went into a state of remission but began rebuilding damaged tissues."
The timing of the girl's turnaround coincided perfectly with the first
appearance of the strange rings on Brendan Cronin's hands. However,
Stefan Wycazik made no mention of that coincidence.
Jarvil produced more X rays and tests that showed a remarkable
improvement in the child's haversian canals, the elaborate network that
carried small blood vessels and lymphatics throughout the bone for the
purpose of maintenance and repair. Many of these had been clogged with
a plaquelike substance that pinched off the vessels passing through
them. In the past two weeks, however, the plaque almost disappeared,
allowing the full circulation required for healing and regeneration.
"No one even knew that namiloxiprine could clean out the canals this
way," Jarvil said. "No record of it. Oh, yes, minor unclogging, but
only as a consequence of getting the disease itself under control.
Nothing like this. Amazing."
"If regeneration continues at this rate," Klinet said, "Emmy could be a
normal, healthy girl in three months. Really phenomenal."
Jarvil said, "She could be well again."
They grinned at Father Wycazik, and he did not have the heart to suggest
that neither their hard work nor the wonder drug was responsible for
Emmeline Halbourg's cure. They were euphoric, so Stefan kept to himself
the possibility that Emmy's cure had been effected by some power far
more mysterious than modern medicine.
Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Christmas Day with Lucy, Frank, and the grandchildren was fun and
therapeutic for Ernie and Faye Block. By the time they went out for a
walk (just the two of them) toward the end of the afternoon, they were
feeling better than they had in months.
The weather was perfect for walking: cold, crisp, but without wind. The
most recent snowfall was four days old, so the sidewalks were clear. As
twilight approached, the air shimmered with a purple radiance.
Bundled in heavy coats and scarves, Faye and Ernie strolled arm in arm,
talking animatedly about the day's events, enjoying the Christmas
displays that Lucy's and Frank's neighbors had erected on their front
lawns. The years slipped away, and Faye felt as if she and Ernie were
still newlyweds, young and full of dreams.
From the moment they had arrived in Milwaukee on December 15, ten days
ago, Faye had reason to hope that everything was going to work out all
right. Ernie had seemed bettera new bounciness in his step, more
genuine good humor in his smile. Evidently, just basking in the love of
his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren was sufficient to burn away
some of the crippling fear that had become the central fact of his life.
The therapy sessions with Dr. Fontelaine, six so far, had also been
remarkably beneficial. Ernie was still afraid of the dark but far less
terrified than when they left Nevada. Phobias, according to the doctor,
were easy to treat compared to many other psychiatric disorders. In
recent years therapists had discovered that, in most cases, the symptoms
were the disease rather than merely shadows cast by unresolved conflicts
in the patient's subconscious. It was no longer considered necessary-or
even possible or desirable-to seek the psychological causes of the
condition in order to treat it. Long courses of therapy had been
abandoned in favor of teaching the patient desensitization techniques
that could eradicate the symptoms in months or even weeks.
Approximately a third of all phobics could not be helped by these
methods and, instead, required long-term treatment and even
panic-blocking drugs like alprazolam. But Ernie had improved at a pace
that even Dr. Fontelaine, an optimist by nature, found astonishing.
Faye had been reading extensively about phobias and had discovered she
could help Ernie by digging up amusing, curious facts that allowed him
to view his condition from a different-less fearsome-perspective. He
terror of the dark seem reasonable by comparison. For example, knowing
there were pteronophobics out there, people who lived in constant and
unreasonable fear of feathers, made his abhorrence of nightfall seem not
only bearable but almost ordinary and logical, as well. Ichthyophobes
were horrified by the prospect of encountering a fish, and pediophobes
ran screaming at the sight of a doll. And Ernie's nyctophobia was
certainly preferable to coitophobia (the fear of sexual intercourse),
and not a fraction as debilitating as autophobia (the fear of oneself).
Now, walking through the twilight, Faye tried to keep Ernie's mind off
the descending darkness by telling him about the late author, John
Cheever, winner of the National Book Award, who'd been gephyrophobic.
Cheever had suffered from a crippling fear of crossing high bridges.
Ernie listened with fascination, but he was no less aware of the onset
of nightfall. As the shadows lengthened across the snow, his hand
steadily tightened on her arm until it would have been painful if she
had not been wearing a thick sweater and heavy coat.
