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  Vicky wondered what Freeman would think of her sneaking around. She reached out to read him, or "triptrap" as he called it, but her mind was clouded. The effects of the last treatment had faded. She caught the dim hubbub of distant thoughts, but couldn't be sure where they came from, or if she was imagining them. Maybe it was all wishful thinking. Or the babble of angels. Or schizophrenia.

  She went past Bondurant's offices. Light showed in the crack beneath the door. The old bastard was probably in there right now, fantasizing about paddling girls. Damned if she'd ever be bent over his desk. She'd feed him his glasses first, or die trying.

  She heard voices inside the conference room and saw someone outside the door. She ducked back around the corner, then stooped low and waited. The old pipes in the walls thrummed as someone flushed a toilet on the second floor. Vicky leaned forward and peeked but the hall was empty.

  Bondurant, Dr. Kracowski, and the ditzy bimbo, Swenson, had been having a powwow. Vicky moved past the conference room, ducking under the window, her belly tight from being folded. From there, she had an easy jaunt to the front door. Though it was well lighted the main entrance was the best place for an escape. The electronic key pad blinked red. They didn't expect anybody to dare sneak out that way, especially a four-hundred-pound water balloon with legs. She punched in the code, sixty-five star, then pushed open the door, and the sweet night air rushed over her.

  Autumn had a taste, at least here in the Appalachian Mountains. Tonight it was dark orange, like pumpkin, invisible food that didn't make you stuffed to the eyeballs. The grass was moist with dew, and the lawn sparkled under the security lights. The mountains were unseen but they had a presence all the same, of a great weight looming on the horizon. She ran barefoot around the side of the building.

  She was in the back of the home, passing by a row of shrubs, when she heard a noise in the shadows. A couple of times she had spooked a rabbit on her dark walks. But this sounded bigger than a rabbit. Lots bigger.

  She turned as a chunk of shadow separated itself from the larger night. Just her luck. The guard, surprised while taking a leak in the laurels. Or knocking down a satisfying Snickers.

  "Okay, you got me," she said. A shame, too. The night was glorious.

  "Not yet, but soon enough." It wasn't the guard.

  "Deke?"

  "Yeah, Vomit Queen."

  "What are you doing out here?"

  "Fairy-hunting. Didn't find no fairies, though."

  She looked around. The back entrance was locked for the night. The lake was too far, and though she might lose him in the pines, he would probably take her down as she ran across the open lawn. She could always yell and hope someone inside the building heard her. But all the windows to the rear were dark, and the walls were thick stone.

  Deke came several steps closer and the moonlight caught his face. His eyes were pools of used motor oil. She didn't like the way he was smiling. She wondered if any of his buddies were crouched in the bushes, waiting for him to draw first blood before jumping the prey themselves. As fat as she was, mere was plenty of meat to go around.

  She edged away, trying not to look scared. Her nightgown was soaked around the hem. Deke stared at her as if he could see right through the flimsy cotton. Creep, bastard, rotten scumbag. Her hideous, bloated belly was nobody's business.

  "Said I couldn't do it to you, huh?" Deke said. "That's not what Slim Jim says. Want to meet Slim? He's been wanting so bad to say hello. And he ain't got no eda-whatever complex this time."

  Deke tugged at his zipper as Vicky turned and fled blindly toward the back of the building. A row of old concrete steps ran beneath the back landing. She'd seen utility crews go down there during the summer, electricians and other guys with lots of tools in their belts. Last month, workers had unloaded a truck carrying something that looked like overgrown hot water heaters. She didn't know what was down there, but she didn't have a choice now.

  Her bare feet slapped on the concrete. She hoped no junk or broken glass was laying around. It sounded like Deke was gaining ground. She didn't dare look behind her. Then she was beneath the landing, blind in a thick wedge of blackness.

  "I thought you was supposed to be smart," Deke taunted from the steps. "A regular genius. All you done was make it easier for nobody to see us."

  She held her hands in front of her, feeling in the darkness, and moved forward. The concrete vibrated faintly beneath her feet, and the hum of loud machines came from inside the basement. She brushed against some pipes, then the smooth metal of the service doors, and finally the door handle.

  "Hey, honey, you ready for some Deke love?" Deke eased his way down the stairs, knowing she was cornered.

  Vicky was glad she couldn't read his nasty mind right now. No way would these doors be unlocked…

  But they were. One of the crews must have been working late and forgotten to lock up. Deke heard the rusty creak of the door swinging open. "You sneaking in there to throw up?"

  She didn't answer, she was gliding into the darkness of the basement. She was at an advantage now, as long as she was quiet. Assuming that the place wasn't a maze full of dangerous junk, she could slip inside a few dozen feet, wait for Deke to pass, then sneak outside behind him. She ducked into a corner and closed her eyes, concentrating on her aural sense. She hoped her stomach didn't start growling.

  Deke tripped over something near the door. "Damn." Then, in a menacing whisper: "Vomit Queen. Here, Queenie, Queenie, Queenie. I got something for you. Snap into a Slim Jim."

  She marked his progress into the basement by his clumsy clattering. The smell of alcohol hung in the stale, moist air. The goon must have raided Bondurant's stash, or else was stealing fruit from the cafeteria to make dormitory hooch. He was taking liberties with his already limited supply of brain cells. Not that brain death would be much of a leap for him.

  "Vomit Queen," he yelled again, this time not disguising his anger. "Where's them big words now?"

  Vicky opened her eyes. They had adjusted to the darkness, and she could make out a weird blue glow deeper in the basement. Deke was at least twenty feet away now, shuffling toward the glow. As long as her lard-assed breathing didn't give her away, Deke would cruise right past. Vicky was about to tiptoe for the exit when a noise froze her.

  It was a humming sound low and throbbing, like she imagined a fetus might hear in the womb. Mother's liquid heartbeat. The floor vibrated beneath her feet and the glow became a lesser blue. Deke grunted something as glass broke.

  The hum grew stronger and fell into a familiar rhythm. Vicky grew faint and leaned against the wall for support. She recognized the sound Not a sound exactly. More like a pulse. Like when Kracowski had given her the treatments.

  The bluish glow throbbed in time with the rise and fall of the hum. It reminded Vicky of playing near electrical generating substations, the ones people claimed caused brain cancer. Only here in the basement of Wendover, the sound was not the dull whine of electric lines. This was something alive.

  "Far fucking out," Deke said. "Hey, Vomit Queen, you see this?"

  Deke had moved farther inside the basement. Vicky couldn't see his outline against the glow. She could escape now, but his voice sounded as if he had discovered buried treasure or else a body. Or maybe a refrigerator full of food or some little kids to beat up. Vicky took one look at the dark doorway behind her, cursed her curiosity, and crept forward to see what had so amazed Deke.

  As long as she kept between Deke and the door, she would be okay. And maybe she would learn something about the basement that would help her go AWOL during the night. A side door, a hidden set of stairs, information she could tuck away for future reference. Or maybe she'd discover some killer celebrity weight-loss secrets.

  She followed Deke, and the glow became bright enough that she could see the shiny cables and lines running overhead. The basement broke into several corridors, and Deke headed toward the middle of the building. Vicky followed figuring they must be beneath Room Thir
teen and Dr. Kracowski's lab.

  "Hey, you," Deke shouted. Vicky thought he was calling her at first, but then a shadow separated itself from the larger darkness. Vicky couldn't tell if it was a woman or a man. In fact, it seemed sexless, a shape that was only faintly suggestive of a human. It slipped down the main corridor, away from the light.

  Deke followed it. "Come back here, Queenie."

  Vicky knelt behind a row of tall cylindrical tanks. She pressed her hand against one. It was frigid to the touch. Above her, wires crisscrossed in a pattern that seemed an elaborate design, a technological spiderweb.

  Deke's voice came from deep within the corridor, followed by his muffled echo. "Hey, you can't hide from me, barf-brains."

  Vicky crept to the mouth of the corridor. Though the glow from the open room carried only a few dozen feet down the corridor, Vicky could make out rows of metal doors lining each wall. Keeping low in case Deke happened to look back, she moved to the first door on her right.

  The door had a little window set at head level. The window was glass with wire reinforcement. Behind the glass was a metal grid, as if to protect the glass from being broken from the inside. Like a meat locker where the cows were still alive and plenty pissed off.

  She raised on her tiptoes and peered in. A pale face stared back at her through the window. Then she realized it was her own reflection, doubled by me two panes of glass. God, were her cheeks really that chubby? She exhaled slowly, then took a long breath of the stale basement air.

  Silly fatso. Bad enough to be chased by a pervert and to sneak around in the dark, but you have to go and start seeing ghosts again.

  "Come get some Deke love," Deke yelled from the darkness far down the corridor. If he were any louder, the counselors might hear him through the floor. Vicky didn't want to be caught because of Deke's stupidity. If the other kids found out she and Deke were together in the basement, they'd be making crude remarks until the end of time. She should get out, but first she wanted to see the room-She pulled open the door. The room resembled a cell, small and square and windowless. Enough of the blue glow leaked in that she could make out the walls. They had an odd texture, though they were blotched with mold and stains. She went inside, listening for Deke, and put her hand on the nearest wall. It was soft.

  Quilted with padded canvas.

  A rubber room.

  She backed out, ice water rushing through her veins. Down the corridor were more of the rooms. How many people had been penned up down here, their shouts soaking into the walls, their prayers bouncing off the metal bars, their dreams swallowed by the cold stones that enclosed Wendover's foundation?

  How many?

  Deke screamed in the far darkness, and Vicky staggered toward the glowing generators and the metal cylinders, then past them to the door and outside. She swallowed a mouthful of the night air and had never been so grateful to see the stars. When her heart slowed enough for her to breathe, she crept up the stairs and traced her steps back to the Green Room, Deke's scream resounding in her ears.

  NINETEEN

  "You don't believe me," Freeman said, fidgeting in his chair, annoyed as always when some shrink wanted to do a vampire number on his soul.

  Starlene Rogers sat across from him wearing a UNC Tar Heel sweatshirt and dark slacks, legs folded under her as if she had settled in for a long yoga session. "I believe you, unless you're lying."

  She'd brought him to Four, one of the little rooms, the one-on-one places that were all the same once you cut to the chase: a place for you to squirm and lie and try to forget while some know-it-all hammered your feelings out of you.

  But Freeman was Eastwood-tough, his skin was leather, his attitude was by-God bulletproof. Method acting at its finest. Who cared if Miss Starlene tried her little touchy-feely tricks? Freeman could wait it out. He'd shrunk a dozen shrinks, outlasted some real pros in the past, and he'd survived some real sons-of-bitches. Dad, for instance, the ultimate troll under the bridge.

  The secret was in knowing how to tuck it away, tiptoe from thought to thought, to dream only in the safety of night. Or to just come right out and blow their little minds.

  "I'm not lying," he said. "I can hear inside people's heads. I know what they're thinking, at least sometimes. And I've learned that most people are pretty damned dumb. All they think about are TV shows and money and getting other people to do things for them."

  "Freeman, you're aware of your manic and depressive cycle. Mania can cause people to believe they have superhuman powers."

  "It's real. It's one of those things you just know."

  Starlene leaned forward, one of those trained gestures that meant she was pretending to care. Next she would probably touch his knee. "But there's no definitive scientific proof of extrasensory perception."

  "Doesn't Kracowski let you in on his little card games? Maybe you ought to ask your friend Randy about it."

  "What's Randy got to do with it?"

  "He ever mention the Trust to you?"

  "The Trust?"

  "Never mind. You're better off not knowing."

