"I'm not really sure," she said. "But I'll be glad to take a message if you'd like."
"It's terrible what happened to him," the man on the phone said. His voice modulated to deep sympathy without seeming to change pitch. "Have they given you any idea how long it will be before he comes out of the hypnotic trance?"
Some of the tension drained from Eileen Mikulka. "You know about that?" she said, exhaling. "I only just found out myself a few minutes ago. The doctor wouldn't tell me a thing. He just shooed me back upstairs."
"Doctors can be very unsympathetic," the caller said. "I'm sure Harold will be fine. Thank you for your time."
"Wait," Mrs. Mikulka said. "I didn't get your name."
The phone was cradled between shoulder and ear. She had out her pad, pen poised to write.
The caller's response was strange given the man they were both talking about. After all, Dr. Smith had never been the social type. His circle was limited to a handful of people, all of whom Eileen Mikulka assumed were known to her.
"I'm a friend," said the voice on the phone.
The rude man with the pleasant voice didn't bother to give Mrs. Mikuika his name. He just hung up.
CALCULATING THE LIKELIHOOD THAT SUBJECT HAROLD WINSTON SMITH, DIRECTOR FOLCROFT SANITARIUM, RYE, NEW YORK, IS THE HAROLD FOR WHICH I'VE BEEN SEARCHING...
The answer was calculated in fractions of a second. 95.8 PERCENT PROBABILITY.
Friend had found the right Harold.
The search had been complicated by Remo's misleading statement at the Vox building in Manhattan. Friend had expanded his search parameters when he had no luck locating a Harold Smith in any hospitals in New York, Connecticut or New Jersey. He understood his error when he found out that Harold Smith was not in a hospital, but in a private mental-health facility. The patient records for Folcroft were not computerized, further hindering Friend's search.
Statistical and probability algorithms raced to meet along pathways unfettered by form or distance.
Friend consumed all information relevant to Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York. Newspaper articles from online sources dated the current week detailed a situation at Harold Smith's place of work for which police involvement was required. Friend took this and sped on. Tendrils of living electronic thought accelerated, accessing records within the Rye police department. The relevant data was located, digested and evaluated. A blueprint for action was formed.
CALCULATING LIKELIHOOD THAT PLAN TO KILL SUBJECT HAROLD SMITH WILL SUCCEED...
The answer shot back instantaneously. 83.2 PERCENT PROBABILITY.
Satisfied with the odds of success, Friend returned to his normal business of maximizing profit.
Chapter 25
The pulsing white light drew Harold Smith out of the deep fog of his own mind. When he opened his eyes, he recognized the familiar broad face looking down at him.
He blinked as he glanced at his surroundings. For a reason unknown to him, he was lying on his back in a Folcroft hospital room.
"What's going on?" Smith demanded.
Dr. Gerling seemed relieved. "You're out of it. Good." He returned his penlight to his pocket. "You heard about what happened in Harlem with those subliminal signals?"
"Yes," Smith admitted cautiously.
"Somehow you succumbed to a signal like the one used there. I'm still not sure how. I heard the authorities are dismantling the facility in the church there."
Smith was growing more worried. It was starting to come back to him. He remembered being in his office. Remembered looking down at the television broadcast on his computer screen. There had been something there....
As he racked his brain, he tried to sit up. He found he could not. There was only minimal movement of his head and neck. Beyond that, nothing.
"I have no sensation below my neck," Smith said, trying to keep the panic from his voice.
"Not to worry. Your friend somehow gave you a kind of temporary paralysis. I still don't know how. Must be some sort of acupressure."
Smith stopped straining. His head clunked back to the table. "Friend?" he asked.
"I'm not sure of his name," Dr. Gerling said. "I've seen him here before. He's with the elderly Asian gentleman."
"He is not a friend," Smith said hurriedly. "He's a permanent health-care professional privately employed by the Asian patient."
"Whatever he is, he brought you in here. You tried to strangle him."
Frozen like a statue, Smith racked his brain. It was all so foggy. The doctor's words jarred some memory. He suddenly remembered having his hands around Remo's throat. He recalled something in his office. Flashes and a loud sound. It hit him like a fist in the gut.
He had tried to shoot Remo!
"I must get to my office," Smith announced urgently.
"He said it would be six hours before whatever he did wore off."
"How long has it been?"
Gerling checked his watch. "About five hours and forty-five minutes. You were in a very deep hypnotic state, Dr. Smith. You should try to relax."
The last thing Smith could do now was relax. The next fifteen minutes were sheer agony. It was the most excruciating quarter hour of his life, including the time he'd spent at the hands of a Nazi torturer while with the OSS during the second World War.
When the six-hour mark arrived, the Sinanju paralysis Remo had employed slowly melted away. It left his neck and his shoulders, slipping away down his arms and torso.
When his legs were finally strong enough to support him, he left the examination room. His stride grew more certain as he made his way up to his office.
"Dr. Smith, you're all right!" Mrs. Mikulka exclaimed as he stepped in from the hall.
Smith didn't respond.
Marching with great purpose, he crossed the room, stopping at his closed office door.
As Mrs. Mikulka watched in growing dismay, her employer proceeded to do something strange, even by his standards.
The Folcroft director took off his glasses, folding them carefully into the pocket of his dress shirt. Next, he stripped off his suit jacket. Turning it around, he draped the rear of the jacket over his face. Taking the loose arms, he wrapped them over his eyes for double protection, drawing the ends over his shoulders.
With his arthritic fingers he found the sleeves difficult to knot. He turned to his secretary.
"Mrs. Mikulka, would you please tie this for me?" Smith's muffled voice asked from beneath his jacket.
"Oh. Yes, sir."
Mrs. Mikulka dutifully knotted the sleeves at the back of her employer's head.
"Thank you," Folcroft's director said. "No phone calls, please."
With that, Smith entered his office.
Inside was as familiar as if he had been sighted. Beneath his makeshift mask, Smith's eyes were screwed tightly shut. He didn't want to take any chances.
Smith got to his knees. Bones creaked as he made his way an all fours across the office, facedown. He found the cord to the television first. The CURE director knew that he hadn't had the set turned on before he attacked Remo, but he dared not leave anything to chance. He tugged the plug from the wall. Crawling around below the window, he found the thick cord that exited the base of his high-tech desk. It was connected to a panel in the floor.
Smith wrapped his gnarled hand around the plug and pulled. A hum that he had not been aware emanated from the bowels of his desk slowly petered out.
He waited on the floor several long seconds, just to be certain that the monitor buried deep inside the desktop had faded completely to black.
Finally, Smith used the desk's edge to drag himself to his feet.
He pulled the jacket off still knotted. Untying the sleeves, he shrugged it back on over his shoulders. Taking his seat, he replaced his glasses on his patrician nose.