Chapter 11

Jeff raised his eyes to the doctor’s face. His throat felt like sandpaper. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. “Sorry,” he grated. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not talking business.”

Dr. Schiml smiled, his head slowly moving back and forth. “I hear you’re quite handy at the dice, Jeff.”

Jeff jumped out of the chair, fists clenched, eyes blazing at the girl.

“You bitch,” he snarled. “You two-bit tramp stoolie. You’d sell your grandmother short for a bag of salt, wouldn’t you? Come to me with your sob stories, beg me to move out of here with you.” His voice was biting. “How much did they pay you to sell out? A hundred thousand, maybe? Or was this just a little routine affair? Maybe a thousand or two?”

The girl’s face darkened, her eyes bewildered as she stared at him.

“No, that’s not true. I didn’t--”

“Well, it won’t do them any good, no matter how much they paid you. Because I’m not signing a release, now or ever.”

A guard grabbed Jeff’s arm, forcing him back into the chair.

Dr. Schiml still smiled, clasping his knee with his hands. “I guess you didn’t quite understand me,” he said pleasantly. “You mustn’t blame Blackie. She didn’t sell you short. She just couldn’t help answering a few perfectly innocent questions.” His eyes returned to Jeff, coldly.

“We’re not asking you to sign a release, Jeff. We’re telling you.”

Jeff stared at him in amazement. “Don’t be silly,” he blurted. “I’m not signing a release to you people. Do you think I’m out of my mind? Take it away, burn it and get yourself another guinea pig.”

Dr. Schiml smiled quietly and shook his head. “We don’t want another guinea pig, Jeff. That’s just it. We want you.”

A little line of sweat broke out on Jeff’s forehead. “Look,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not signing anything, do you understand? I’ve changed my mind. I don’t care for the work here. I don’t like the company.”

Schiml’s smile faded. He shrugged and tucked the white paper back into his white coat. “Just as you wish,” he said. “The release is just a formality. Bring him along, boys.”

“Wait!” Jeff was on his feet again, facing the guards, his eyes wide with fright. His eyes caught Schiml’s. “Look, you’ve got things wrong. I’m a fake in here, a fraud. Can’t you understand that? I didn’t come in here to volunteer. I never intended to volunteer, never planned to go even as far as I did. I came here--”

Schiml made an impatient face and held up a hand. “Oh, yes, yes, I know all that. You came into this place because you’d followed a man in here and you wanted to kill him. You’d been hunting him for years, because you thought he murdered your father in cold blood and nothing would do but you kill him. Right?” Schiml blinked at Jeff, his voice heavy with boredom. “So you came in here and went through testing, hunting down your man, trying to find him. But you didn’t find him. Now things have suddenly become too hot for your liking, so you figure that it’s time to pull out. Right? Or are some of the details wrong?”

Jeff’s jaw sagged, his face going pasty. “That slut girl--”

Schiml grimaced. “No, not Blackie. Blackie is discreet, in her own quiet way. She hasn’t had anything to do with it. We’ve known about you all along, Jeff. And through a much more reliable source than Blackie.” He glanced over his shoulder at one of the guards. “Bring him in,” he said abruptly.

The door to the adjoining room opened and a man walked into the room. He was a tall, lean man; a gaunt-faced man with sallow cheeks and large, sad eyes; a weary-looking man whose hair was graying about the temples--a man whose whole body looked desperately tired.

And Schiml looked at the man and then he looked at the ceiling. “Hello, Paul,” he said softly. “There’s someone here who’s been looking for you--”

A scream broke from Jeff’s lips as he stared across the room. A raw animal scream ripped from his mouth like a knife. His lips twisted and he wrenched at the guards who were holding his arms, his face going purple, his eyes bulging.

With a roar he lunged at Conroe, bellowing, a torrent of hatred and abuse pouring from his lips. Again and again he screamed, his eyes blazing with an unholy fire of hatred. Conroe jerked back with a cry, and then Schiml was on his feet as Jeff lunged again, his muscles tightening like bands of steel under the flimsy shirt.

The guards fought to restrain him, and then the doctor was holding him too, crying: “Get out, Paul, quick!”

But Paul Conroe stood stock still, writhing from his hands to his head, his eyes filling with horrible pain. Suddenly the coffee cup jerked from the table, spun in the air and hurled straight for Conroe’s head. It missed, smashing against the wall.

Jeff screamed again and the walls and ceiling began powdering off, plaster peeling down in great chunks, smashing off the walls onto the floor. A huge chunk fell from the ceiling, and then the curtains suddenly started to blaze, as if ignited by some magic fire. Finally, Conroe’s clothing began smoking and smoldering.

Blackie screamed, staring at Jeff in open horror. Schiml’s voice roared through the bedlam: “Get him! Sedate him, for God’s sake, before he tears the place down on our ears!” Again Jeff roared his virulent hatred, and this time Conroe was the one who shouted: