HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS

by Jamie Eubanks

  "Pain can be controlled through hypnosis. Physical urges such as cigarette smoking, over‑eating, can be controlled through hypnosis. Under hypnosis, someone could suggest to you that caterpillars are crawling all over your body. And you'd feel those caterpillars, Mr. Mills. You might even claw yourself up trying to get them off. In a hypnotic state, men have been able to control the beating of their own heart, slowing it down until it appears to have stopped. The respiration process can be all but stopped...for a very long period of time."

  "So I've read," John said, raising a skeptical brow. "But that...that doesn't explain what I just saw. You...Mrs. Braedon, if a person could heal their own body through simple hypnosis, everyone would be doing it."

  "It's not that simple. Hypnosis alone isn't enough. Some doors of the mind are locked. A hypnotherapist can walk you down the corridors, but he can't always produce a key to locked doors. However, there are keys. And certain people dedicate their lives to finding them."

  "Your brother, the neurologist."

  "He died because of what he'd discovered. Men of science tend to overlook the bad in favor of the good. They see the positive uses for their inventions. They're out to make the world a better place by providing clean nuclear energy to power cities. But there's always someone out there who thinks atoms should be split so troublesome countries can be annihilated."

  John leaned back in his chair, unable to believe, unable to disbelieve...for he had seen it with his own eyes. The answer to all the world's problems lay in a four-poster bed in his guest room. He was staring straight at her. No pain. No deformities. No diseases. Every man's dream. A blind man could restore his own sight. A cripple could mend his own leg. An end to all suffering.

  Immortality.

  It didn't seem possible for medical science to have progressed so far that it now had the capability to produce a race of gods. Life eternal was no longer just a concept of the Bible, but a reality. Reality hit hard.

  It was like the little girl had said: For every good thing that happens, something bad comes along. A side effect of worldwide perfect health would be over-population. And the question remained: would it ever be worldwide, or would just a few in power use it to remain in power?

  "Mrs. Braedon." He paused for a moment, still in awe over the possible ramifications. "Those men won't give up until they find you. They’ll never give up."

  "I know."

  CHAPTER 8

  It was after one o'clock in the afternoon when Valerie knocked on the guest room door, proclaiming her hunger. John had completely lost himself in the conversation. He could have sat there for several more hours, listening to the woman speak. One of his greatest passions was for knowledge. And Jillian Braedon had a way of presenting her knowledge with both wit and charm. She was disarming. He was captivated. In comparison to hers, his life of world tours and packed concert halls seemed dull, without purpose.

  John fixed lunch for the woman and her child, and then retired to the library with a lot of heavy questions weighing on his mind. The library seemed appropriate for the occasion because several volumes of science fiction graced the shelves. He felt as if he might be living in one of them now.

  It was a small room, only fifteen by eighteen. One window, which faced the east; a single hardwood chair; and a small round table draped in lace, upon which was a candlestick, a pen and a legal notepad. Like the rest of the house, the library was well organized, set up for not just functionality but to please the eye. The books, all of them hardbound, were arranged into three categories: fiction, nonfiction, and reference. The fiction was in alphabetical order according to author. Nonfiction, alphabetically according to subject matter. The reference books, according to volume or practical use.

  He usually came here in the mornings, when the sun was at the window. This afternoon, however, he hadn't come in here to read, but to think.

  Keeping more than two fireplaces going day and night was unwise. They could be out there, close by, watching his home even as he sat here questioning himself as to how best to handle this situation.

  It was a wonder Brewster hadn't noticed. A single man living alone in a large home would be inclined to close off most of the extraneous living quarters during the winter to save on heating – especially if the heating was through a combination of solar panels, gas and firewood. It seemed as if Brewster had overlooked two things which should have alerted him that John wasn't in the house alone: the smoke from several different chimneys, and the little girl's white mittens that had been somewhat camouflaged by the T-shirt she'd worn yesterday.

