Keeper of the Children Read online

  “Do I want to know why?”

  “No. It might depress you. Let’s go to my office. I’ll talk as I walk. Did your daughter know Bobby Custis before she joined Kheim’s commune?”

  “No.”

  “Very unusual boy, Bobby.”

  “Unusual? What do you mean?”

  “Just that. Unusual. Very bright. An exceptional person. Look, I want to repeat. I don’t think I can help you. All I can do is give you information. I didn’t get much chance to study Bobby.”

  “That’s all I want. Information. I want to know how to unbrainwash my daughter.”

  “So do I, Mr. Benson.” He stopped walking. “So do the Russians. And the Chinese. And everybody else. In fact, it’s a sort of international scientific Olympics—a race to control the human mind. It’s the political plum of the twentieth century.”

  “Maybe Kheim knows how already.”

  “Maybe. The secret is in the memory. If we can learn to control your daughter’s memory, then we can control her mind. Does that make you unhappy?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “It makes me unhappy. It’s another vast area of knowledge and control that the human animal shouldn’t have. It’s incredible power—much more power than we can handle. Ripping open the human mind is the ultimate rape. And what worries me most is maybe we’re the monsters—the guys in the white hats.”

  “Look, Dr. Keller. Can we talk about my daughter?”

  Dr. Keller sat down at his desk.

  “Yes, of course. You know what the purpose of brainwashing is, don’t you?”

  “To control someone’s mind.”

  “The purpose of brainwashing is to change attitudes. If you can control a man’s attitudes you can control the man. … All you have to do is erase the old attitudes, replace them with new attitudes and harden them.”

  “Good. Now. How is that done?”

  “Oh, you have your choice of techniques. Pavlovian conditioning, dissonance reduction, guilt transfer or anxiety transfer, identity change, social conformity pressure and on and on. Most of these techniques don’t work at all. Then, of course, there are drugs and there’s hypnosis and mechanical control like implanted electrodes. And beyond that is a whole world of things waiting to be tested. On any given day there’s a chance someone will make a breakthrough. So, you see, when Bobby Custis was brought here we had a long process of elimination on our hands. Of course, we were working on an unestablished premise—that Bobby Custis was brainwashed.”

  “Unestablished?”

  “Yes. We had no proof that the boy was brainwashed at all. So we started. We did biochemical tests first. To find out if he was under the influence of drugs. He wasn’t. His metabolism was perfectly normal, with no foreign matter in his system. Then we began to check him out for hypnosis—that’s when he ran off again.”

  “So you don’t know for sure if he was brainwashed or not.”

  “That’s right. I don’t know. I don’t know how sophisticated this Kheim is, but if he’s using brain control, it isn’t one of the cruder, ordinary types. In fact, if he’s using brain control, I’d love to know what it is. It must be a dilly.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “There’s a possibility.”

  “But.”

  “But what?”

  “There’s a but in your voice.”

  “Well, I understand that Kheim is some kind of an Eastern religious. Western science has never made much of a study of their techniques. I’m sure they know a lot we don’t. But I can’t prove that he’s done anything to that boy. All I have right now is an impression. Bobby was strange in a way I can’t define. And that’s all.”

  “Explain strange to me.”

  “I can’t. He seemed to be submitting obediently to our studies when inside he didn’t want to. He seemed to be letting us learn just what he wanted us to learn and no more.”

  “Was he letting you learn that he wasn’t brainwashed?”

  “Or showing us that we couldn’t find it.”

  “His father says he had a personality change.”

  “Well, that could be typical teenage rebellion.”

  “Or it could have been a personality change.”

  “Yes.”

  Benson sighed. “We’re going around in a big circle. Suppose I brought my daughter here.”

  “Fine. Just bring her voluntarily. No more kidnapping.”

  “But that’s the whole point. She won’t come voluntarily.”

  Dr. Keller looked at his watch. “My sea slugs await me.”