  "I can't help you unless you open up to me," she said. "That's the only trust I know about."

  "See, I knew you were going to say that. You're just like all the others. You can't see that I'm different. I don't deserve to be locked away here with a bunch of losers."

  "Do you think Vicky is a loser?"

  Freeman watched the way Starlene's eyes fixed on her notes, like she was afraid to look at him. They were all afraid when he was like this. They should be afraid. Because he would triptrap into their sad little minds and play games. He would see right through them, scramble their memories, make them pay, he would "Freeman. Please sit down."

  Freeman blinked. He was near the door. He didn't even remember standing up. He walked back to his chair.

  "Is Vicky a loser?" Starlene wrote something on her pad.

  "She's okay."

  "For a girl, you mean?"

  "Now, don't you start in on that, too. I get enough of it from her."

  "I saw you and her by the lake yesterday."

  "We were just talking."

  "Talking."

  "Yeah." He debated launching into a patented Pacino rant, a cinematic soliloquy that enumerated the miserable, pathetic failings of God and the universe. "We were talking about reading each other's minds. And I know what you're going to say, you're wondering why we needed to speak if we could read minds."

  "No, I wasn't going to say that."

  "What were you going to say, then?"

  Starlene tucked her pen and paper into the macrame purse beside her chair. She sat back, folded her arms, and closed her eyes. "Tell me."

  Freeman's arms itched. He should have taken his medicine. It took the edge off when the ups came, when his thoughts were bright icy spears and the world was sharp and he could climb a mountain if they would only let him use his legs. But the medicine also chewed into his brain, flattened out all those fears. He needed his fears. They kept him alive. They kept the troll under the shadows of the bridge, where it couldn't grab him and eat him.

  And he would survive. One day he would leave this place and be free. He would outsmart them all. Even God. But for now, he needed to blow this shrink's mind. That was a good start.

  He closed his eyes. He tried to recall the feeling he'd had in Thirteen, when Kracowski's machines kicked in and shot his brain on a roller coaster ride. He even forced his legs to tremble a little. But Starlene was a stone wall. If she had any thoughts besides concern for Freeman's well-being, she had them buried deep.

  "Tell me what I'm thinking, Freeman," she said, in that patient voice of hers.

  Sweat arose along the back of his neck. He couldn't fail, not after he'd bragged so much. Even if she had him blocked this time, he still had that stuff he'd picked up in Thirteen after his treatment.

  "You have a cat named T.S. Eliot."

  Starlene's eyebrows lifted. "How did you find that out?"

  "Triptrapp
ing, just like I told you." He was on again, riding the up, on a supersonic elevator to the top of the whole freaking world. No dumb shrink was going to put anything over on him. He just wished he knew who in the hell T.S. Eliot was. The name sounded familiar. A character actor, maybe?

  Someone knocked on the door. Freeman moved to rise and answer, but Starlene held up her hand. "Who's there?" she asked him, whispering.

  Freeman closed his eyes and triptrapped over the bridge, opened up the big sky inside, and the screams hit him like a hundred of Daddy's fists.

  He gasped and fell to the floor, and still the screams ripped through him, tore his hair out by the roots, yanked his fingernails, shattered his rib cage, knocked his lungs from his chest, and ate his tongue.

  They're underneath.

  And then he was down with them, in the dark rooms where their shadows walked.

  Something tugged at him, and Starlene's voice came as if from across a canyon. "Freeman? Are you okay?"

  He was definitely not okay, because triptrapping had never been like this, it had always been one or maybe a few at a time, but now he was in a dozen, maybe a hundred, different heads. And these weren't ordinary heads.

  God is a telephone and the Bible is written in shit on the walls; hats are part of a government conspiracy; how can you count to twelve if you can't say odd numbers; I am a tree I am a tree I am a tree and I leave.

  You can only tell the doctors from the patients because the doctors get to go home at the end of the day.

  If you kill yourself, pills taste better.

  Pretty, pretty paper and a white, white room in which to write.