  The bathroom heaters worked fine in small quarters. He hoped they worked equally fine with the bathroom doors left open so to warm the bedroom each one adjoined. And the piano...Valerie would have to find other means of entertaining herself. The sound would carry. If they approached on foot instead of by helicopter it could prove disastrous. Anyone within earshot would know that a child and not an adult sat at the keys. Neither could he allow the girl to go outside. Bear was a good watchdog, keen hearing, and an excellent sense of smell. If anyone came into the yard or even approached from a visible distance, it wouldn't go without Bear’s notice. If high-powered lenses and listening devices were used from one of the nearby mesas, however, they could have the house under constant surveillance without alerting even Bear, which, given the magnitude of the situation, seemed quite probable.

  John took a seat at the small table and studied the wintry view outside the window. The snow glistened as if made of granulated sugar. Its top layer melted beneath the afternoon sun and would turn into a hard crust before morning. The sky was a troubled shade of blue, with only a few gray clouds. For the past few winters, he had welcomed the snow here. It had given him that added peace of mind that no one would disrupt his solitude, because dead men don't feel comfortable in the presence of the living. And he was dead – five years dead. Or so he had thought before a certain little girl showed up on his doorstep.

  John struck a match and watched it burn. Of everything that had been said, either by Brewster or Jillian, there were only two facts he could verify. One: Brewster was after the woman. Two: she did possess a special talent. He could understand the government's interest in the woman. The killing of her husband, Jim, however, mystified him. Even if they wanted the woman dead, it would seem the government should have need of men like Dr. Braedon.

  The house had burned to the ground and, subsequently, Braedon's medical journals had burned with it. If the FBI were involved, it would make more sense had they seized the house and all its invaluable contents and taken the man into custody. But they wanted him dead. They wanted all documentation destroyed. Yes. They wanted utter control. It gave credence to the woman's theory: Only select individuals would benefit from the healing technology. They would be picked secretively. Sooner or later, however, the secret would leak out. Which was when the trouble would begin: Millions upon millions of people willing to kill for eternal life. Millions more protesting the abomination that could turn men into gods. Mass disorder. The Third and Final World War. Armageddon.

  He'd be doing the world a favor if he went into the guest room right now, slit her throat, and buried her body without a marker. Jillian was the only person who could give those men what they wanted. According to her, there was another man who had taken part in the experimental surgery: Dr. Carl Neas. But as Jillian had pointed out earlier, Neas was probably dead. If they hadn't murdered or otherwise disposed of him, he must have taken his own life, as her brother the neurologist had two and a half years ago. Otherwise, they would have no need to capture her alive. Or maybe...they had another reason. Perhaps they'd come to the conclusion the woman couldn't be killed.

  John lit another match and again studied the small yellow flame. Sitting here like this, trying to contemplate his next move, was pointless. He was either going to turn the woman in, or he was not. Lousy as it was, he thought it better that the world should continue as it had over the millennia: no immortal gods in human f
orm, just men who thought of themselves as such. John's reason for helping the woman, however, was a little more personal than that.

  Whether the world blew up tomorrow, or whether it remained intact for all eternity...it didn't matter much to him. But, he once had a wife. He once had a child. Had the helicopter accident turned out differently – had John died and his wife and son survived – it would be nice to think someone out there would watch over them. Dr. James Braedon must have felt the same way about his own wife and child. Subsequently, John found himself bound by his own ideals to three people, one of whom was dead, two of whom might get him killed.

  <<>>

  When John came into the room, he found Jillian sitting up in bed with the pillow propped against the mahogany headboard. Her shoulder length hair was brushed back away from her face. Straight dark brows, blue eyes, full-bodied lips. By American standards, she would be considered a bit peaked. John, however, was not American born and therefore had a different set of standards. Yesterday, he had welcomed her back to the land of the living. Even this morning, she'd been in a lot of pain.

  Now, however, as John propped his cane against the nightstand and took a seat, he felt a little awkward. He wasn't at the bedside of an ailing patient who needed to be nursed back to health; rather, in the bedroom of a vibrant woman, a handsome woman. One who made him feel both twice his age and half his age – at the same time.