  Benson felt the anger coloring his face again. “Then you’re not going to tell me how to unbrainwash my daughter?”

  “First of all, it takes a long time to learn how. Second, it’s very dangerous to the subject and, often, is not successful. And third, it’s a skill that I don’t want others to know. So …” He stood up. “If your daughter is truly brainwashed, bring her to us and I’ll see what we can do.”

  Benson stood up. “Maybe I should be talking to Kheim’s teacher.”

  “Or to Kheim. Sorry, Mr. Benson. Good night.”

  Out on the street, Benson stood by the curb, angrier and more frustrated than ever. He’d come out the same door he’d come in.

  Into his attaché case Custis put several manila folders. Then from a drawer he got the investigator’s report on Kheim and put that into the case. Almost immediately he picked it up and hefted it. He needed to reassure himself. There was no way Kheim could escape this snare, was there?

  He riffled the sheets. The report contained barely two dozen pages, yet at a fee of $2500—more than $100 per page—Custis considered it the best investment he’d ever made: It proved unequivocally that Kheim was an impostor. He looked at his watch. In an hour he would receive the phone call from Washington, and that would be the beginning of the end for Kheim.

  When he drove out of the office garage, Custis, instead of heading home, turned toward the river and drove through the old warehouse district.

  Over the months he had spent a great deal of money and time chasing Kheim in and out of government offices, juvenile protection agencies, law courts and lawyers’ offices, succeeding only in exhausting all his moves and his own patience. Hiring the detective agency was an act of despair; he had never expected to discover anything irregular in Kheim’s immigration papers, and when he received the first oral report from the agency he was elated. Now, with it safely in his case, he wanted to see Kheim’s face, if possible; to gloat quietly, to feel vindication and moral justification.

  He parked in an alley and, buttoning his coat against the river wind, walked slowly up the cobbled lane.

  Despite the report and his high expectations, Custis felt a wearied reaction to the many and great efforts he’d put forth just to get his son back to where he should have been all along: home.

  The entrance was barred by a wrought-iron gate. Inside it, in the vestibule, a kerosene lamp suspended from a chain cast a feeble light as it turned slowly in the moving night air. Custis stood before it in the street and heard the chanting of prayers in the darkness. Somewhere else in the building, others were noisily cleaning the kitchen. It was in there, in that building, that Kheim each day wound up other men’s children and sent them out to beg for his daily bread—and for a silver tray to serve it on. Was the wrought-iron gate to lock the world out or the children in?

  It was only when he drove along the old rural road into Bucks County that Eddie Benson noticed what a beautiful, star-filled night it was. A ground mist was drifting across the dormant fields and over the shallow valley. Even in the darkness and the chill, spring was emerging.

  There was a livestock gate across Custis’s driveway. Benson stopped his car before it and admired the layout of the property, dominated by an old restored farmhouse, brightly lit and inviting from the roadway. Next to it was a green-house and next to that a large barn.

  Above the buildings over a crest of land sat a mellow moon, full and fain
t gold. And perfectly centered in it was a weathered old scarecrow, its arm upraised, an impotent menace to all the birds of the county.

  When Benson got out to open the gate, he heard dogs barking. At the side of the barn near the kennel he saw two horses restlessly coursing up and down along a fence. One of them whinnied, and he heard a hoof strike a fence board. He realized, also, that there was something frantic in the dogs’ barking.

  He found the gate locked.

  The pantry door of the house opened, throwing light out into the barnyard, and a figure emerged. Even at a distance, Benson could tell it was Custis. He heard him chiding the dogs and saw him walk over to calm the horses. One of them stood on its hind legs as though trying to climb the fence. In his right hand, Custis seemed to be holding a pistol.

  Another car pulled up behind him. There were two men in it, obviously members of the parents’ committee, come to be present during the phone call from Washington.

  The driver said “Hi,” and Benson nodded affably.

  “What’s all the commotion about?”

  “I don’t know,” said Benson. “I can’t get past the gate.”