By the time they had gone seven blocks, they were too far from the house
to have any hope of returning to it before full darkness settled on the
land. Two-thirds of the sky was black already, and the other third was
deep purple. The shadows had spread like spilt ink.
The streetlamps had come on. Faye halted Ernie in a cone of light,
giving him a brief reprieve. His eyes had a wild look, and his steaming
exhalations rushed from him at a rate that indicated incipient panic.
"Remember to control your breathing," Faye said.
He nodded and began at once to take deeper, slower breaths.
When all the light in the sky had been extinguished, she said, "Ready to
go back?"
"Ready," he said hollowly.
They stepped out of the glow of the streetlamp, into darkness, heading
back toward the house, and Ernie hissed between clenched teeth.
What they were engaged upon, for the third time, was a dramatic
therapeutic technique called "flooding," in which the phobic was
encouraged to confront the thing he feared and to endure it long enough
to break its hold on him. Flooding is based on the fact that panic
attacks are self-limiting. The human body cannot sustain a very high
level of panic indefinitely, cannot produce endless adrenaline, so the
mind must adapt to, and make peace-or at least a truce-with what it
fears. Unmodified flooding can be a cruel, barbaric method of cracking
a phobia, for it puts the patient at risk of a breakdown. Dr.
Fontelaine preferred a modified version of the technique involving three
stages of confrontation with the source of fear.
The first stage, in Ernie's case, was to put himself in darkness for
fifteen minutes, but with Faye at his side for support and with lighted
areas easily accessible. Now, each time they arrived at the lighted
sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, they paused to let him gather his
courage, then went on into the next patc
h of darkness.
The second stage, which they would try in another week or two, after
more sessions with the doctor, would involve driving to a place where
there were no streetlamps, no easily reached lighted areas. There, they
would walk together arm in arm across an unrelieved vista of darkness
until Ernie could tolerate no more, at which time Faye would switch on a
flashlight and give him a moment's respite.
In the third stage of treatment, Ernie would go for a stroll alone in a
completely dark area. After a few outings like that, he would almost
certainly be cured.
But he was not cured yet, and by the time they covered six blocks of the
seven-block return journey to the house, Ernie was breathing like a
well-run racehorse, and he bolted for the safety of the light inside.
Not bad, though-six blocks. Better than before. At this rate, he would
be cured in no time.
As Faye followed him into the house, where Lucy was already helping him
out of his coat, she tried to feel good about his progress to date. If
this pace held, he would complete the third and final stage weeks-maybe
even a couple of months-ahead of schedule. That was what worried Faye.
His rapid improvement was amazing; it seemed too rapid and too amazing
to be real. She wanted to believe the nightmare would be put behind
them quickly, but the pace of his recuperation made her wonder if it was
lasting. Striving always to think positive, Faye Block was nevertheless
plagued by the instinctive and unnerving feeling that something was
wrong. Very wrong.
Boston, Massachusetts.
Inevitably, given his exotic background as a godson of Picasso and a
once-famous European stage performer, Pablo Jackson was a star in Boston
social circles. Furthermore, during World War II, he had been a liaison
between British Intelligence and the French Resistance forces, and his
recent work as a hypnotist with police agencies had only added to his
mystique. He never lacked invitations.
On the evening of Christmas Day, Pablo attended a blacktie dinner party
for twenty-two at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Ira Hergensheimer in
Brookline. The house was a splendid brick Georgian Colonial, as elegant
and warmly welcoming as the Hergensheimers themselves, who had made
their money in real estate during the 1950s. A bartender was on duty in
the library, and white-jacketed waiters circulated through the enormous
drawing room with champagne and canapes, and in the foyer a string
quartet played just loudly enough to provide pleasant background music.
Among that engaging company, the man of most interest to Pablo was
Alexander Christophson, former Ambassador to the Court of St. James's,
one-term United States Senator from Massachusetts, later Director of the
Central Intelligence Agency, now retired almost a decade, whom Pablo had
known half a century. Now seventy-six, Christophson was the second
eldest guest, but old age had been nearly as kind to him as to Pablo. He
was tall, distinguished, with remarkably few lines in his classic
Bostonian face. His mind was as sharp as ever. The true length of his
journey on the earth was betrayed only by a mild trace of Parkinson's
disease which, in spite of medication, left him with a tremor in his
right hand.
