’m the one! I’ll always be the one!”
“Of course you are, Lewis. You have always been the one.”
Lewis’s eyes seemed to soften. “And your favorite!” It was part declaration, part plea. “I will always be your favorite! I will always be the one!”
“Of course, Lewis, you will always be the one.”
The words had their desired effect. Lewis began to relax, almost to wilt under the affirmation.
“But tell me about this impostor, Lewis. Is he here? Do you know who he is, where he lives?”
Lewis shook his head and resumed pacing, his internal distractions once again rising. “No, I, uh — church. I need to go to the church. I need to go.”
“Okay, Lewis,” Reichner spoke softly. “You may go to church. You may return to your car and enter it.”
Lewis turned, quickly crossed to his VW, and climbed in.
“But Lewis.”
He looked up at Reichner, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.
“No more uninvited visits to the Institute, all right?”
Lewis nodded and reached for the ignition. He turned on the engine, put it into gear, and released the brake. But, even now, he seemed to hesitate, unsure whether he had been given complete permission.
Reichner smiled and stepped back so that the boy could close the door. “It’s all right, Lewis. You may leave now.”
Gratefully, Lewis reached out and pulled the door shut. He inched from the curb and headed off. Reichner remained standing and watching while the car picked up speed, its chain whining, as it disappeared down the street.
The late afternoon attack on Brandon had not caught Gerty off guard. Though her physical condition was weakening from the fast, her spiritual perceptions had increased. She didn’t know the details, only that the attack had come from a level low in the demonic hierarchy and that it was somehow associated with a patient from Vicksburg State.
Gerty was well aware of the dangers of associating mental illness with demonic activity. In her earlier, more zealous days she had seen the cruel treatment of such patients by well-meaning believers who insisted that every mental and emotional problem was demonic.
Even now, she wasn’t sure where to draw the line. She knew all too well the verses where her Lord had cast out demons from an epileptic, and from another who was deaf and dumb. Did that mean that every epileptic was infested by demons? That every deaf and dumb person was possessed?
Of course not. And what about the patients diagnosed with multiple personalities? Were their symptoms always the result of demons, those rebellious angels who had been cast out of heaven with Satan?
Again, Gerty did not know. The adversary was clever. If he could inflict pain and suffering by having people underestimate his power, then he could do the same by having them overestimate it, by working believers into such a frenzy that they were casting demons out of every dark shadow and unexplained bump in the night.
And yet, demonic activity no longer lurked in the shadows. Not anymore. Scripture clearly warned that the Enemy, himself, could come disguised as “an angel of light.” And as this age quickly drew to an end, such deceptions would become increasingly apparent. She was painfully aware of the growing acceptance of the counterfeit spirituality of New Age and Eastern spiritualism. She’d heard that over half of the world now believed in reincarnation. And it was nearly impossible to turn on the TV without hearing something about UFOs, the supernatural, the occult, or someone having some sort of mystical experience.
Yes, these were sobering times. Times, according to her Lord, in which “false christs and false prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect.”
No, Gerty did not have all of the answers. But she did have a gift. Something Scripture described as an ability to “discern spirits.” She did not know all of its workings. She didn’t have to. All she had to do was trust her Lord. Trust in his operation of the gift. A gift that increased as she devoted her time to prayer and fasting.
But at this particular moment, her concern was not the supernatural counterfeits coming at the boy. They would continue. Throughout the course of his ministry, they would continue, and he would learn to recognize them. No, it was his lack of faith that concerned Gerty now. It was his stubborn refusal to believe.
Because time was running out. A cold shudder had begun somewhere deep inside of her. It was coming. She was sure of it. Tonight. It was coming and he was not ready.
So far, the attacks and counterfeits — they had come only to confuse and wear him down.
But not now. Now, at last, it was here. It was approaching the city.
“Dear God — please, he’s not ready, not yet. He doesn’t have the faith, he doesn’t have the tools.” Her once serene prayers of praise and thanksgiving had suddenly given way to panic.
She had been lying on her bed. The lack of food and the earlier demonic assault on the boy had tired her, but she was ready to resume battle. She had to. For his sake.
It was coming and he was not prepared.
“Please, Lord,” she murmured. She scooted across her bed and lowered herself back onto her knees. “Be merciful. He’s not ready. He doesn’t even believe. Without his shield he will be destroyed. Please, give him eyes to see. Protect him. Give him faith. Please, dear Jesus, give him your faith. Please, dear Lord. Holy Lord. Holy God. Holy… .Holy… .Holy… .”
The scratches on Brandon’s face and neck burned. But that was nothing compared to the pain inside. The dreams, the plant accident, his little sister, the attack of the patient. In just four days everything had gone insane — and it was getting worse. If that wasn’t bad enough, now he had a beautiful woman sitting in his truck, a woman to whom he was attracted. But one that he’d said incredibly stupid things to, and who now obviously hated his guts.