Sibs F Paul Wilson

by Sibs (lit)

  "There. That wasn't so hard. I'll have a messenger come by for them in the morning. Or better yet, why don't we get together for a drink tonight and you can give them to me then."

  "Thanks, Ed, but I'm bushed," she said, and really sounded it. "This has not been a good day and I'd like to see it over and done with."

  "That note, huh?"

  "Right. That note—and the handwriting analysis of it."

  "Really?" This was starting to get exciting. "What did it show?"

  "Nothing conclusive, but it raised some frightening possibilities."

  "Like what?"

  She told him about how her psychiatrist had said he knew who had sent it and that it was a woman, but that a handwriting expert had said otherwise, and had not been able to entirely rule out the possibility that Dr. Gates might have written it himself.

  Ed was almost dizzy when he wished her a good night and hung up. He sat in his living room, staring out at the glittering skyline.

  A lot of strange shit going on in poor Kara Wade's life. And it kept on getting stranger and stranger.

  And who was helping her? That cop Harris, who was supposed to be her friend, just seemed to be adding to her worries. He should have been shielding her from the disturbing news about the handwriting. She had enough to worry about.

  And her psychiatrist, this Dr. Gates. Some help he was. If he was lying to her about whoever wrote that note, what else was he lying about? She was probably paying him an arm and a leg for help and he was doing nothing for her. That would be bad enough, but was he doing something to her?

  The thought brought Ed to his feet. Where had that idea come from? He began pacing the living room.

  Kelly and Kara. Both patients of this Dr. Gates. Both with that same heart-rending look—Kelly a couple of weeks ago, Kara today. Something going on here. Something definitely not kosher.

  Hell, he thought with a grin, neither am I.

  He grabbed the phone book and found only one psychiatrist named Gates. His office was on Seventh Avenue. Without giving himself time to reconsider, Ed memorized the address, grabbed a coat, and headed for the street.

  Outside, he flagged a cab. Traffic was light. Less than ten minutes later he was standing in front of a smallish office building near the Chelsea-Greenwich Village border. There were lights over the front entry, lights on in the lobby, but no guard. Without thinking, he tried the doors. All locked.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  He backed off about twenty feet and paced back and forth as he stared at the front doors. He'd tried speed a few times in college, and he felt now like he had then—hyper, fidgety, wired, can't-sit-down, can't-stand-still, ready to do or try anything no matter how crazy as long as it involved movement.

  What he wanted to do now was crazy. He wanted to get into this Dr. Gates' office and go through his records and see what they had to say about the Wade twins and what kind of plans he had for Kara. Maybe there'd be a clue there that would incriminate Gates. Maybe he was the guy responsible for the haunted look on Kelly's face before she died, and on Kara's face today. Kara had mentioned both Kelly and she being hypnotized by Gates. Maybe he had planted some bizarre post-hypnotic suggestions in both their minds.

  He heard footsteps and saw some dapper gent with sandy hair and a mustache wearing a blue cashmere overcoat walk up to one of the front doors. He used a key from the ring he was twirling on his finger to unlock it, and then walked inside.

  A key. That's all it took. No guard inside. Just a key and you were in.

  An even crazier idea was forming in Ed's mind. He pushed it away. It was insane. But the more he fought it, the more powerful and insistent it became. The excitement of it grew, tingling through his limbs, until it consumed him.

  I'm going to break into Dr. Gates' office! Yes! He'd do it! Jesus, yes, he'd do it tomorrow night! If he gave himself longer to think, he'd talk himself out of it.

  The idiocy of it made him giddy. He laughed out loud as he went off in search of a cab back home.

  ▼

  Rob hadn't really lied to Kara this afternoon. He was on a stakeout, but it wasn't a murderer's house he'd been watching. It was Dr. Lawrence Gates' Chelsea townhouse.