  When she spoke, she spoke softly, thoughtfully. "The woman in the picture...she's lovely."

  John gazed silently at the portrait, as if he'd never seen anything quite like it before. Then he lowered his eyes to the fireplace, staring at – but not quite seeing – the dying embers. "My wife, Victoria. She was twenty‑eight when she died."

  "I’m sorry for your loss. Jim was thirty‑five. He and my brother were the same age." She brought a hand to her stomach, wincing slightly as she sat forward and adjusted the pillow.

  "You're in pain?"

  "Some."

  "But I thought..." He paused for a moment. The scratch was gone from her face. No marks remained on her neck. If she could heal herself, then why was she in pain? He'd sat in this very chair just a few short hours ago and witnessed the miracle that had vanished the cut above her wrist. And yet... "If you need them, I have more pills."

  "No. If I feel the pain, I'll be more careful about moving around. I don't want to risk tearing the stitches."

  His eyes narrowed sharply. His first reaction was bewilderment, followed by a cheek burning rush of embarrassment for having been made a fool. Within moments, anger turned the tips of his ears a hot shade of red. He knew what he'd seen. She had rubbed the cut and it vanished, much the same way as one might wipe a smear of lipstick from the skin. Of course, she hadn't used lipstick.

  Whatever she’d used, it wasn't ordinary makeup, for he'd cleansed the cut on her face with hydrogen peroxide and it hadn't washed off. No explanation came to mind as to how she'd done it. She'd been placed in the bed completely unclothed and wasn't carrying around a can of instant cuts – if they made such a thing. Of one thing he was certain: He had been duped. And consequently, he had believed in her.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked.

  He raised a wary brow. "Should there be?"

  "Something's bothering you. I’ve upset you somehow."

  John reached for his cane and stood up. His smile became one of sarcasm mixed with wry humor. "Ahh...a miracle healer and an empath. You're a woman of many talents." He made his way to the door then turned around. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but now wasn't the time. The anger over having been made a fool remained too fresh. John Mills needed a few moments alone to put things into proper perspective. So he left.

  He found himself in the library again. Although the temperature in here was much cooler than the room he'd just left, John didn't seem to notice. He didn’t care. His mind was preoccupied. He took a seat in the only chair and unfastened the buttons at the cuffs of both sleeves, rolling them up against his forearms, exposing an inch long scar five years old. His good leg was sprawled under the table before him. His fingers drummed softly on the arm of the wooden chair. Though he appeared relaxed, content, he was not.

  Outside, the shadow of the house grew long against the snow-covered ground. A half hour or so of daylight was all that he had left. If he were going to use the transponder to call Brewster, now would be the best time. Now, before that woman tried any more tricks. Not counting his Uncle George, Jillian Braedon was the best damn liar he'd ever met. He had been totally convinced. Had that ludicrous story about brainpower been told by anyone else, John never would have believed it. It seemed so strange; until a few moments ago, he’d been willing to harbor a suspected murderess in his own home. A murderess! He could almost accept it, because maybe, just maybe, she had had good reason to kill: self‑defense.

  She had, however, no good reason to lie, not with him already willing to help.

  The sound of light footfalls caught his ear. John looked towards the doorway as Valerie stepped into the room, followed by Bear.

  "Do you think the bad people will come back?" she asked.

  He rubbed his face. More to himself than to the little girl, John said, "Probably."

  Valerie lowered her eyes until she stared straight down at her sock-clad feet. "I hope they don’t." A single tear left her lower lashes, spilling on the floor. "They're gonna kill me and Mommy, aren't they?"

  Once again, his position on the matter changed. The woman could go straight to hell for all he cared. But the child...

  John shook his head. "No."

  "But you said they're gonna come back. And they keep coming back." Her bottom lip quivered as she hitched for breath. Then she broke down and sobbed: "I wanna go home! And I don't have any home!"