Half an hour before dinner, Pablo eased Alex away from the other guests
and led him to Ira Hergensheimer's oakpaneled study, adjacent to the
library, for a private conversation. The old magician closed the door
behind them, and they carried their glasses of champagne to a pair of
leather wingback chairs by the window. "Alex, I need your advice."
"Well, as you know," Alex said, "men our age find it especially
satisfying to give advice. It compensates for no longer being able to
set a bad example ourselves. But I can't imagine what advice I could
give on any problem that you wouldn't already have thought of yourself."
"Yesterday," Pablo said, "a young woman came to see me. She's an
exceedingly lovely, charming, and intelligent woman who's accustomed to
solving her own problems, but now she's bumped up against something very
strange. She desperately needs help."
Alex raised his eyebrows. "Beautiful young women still come to you for
help at eighty-one? I am impressed, humbled, and envious, Pablo."
"This is not a coup defoudre, you filthy-minded old lizard. Passion
isn't involved." Without mentioning Ginger Weiss's name or occupation,
Pablo discussed her problem-the bizarre and inexplicable fugues-and
recounted the session of hypnotic regression that had ended with her
frightening withdrawal. "She actually seemed about to retreat into a
deep self-induced coma, perhaps even into death, to avoid my questions.
Naturally, I refused to put her in a trance again and risk another
withdrawal of that severity. But I promised to do some research to see
if any similar case was on record. I found myself poring through books
most of last evening and this morning, searching for references to
memory blocks with self-destruction built into them. At last I found it
... in one of your books. Of course, you were writing about an imposed
psychological condition as a result of brainwashing, and this woman's
block is of her own creation; but the similarity is there."
Drawing on his experiences in the intelligence services during World War
II and the subsequent cold war, Alex Christophson had written several
books, including two that dealt with brainwashing. In one, Alex had
described a technique he called the Azrael Block (naming it for one of
the angels of death) that seemed uncannily like the barrier that
surrounded Ginger Weiss's memory of some traumatic event in her past.
As distant string music came to them muffled by the closed study door,
Alex put down his champagne glass because his hands trembled too
violently. He said, "I don't suppose you'd drop this matter and forget
all about it? Because I'm telling you that's the wisest course."
"Well," Pablo said, a bit surprised by the ominous tone of his friend's
voice, "I've promised her I'll try to help."
"I've been retired eight years, and my instincts aren't what they once
were. But I have a very bad feeling about this. Drop it, Pablo. Don't
see her again. Don't try to help her any more."
"But, Alex, I've promised her."
"I was afraid that'd be your position." Alex folded his tremulous hands.
"Okay. The Azrael Block ... It's not something that Western
intelligence services use often, but
the Soviets find it invaluable. For example, let's imagine a topnotch
Russian agent named Ivan, an operative with thirty years' service in the
KGB. In Ivan's memory there'll be an incredible amount of highly
sensitive information that, were it to fall into Western hands, would
devastate Russian espionage networks. Ivan's superiors constantly worry
that, on some foreign assignment, he'll be identified and interrogated."
"As I understand it, with current drugs and hypnotic techniques, no one
can withhold information from a determined interrogator."
"Exactly. No matter h
ow tough he is, Ivan will spill all he knows
without being tortured. For that reason, his superiors would prefer to
send younger agents who, if caught, would have less valuable information
to reveal. But many situations require a seasoned man like Ivan, so the
possibility of all his knowledge falling into enemy hands is a nightmare
with which his superiors must live, whether they like it or not."
"The risk of doing business."
"Exactly. However, let's imagine that, among all the sensitive
knowledge in his head, Ivan knows two or three things that're especially
sensitive, so explosive that their revelation could destroy his country.
These particular memories, less than one percent of his knowledge about
KGB operations, could be suppressed without affecting his performance in
the field. We're talking here about the suppression of a very tiny
portion of his memories. Then, if he fell into enemy hands, he'd still
give up a great deal of valuable stuff during interrogation-but at least
he would not be able to reveal those few most crucial memories."
"And this is where the Azrael Block comes in," Pablo said. "Ivan's own
people use drugs and hypnosis to seal off certain parts of his past
before sending him overseas on his next assignment."
Alex nodded. "For example . . . say that years ago Ivan was one of
the agents involved in the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II.
With a memory block in place, his awareness of that involvement could be
locked in his subconscious, beyond the reach of potential interrogators,
without affecting his work on new assignments. But not just any block
will do. If Ivan's interrogators discover a standard memory block,