  He'd followed Gates from his office to his home around dinner time—a walk of about seven blocks— and had watched the three stories of lighted windows until about midnight. That was when Gates had stepped out of his front door and begun walking west. Rob nurtured a twinge of excitement as he followed him in his car, expecting him to flag a cab on Seventh. Maybe this wouldn't be a waste of time after all. Maybe he'd learn something about the secret life of Lazlo Gati/Lawrence Gates, M.D.

  But Gates simply walked downtown and returned to his office.

  At midnight?

  What doctor returned to an empty office at this hour?

  Rob. parked near the corner and watched, thinking maybe a patient would show up for an emergency consultation. He saw a figure standing in the shadows on the downtown side of the Kramer building. Whoever he was, he gave out a high pitched laugh and walked away.

  A nut. Maybe one of Dr. Gates' nuts. Rob kept watching, but no one showed up. He settled back in the seat. He had a feeling this could turn out to be a long night.

  ▼

  Kara sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. She was exhausted, and she had taken the Halcion a few minutes ago, but she didn't see how she was ever going to get to sleep tonight. Not after all that had happened today.

  She had thrown the leather mini away. And she had combed the undersides of the night stands and pulled the dresser apart. There were no other items of sleazy clothing left. If she found something tomorrow, she feared she'd have a breakdown.

  But strangely enough, the discovery of the skirt today wasn't what was bothering her the most now. It was that note. That crazy, bizarre, frightening note.

  He takes over your body while you sleep and uses it for his own pleasures.

  She found it especially disquieting in light of the vague memory of Dr. Gates' presence in the erotic dreams she had experienced the past two nights.

  What am I thinking?

  She had to stop worrying about impossibilities and deal with the real and plausible. Kelly's multiple personality had been real and plausible in light of what Dr. Gates said and what Kara had found hidden around the apartment. A multiple personality disorder would easily explain the happenings at the farm over the weekend. Multiple personalities were an established psychiatric fact; books had been written about them.

  Despite all that documentation, Kara still could not accept the existence of a second personality within her. So if she couldn't accept Janine, why was she even considering a psychotic's fantasy about Dr. Gates controlling her body while she slept?

  She turned out the light and pulled up the covers. She had to learn to trust. Trust Dr. Gates and his ability to help her straighten this out. You had to trust your therapist.

  She smiled in the darkness. Taking over someone else's body while they slept. Now that was crazy.

  February 20

  12:30 A.M.

  On your fourth brush past Kara Wade's mind, you find her deep enough in NREM sleep to permit undetected entry.

  At last.

  You've been waiting over an hour now, and you are impatient. You slip in quickly and immediately suppress her consciousness. When you're satisfied that she is locked down in stage 3 sleep, you relax and let yourself flow through her nervous system, taking control of her motor cortex, tapping the inputs of her sensory system.

  You become aware: of the soft flannel touch of her nightgown against her skin; of the pillow against the back of her head; of the slight burning in her stomach, hyperacidic from the stresses of the day; of the dry, slightly sour taste in her mouth; of the susurrant flow of air through her lips and nose as it fills her lungs; of the sounds of the still active city as they filter into the darkened bedroom.

  And now, once again, she is yours.

  You've become Kara
Wade.

  Her skin, her muscles, her bones, her breasts and genitalia, her five senses, all yours to do with as you wish.

  And you wish to get out of this bed.

  You throw back the covers and turn on the light. Then you pull the flannel nightgown over your head and step before the full length mirror on the closet door to look again.

  What a wonderful body.

  You never tire of looking at Kara Wade's body, of wearing Kara Wade's body. You run your hands over her breasts—your breasts now—and feel a delicious tingle as the nipples rise under your gentle caress. Kelly's breasts were slightly higher, slightly firmer, the nipples pinker, but Kelly was a nullip. Kara has borne a child and that causes certain inevitable changes.

  You loved Kelly's body and were shattered when you lost it. You had such good times with it—something about her attracted men like flies. Hardly a one refused your advances when you were wearing Kelly. That was why you were determined to have Kara from the moment you saw her standing in the doorway to your consultation room. You knew it would be just like having your dear sweet Kelly back. And it is. Only better. Much better.