  "Everything's going to be fine," he found himself promising. He reached for his cane, but remained in the chair. "You and your mother are going to stay here with me until we can figure out what to do. Even if they do come back a dozen times, they can't search the house without a warrant. I'll even show you a good hiding place where no one could find you. Would you like that?"

  She sniffled a time or two and nodded.

  "No more worrying about the bad people."

  Again, she nodded, though apparently not convinced.

  "Are you feeling a little better, now?"

  A third nod.

  "Good."

  Weakly, she said, "Mommy's getting better."

  "Yes, it does appear that she is."

  "Every time the monster comes, I'm ascared she's gonna die. I tell her...I tell her not to make the monster mad, but she does it anyway. It wants to kill her. Just like those men want to kill her. And even though I'm not apposed to, sometimes I get in bed with Mommy. And if it looks like the monster's gonna come, I sing and make it go away."

  "Valerie," he said softly, hesitantly, "monsters aren't real."

  She walked up to the table across from where he sat, cocked her head to one side with a puzzled expression, and said, "They are so. Mommy says!"

  "Have you any proof to your claim?" he asked, resting both arms on the table, leaning forward until he was at eye level with the girl.

  She shook her head. "I don't know what that means. Sometimes you talk funny."

  "Have you ever seen a monster?"

  "No. Not really."

  "Because there aren't any."

  Valerie crossed her arms at the chest. Her nose crinkled, as if she'd bitten into something sour. "Then how come my mommy got all cut up?"

  Not only did he sense her defiance, but he saw it brewing behind her troubled blue eyes. There was also a flicker of doubt. It was the kind of reaction a child her age might have if told Santa didn’t exist. "Valerie, your mother was attacked by a wild animal. Nothing more, nothing less."

  She took a step in retreat, then another, shaking her head adamantly as she went. "No."

  "Just an animal."

  "No!"

  "Think about it. What
reason have I to lie?"

  "You'll see," she warned, backing slowly out the door, chin held high. "When the monster comes, you'll see."

  Bear issued a scolding bark at John, as if choosing sides and followed the child out. John leaned back in his seat, propping an elbow on either arm of the chair, hands folded and fingers steepled before him. It had seemed so damned important to set the little girl straight, that he'd overlooked one very important thing: no child that age wants to hear something bad about her mother – especially if it just might be true. He had said there were no monsters. In effect, he'd called Jillian Braedon a liar. The woman was a liar. He knew it with absolute surety. That, however, was beside the point.

  CHAPTER 9

  "It's in here," John said, and he flipped on the pantry light.

  Valerie followed him partway down a narrow aisle. Straight ahead stood a smooth wall. To the left and to the right, were row after row of shelving, running the length of the pantry and encased in wood at both ends of the wall.

  Saltine crackers were stacked four boxes high. Earl Grey tea boxes were stacked even higher. There had to be over a hundred cans of Campbell's soup, the majority of which was tomato. One shelf was lined with bottled juices, half of which were grapefruit juice. John had clear Ball jars filled with pickles and relish, and an assortment of vegetables from last year's garden. A gallon jar filled with a pink liquid and pink colored eggs. Several five pound sacks – some filled with sugar, some filled with flour. Three large canisters on the top shelf – one marked: RICE; one marked: N. BEANS; one marked: PASTA. All of which stood on the left side of the pantry. The right side was equally filled.

  Valerie crinkled her nose. "This don't look like no secret hiding place. If I hide in here, they'd find me for sure."

  "There's a door in here, leading to another room. Look around and see if you can find it."

  John stepped back so Valerie could freely meander up and down the aisle. She scooted a few sacks of flour aside, studying the wall they previously covered. She got down on her hands and knees, peering under a bottom shelf that hung less than a foot above the cold stone floor. On her feet again, she re-stacked the spaghetti sauce to make room for her hands and pulled herself up, using the bottom shelf as a step. Filled with curiosity, she jumped down and cautiously stomped her chubby feet on the stone floor as if afraid it might give way to a secret entrance that could dump her into some dark, dank basement.