F Paul Wilson - Secret History 02 (39 page)

           
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.

           
The sleep part is important. Once
you've worn a body a few times in sleep, you're capable of taking over whenever
you wish. But if you do so while the individual is alert and conscious, the
victim knows she's been taken over. She might even recognize you. That would
never do. So you only take over patients who have been convinced they have a
multiple personality disorder, and only when they are asleep.

           
It's a delicate juggling act,
really. You must keep them frightened and off-balance enough so they stay in
therapy, but not so frightened and distraught that they become discouraged or
disillusioned with you and go somewhere else. With the right amount of hope and
a sufficient number of setbacks, you can keep them dangling indefinitely.

           
And when you tire of them… you
cure
them.

           
Some of them cure themselves by
moving away. Your range is limited. You can reach as far as Hartford and the
Catskills and a ways west of Philadelphia. And even when they are that far,
there is no sensation of transit—one instant you're in your own body, the next
instant you're in another's. But at the extremes of your range the bond is so
tenuous, the strain of maintaining contact so enormous, that there is nothing
to be gained by the effort. Except in Kara's case. During the weekend after she
returned to her farm it exhausted you to make her body do a few simple things,
such as writing on the mirror and the like, but it was worth the effort. It
brought her back to New York.

           
You've never failed. Your
arrangement has worked perfectly for years and there is no reason it cannot go
on for as long as you live. No matter how old your brain and your own body
become, you can always have a young body to occupy.

           
You carry your packages from the
Nite Owl and find a cab to take you to the Helmsley Palace on Madison and 50th.
You rent a room there—registering as Janine Wade—paying in advance in cash.
Then you stop at the pharmacy to pick up some make-up and essentials. Half an
hour later you walk Kara's provocatively dressed body down to the bar. In no
time you have a Stetson-hatted Texan in tow. He's big, he's horny, and this is
his last night in town. He's perfect.

           
You lay alone on the bed in Kara's
body, vaguely frustrated. The Texan was all right, but after the Hindu last
night he was something of a letdown. You can see that you're going to have to
go back to picking up doubles again. You've shied away from that sort of thing
since the fiasco at the Plaza two weeks ago, but you don't see that you have
much choice if you're going to make these little jaunts worthwhile.

           
You get up, wash off the make-up,
use the Massengill vinegar douche you picked Hp earlier, and put the new
clothing back in the Nite Owl bags. You've decided to store them in a locker at
Grand Central. That way they'll be convenient to midtown and you won't have to
waste so much valuable time going down to SoHo.

           
Dressed again in the jeans and
sweater and coat, you head for the lobby. The exhilaration of a few hours ago
has worn off, and because the evening has not turned out as well as you hoped,
you're feeling somewhat low. It's at times like these that questions of
morality arise and circle you like whispering shades from unkempt graves.

           
What
right have I to do this?

           
The question doesn't arise nearly so
often as it did during the early days. But tonight it creeps back. You face it
squarely.

           
No
right at all.

           
Then
why? Why do you do it?

           
You know the litany. You do not
flinch from the response.

           
Because
I can! Because I must! Because I love it! Because I cannot stop! But most of
all because without it I might as well be dead!

           
Besides. You are one of a kind, a
law unto yourself. That is your justification. Isn't that enough?

           
Movement at the front of the Kramer
building caught Rob's attention through his half closed eyes. He straightened
up and squinted through the foggy windshield.

           
Gates. Leaving his office.

           
Christ! What had he been doing in
there all this time?

           
Gates began to walk uptown. Since
Seventh Avenue ran downtown only, Rob couldn't follow. He took a gamble. He
started the car and took the next even numbered street east up to Sixth Avenue,
raced uptown to Twenty-first and came down the street with his lights out. He
pulled in by a fire hydrant at mid-block and waited.

           
Gates showed a few minutes later. He
went up the steps to his front door and disappeared inside. Five minutes later
all the lights went out.

           
Rob debated extending the watch,
then decided against it. He had a feeling Gates wouldn't be going anywhere
until his office opened in five and a half hours.

           
A wasted night. Or maybe not. At
least he knew Gates hadn't been out snooping around Kelly's apartment playing
mind games on Kara. But he was puzzled as to what it was in Gates' office that
would keep him occupied until this hour.

           
Sooner or later he'd find out. Rob
had no doubt about that. Patience and vigilance—sooner or later they paid off.

           
He turned on the headlights and
headed home.

           
Ed had tried to age the coveralls
quickly by bunching them up on the floor and stomping all over them. It had
added wrinkles, but still they looked too clean. The same was true of the tool
box he carried, even though he had taken a hammer to it.

           
Nothing
I can do about it now
, he thought as he entered the Kramer Medical Arts
Building.

           
But he'd skipped shaving and
showering this morning and was pleased with the slightly grubby effect.

           
He walked up to the directory, found
Dr. Gates listed on the third floor, and took the elevator up. That was when he
began to sweat.

           
This
is crazy! I could get disbarred for this!

           
The best thing to do was turn around
now, go back to the apartment, and go to work late. He had called in sick this
morning but he could always tell them the virus had passed as suddenly as it
came and he felt fine now.

           
No!
You're going to do this. You're going to go through with it. No backing down.

           
When the elevator door opened, he
marched out and found Dr. Gates' office. The door was flush steel. He took a
deep breath, readied his best grin and Bronx accent, and pushed it open.

           
"Mornin'!" he said to the
receptionist behind the desk. "How's it goin' t'day, sweetheart?"

           
"Can I help you?" she
said, fixing him with a frosty stare.

           
"Yeah. Y'havin' any trouble
witcher locks?"

           
She shook her head. "No. Why do
you ask?"

           
"Complaints. Loadsa complaints.
Mostly on da fourth floor, but de owners want me t' check ev'ybody out as long
as dey got me here."

           
"I can't allow you to disturb
Dr. Gates' patients—"

           
"Nah, don' werry. Jus de outta
door here. Lemme see yer key set."

           
She reached for her bag and then
stopped.

           
"I don't know…"

           
Ed had been afraid of something like
this, but he had a plan of action prepared:
Bull
your way throush
.

           
"I should look atcher rest room
keys, too."

           
Still she hesitated.

           
"C'mon, lady. Watcha tink I'm
gonna do, steal 'em? I ain't got all day. And if sumpin goes wrong wit da
cylinder or da tumbluhs later, yer boss'll hafta pay outta his own pocket. Know
what I'm saying'?"

           
She handed him a ring with two keys
on it— probably the lobby key and the office door key—plus the two restroom
keys that she kept in her drawer.

           
Ed smiled at her. "Tanks,
sweets. Dis'll only take me a minute."

           
He checked out the lock on the door.
It was a simple dead bolt with a knob inside and a keyhole outside. He found
the right key on the second try and turned it back and forth. It worked
perfectly.

           
"Hear dat?" he said,
putting his ear down to the face plate as the bolt slid in and out. "Yer
cylinders is dry. I'll fix dat in a jiffy."

           
He took out the can of graphite
spray he had bought this morning and squirted some into the keyhole. He tried
the key again.

           
"
Much
better! Okay, I'm gonna check out yer rest rooms and da front.
Be right back."

           
Without giving her a chance to
protest, Ed closed the door and hurried down the hall. He took the stairs two
at a time down to the lobby, walked quickly through the front doors, then
sprinted down to the locksmith on Fourteenth Street. He threw the office and
main entrance keys on the counter.