  You take a deep breath, thrusting the breasts outward and drawing in the abdomen. A beautiful shape. Enough body fat to give her that feminine roundness, but not an inch of flab. And that natural blonde thatch between her legs—superb.

  You flex the muscles in the arms and legs and buttocks feeling their high tone, their excellent conditioning. Kara takes superb care of her body, much better than Kelly ever did. This is a body that can go the distance, that will never tire. You wish you could stay with it permanently.

  And to think she was almost warned away. You very nearly cried out when you saw the note. The audacity of it. Meddling in your affairs. Punishment was swift and severe—and continues even now. Yesterday's note was the first—and last.

  But you mustn't distract yourself with these matters now. Your time in Kara's body is limited—after all, you have to allow her some rest—and you wish to make the most of it. You pull on jeans and a sweater, not bothering with underwear, then open the closet. Inside, you drop to your knees and pull out a loose section of molding along the floor. From inside you pluck a pair of keys and a wad of bills, mostly hundreds. You peel off the smaller bills and five hundreds, and return the rest to the cubby hole.

  So convenient to be able to use the same old hiding place for the keys and money, but Kara ruined your hiding places here for the kinds of clothes you prefer to wear on your evening jaunts. You'll have to find a new place. There's always the house in Chelsea. You could keep the clothes there, but that would run the risk of being seen going in and out night after night. You don't want any link between Kara and her therapist outside the office.

  A locker. That's it. You'll find a locker somewhere to store the clothes, somewhere between the apartment and the hotel district. And you can change in the hotel room you'll be renting for the night. That will work.

  Or why not simply throw the clothing away each night after you use her? You certainly don't have to worry about economizing.

  You'll decide later. Right now you have to get down to that all night boutique in SoHo that carries the things you like, and then you'll have to find a hotel.

  You unlock the apartment door with your key. The other is for the Chelsea House because every so often you have to visit home with the borrowed body, usually to pick up a fresh supply of cash. You peek down the hall. Empty. Good. You don't want to be seen by any of the neighbors.

  You smile with Kara's lips. You don't have to worry about that meddlesome detective lover of Kara's spotting you as you leave, either. You caught him following you in his car tonight during the walk from your house to the office. Let him sit outside the office all night if he wishes. He'll learn nothing.

  That detective—he's the only fly in this otherwise perfect ointment. He could ruin everything if Kara becomes too involved with him. Should that come to pass, you'll have to think of a way to scare him off. That might be fun. You could have terrorized the fellow on Tuesday night, but instead you settled for a quick fuck—and not a bad one, actually—and then left Kara to sleep away the rest of the night. The detective wasn't bad in bed, but night after night the same lover would bore you. No variety there.

  And, cliche though it might be, variety is indeed the spice of life.

  Twirling the key ring on your finger, you hurry down the hall to the stairs and try to decide on which of the big hotels to use tonight. You've always been fond of the Waldorf with its international clientele. That Hindu fellow last night had practically memorized the Kama Sutra. Between his agile tongue and rock hard penis, he bought you and Kara's body to orgasm five times! He was worth three ordinary fellows. Too bad he left for India this morning. A repeat performance would be something to look forward to.

  But no. Even if the Hindu was available tonight you would find someone else. That is your new rule. Never twice with the same man. Never a New Yorker or a New Jersey or Connecticut native. The further away the home, the better. One night stands, only.

  Of course, that increases the risk of VD or even AIDS, but that is a risk you'll have to take. Not that you're at risk for contracting the disease yourself, but something like AIDS will wreck a beautiful body like Kara's, and then you'll be forced to go out and find a new one.

  Kara isn't the only body you have available to you, but it's certainly the best. You'll still use the others now and then to maintain contact and to give Kara a rest. But Kara is going to be your new Number One, slipping perfectly into the slot vacated by her sister. Too bad Kelly is dead. It would have been nice to alternate between them. Too bad you can only control one body at a time. Putting Kelly and Kara in bed together is a magnificent fantasy.

  The thought of the late great Kelly brings to mind something you've been meaning to do. You'll have to get over to Wheatley's office and change your will again.

