There was something oddly authoritarian about his voice, as if he were experienced in such matters and knew what he was talking about.
"It shows, huh?" The words blurred together into a whimper.
"I hope you're feeling better," he said formally, then turned on his heel and started toward the door.
"I'll be all right!" I heard myself shouting. "I'm going with you!"
Lippitt stopped, turned. "We'll see," he said simply, and walked out of the room.
Over the objections of my brother and a battery of doctors, I checked myself out of the hospital on Monday. It had reached the point where the hospital's knockout pills weren't working. I didn't want to sleep, because sleep was infinitely worse than staying awake; Kaznakov always visited me in my sleep. If I was going to stay awake, I reasoned it was better to be getting some things done.
The first thing I did was book a seat on a flight to North Carolina for the next morning. I still couldn't bring myself to pick up a telephone, so I decided I'd simply drop in at the Institute and hope to get lucky. I hung around the apartment the rest of the day and drank myself to sleep that night.
The only effect the booze had was to make it impossible for me to wake up when I wanted to. Kaznakov, his face dripping blood, continued to chase me; the difference was that I was drunk in my dreams, easier to catch.
I struggled awake at dawn and promptly threw up. I stood naked in a dry shower, leaning against the tiled wall and shaking. I wanted to cancel my flight, but the travel agency where I'd made my reservation wasn't open until nine, and my flight was at eight. I could, of course, simply not show up, but something told me that much more than the answers to a few questions could be riding on my ability to make myself get out of the apartment and onto that plane. I finally forced myself to shower, shave, and dress. Too sick to eat, I stumbled out into the street to flag down a cab.
Despite a hangover, or because of it, I wanted another drink on the plane. I decided I wouldn't help my cause by becoming an alcoholic, so I settled for two Alka-Seltzers and a lot of tomato juice.
Late morning found me in Durham, strong enough to walk a reasonably straight line. I celebrated my newfound resolve by forcing myself to use a pay phone. Then I rented a car and drove out to the Duke University campus.
It was a lovely campus, with acres of rolling green, a mixture of old and new buildings, and an overall Gothic atmosphere. The summer session had begun and the landscape was decorated with students, most of them wrapped around each other in various phases of lovemaking. Cicadas droned a steady accompaniment to the strains of guitar music and folk songs that floated on the dry, hot air. The liquor from the night before must have lubricated my joints; I walked without a limp.
The Institute for Parapsychology, not actually a part of Duke, was housed in a converted mansion just off the university campus. I asked for Dr. Fritz James, the man I'd spoken to on the phone, and was ushered into his office.
James was a young man with lean features and long hair tied back with a leather thong. He wore a gossamer Indian chambray shirt, tie-dyed jeans, and worn cowboy boots. He was obviously a man who cared little about his surroundings: there was barely enough room in the office for his desk amidst a litter of magazines, books, and abstract sculpture.
James skipped around from behind his desk and shook my hand enthusiastically. "Dr. Frederickson, it's a real pleasure to meet you."
"I appreciate your agreeing to see me on such short notice."
"I need distractions," he said with a deprecating gesture.
"It allows the subconscious to surface and do its work. What's a Yankee like you doing down here in the cotton patches?"
I laughed. "Do I detect a Bronx accent?"
James smiled and nodded. "Fordham Road; born and raised." There was a spontaneous warmth about the man that I liked.
"One of my graduate students wants to do a doctoral dissertation on possible uses of parapsychology in forensic medicine," I lied. "Since I'm his adviser, I thought I'd better find out what he's talking about. I just happened to be in the neighborhood and I thought I'd take a chance that somebody might be willing to talk to me."
"I'm glad you did," James said sincerely. "Are you interested in any particular area of parapsychology?"
I finessed the question by taking out my note pad and drawing a replica of the paper I'd found inside the book on parapsychology. When I finished, I handed it to him and asked, "Have you ever seen a sheet of paper like this?"
"Sure," James said, leaning across his desk and opening a drawer. He withdrew a thick blue pad, which he handed to me. The sheets in the pad were the same: circles, squares, triangles, and parallelograms. "Is this what you mean?"
"It sure is. What are they used for?"
"They're score sheets. We use them to test for telepathy. Would you like to take a stab at it?"
I nodded.
James went back into his desk and came up with a deck of what looked like oversized playing cards. He spread them face up on the desk. Each card had a symbol-a circle, square, triangle, or parallelogram-corresponding to one of the columns on the score sheet.
He put the cards back together, tore a score sheet from the blue pad, and sat down behind his desk. He picked up a couple of large books off the floor and set them on edge between us so that I couldn't see his hands. "We usually use a more sophisticated procedure," he said, shuffling the cards, "but I think this will serve our purpose.
"I'm going to turn over these cards one by one and concentrate on whichever one I'm looking at," he continued. "You try to open your mind to mine, try to get a picture in your mind of which symbol is on the card in front of me. When I rap on the desk, you call out what symbol you think it is. Got it?"
"Got it."
James finished shuffling the cards, then abruptly snapped one face up and rapped on the desk.
The only thing I could think of was Kaznakov.
"Quickly," James said with a note of authority. "Don't try to think about it. Just give me your first impression; let your subconscious do the work."
"Parallelogram."
He checked one of the boxes on the sheet, flipped another card, knocked.
"Triangle."
Knock.
"Triangle."
Knock.
"Square."
It took him twenty minutes to go through the deck. Then he pushed the books aside and spent another minute or so tallying the check marks in the boxes on the sheet. He finished and tapped the paper with the eraser end of his pencil.
"How'd I do?"
"About twenty-five percent. That's average for a random selection. Chance. With four symbols to choose from, the average person would get one out of four right."
"You mean I'm not a telepath?"
He smiled. "I'm afraid not. Welcome to the club."
"Are there people who score better than chance?"
"Oh, God, yes. Since we began testing for it in the past few years, people with latent telepathic skills have been crawling out of the woodwork. It really is amazing. We've got three students here who can consistently score between thirty and forty-five percent. That's pretty damn good."
"On symbols," I said. "What about reading other people's thoughts?"
He shrugged. "There are twins in Minneapolis who are apparently able to communicate with each other through dreams. But picking up thought transference-and proving that it's taking place-is pretty esoteric. We use this test because it lends itself to hard statistical analysis."
"What about a hundred percent on the cards? Is there anyone around who can manage that?"