  Out on the street you have no trouble finding a cab. Three of them practically have a fight trying to pick you up when Kara stands on the corner and raises her hand.

  You love being beautiful.

  You give the lucky driver of the first cab an address on Greene Street and settle back in the seat, savoring the sensations bubbling through you. Even after all these years, it's still a thrill to switch bodies, especially to a newer one. Still a thrill to sway it through a hotel lobby or bar and draw hungry stares from all the men— all the straight ones—and even a few women. You won't balk at matching Kara up with another woman if the opportunity presents itself, but it's more difficult to arrange. Men are so much easier to acquire, even in pairs.

  You prefer to wear a woman. Their bodies are so much more versatile, and they are capable of so much more pleasure than a male. In your vast experience playing either sex you've concluded that there is really no comparison. A woman's body is a vastly superior sexual instrument. The problem is, as always, finding a sufficiently accomplished musician.

  You've been borrowing bodies for, what?, nearly forty-five years now. Ever since you were about six years old. Not with your present degree of expertise and subtlety, of course. You had to learn by trial and error. There were no teachers in this art.

  You remember how it started. It was just about the time the family was preparing to flee the old country. Everything was in turmoil, emotions running high, conflicting, confused. That was when you began experiencing flashes of those emotions. Not from within, but from without. Others' emotions. You would follow those emotions and find yourself looking through the eyes of your sister, Marta, or one of your brothers, seeing what they saw, feeling what they felt, actually inside them.

  But you couldn't maintain the contact. Not in those days. And the other minds would rebel, push you away. They wouldn't know it was you, that it was anybody. They just knew that something was wrong and subconsciously reacted against you. But you kept on trying, probing. You had to. And by trial and error you discovered that you achieved your best results during the night wh
en they were asleep. You could enter them then without resistance. And as long as they stayed asleep, you could make their arms and legs move. Eventually you learned to keep them asleep and unaware. That done, you could get them up and walk around in their bodies.

  But instinctively you knew right from the start that yours was an ability that had to be kept secret. You could do something that other people could not— although you suspected your sister Marta had some undiscovered capability like yours. So maybe it was genetic. You'd caught hints in the family history that there may have been others with a power like yours, but nothing definite. And those records are long gone now.

  But what does it matter, really? It is a fool's game to root about for causes. The why and how is irrelevant. You power exists, you know how to use it, you love using it. Where it comes from simply doesn't matter.

  Whatever the cause—accident or heredity—you knew your ability would cause fear in other people, so you kept it a secret for much of your childhood.

  With adolescence, you became bolder and perfected your technique.

  On Green Street, you pay the cabby and go into the Nite Owl Boutique to pick out some sexy clothes. The owner's eyes light up at the sight of Kara's familiar face—she thinks she's still dealing with Kelly. Dollar signs flash in her eyes and she comes over immediately to help.

  As you browse through the racks of low-cut tops and high-cut skirts, and undergarments with unconventional but strategic openings, you think about how far you've come. From listening in on emotions to taking absolute control over—all but owing—this fabulous body.

  Life is good.

  And going into psychiatry proved to be a stroke of genius, even if you do say so yourself. It gives you access to people with emotional problems, a majority of whom are women, since women as a rule are far more apt to admit to emotional problems and seek help for them. A certain percentage of those women, purely as a result of the law of averages, are young and attractive. You've skewed the curve in your favor by letting it get around that you treat nurses on a courtesy basis. When you find a young attractive woman who fits your criteria of suggestibility, you edge her down a circuitous path that will convince her that she might have a multiple personality disorder. When she allows you to hypnotize her, you establish contact, entering her mind and making a little nest for yourself there. It's akin to leaving a marker. After that, you can find her whenever she's in range—like reaching out in the dark and finding a familiar object—and take her over whenever she's sleeping. You make her body do a few rude things during the night, thus confirming the multiple personality diagnosis beyond all doubt. After that she's yours whenever you want her, as soon as she goes to sleep.