  Now Benson noticed a movement up on the ridge. At first it was barely perceptible. Then he saw the upraised arm of the scarecrow move. It slowly lowered. The torso moved. The shoulder shrugged. The other arm moved and the entire figure bent forward slightly, struggling away from the supports of the wooden post. Several loud cracks sounded.

  It was free.

  Benson intently studied the scarecrow by the light of the huge moon behind it. How was it done? What moved it? His eyes searched for the trick—searched for a guy wire or a telltale bulge of a man within—while his ears listened for a noise, listened for the sound of a motor, of ratchets and gears.

  The scarecrow stood briefly on the brow of the hill. Then, with no evident aid, human or mechanical, it stepped down on the slope.

  Suddenly, like a burst of shot, swallows fled from the eaves of the barn into the night. The white mare drove into the paddock gate, broke through it, dodged around Custis, and galloped down the lane past Benson to leap the gate.

  “My God,” said the driver.

  “Custis!” Benson shouted. “Look out!”

  Turning, Custis saw the scarecrow. It had moved down the slope, holding a piece of beribboned pipe before it like a mace of office. Its stride was quick, purposeful.

  Benson watched Custis step into the greenhouse and shut the door. Custis seemed to prop something—a shovel or a spade—under the doorknob before retreating to the other end of the greenhouse.

  The two men got out of their car to watch with Benson.

  The scarecrow reached the greenhouse door, hesitated, raised its arm and shoved. The door came off its hinges and fell to the floor with a loud crash of broken glass. The scarecrow entered, stepping on the door and breaking more glass.

  “Shoot!” Benson shouted. “Shoot!”

  Curtis backed out through the other greenhouse doorway and in three strides reached the pantry. He stepped inside and slammed the door. The scarecrow strode out through the greenhouse doorway, still bearing its lead pipe before it. Its feet crunched on the dirt path, then on the sandy brick walk, then on the concrete doorstep.

  It paused outside the pantry door. With the slap of one hand, it tore the entire door off its hinges and slammed it flat onto the pantry floor, with a clap like a cannon volley. The scarecrow stepped onto the fallen door and disappeared into the brightly lit kitchen.

  Benson climbed the fence and began to move toward the house. At first he walked, then he trotted, then he ran. The two men followed him. They were still fifty yards from the house when they heard the shots. There was no mistaking the sounds: loud and sharp, first one shot, then another, then more in rapid succession.

  Now came the sound of splintering wood. Something crashed through a window and bounded out on the lawn. A house-shaking boom and the lights went out; glass burst from another window and a curtain trailed out into the darkness. There followed a series of shattering noises and concussions. Then the noises stopped.

  Benson ran up onto the front porch and looked through the glass-paned door. Just inside, not two feet from him, the scarecrow loomed, more than seven feet tall. Then it slowly lay down. A phone began to ring as Benson turned the doorknob and pushed the door open a few inches. It pressed against the limp form of the scarecrow.

  Benson squeezed into the hallway and reached for the light switch. By the overhead hall light he saw the scarecrow, lying on its side, a merry grin painted on its flour-sack face. Beyond it, the living room lay in ruins. Huge pieces of broken furniture seemed to fill the room. Broken glass, shards of mirror and pieces of crockery covered the floor and rugs. Entire windows had been destroyed.

  By the fireplace, Benson saw Custis. He was lying face down, his head bent in an unnatural position. It was obvious that his neck was broken.

  The two men pressed through the doorway and stood next to Benson to stare at Custis. Then they turned to watch Benson kneel at the side of the scarecrow.

  Benson unbuttoned the tattered jacket to look inside. The scarecrow was made on a frame of old galvanized pipe, jointed together with steel springs that enabled the limbs to wave in the wind. There was nothing else to it except for the old clothes and the straw-stuffed flour-sack head. No motor, no concealed midget, no guy wires, no radio-control device.

  Benson raised his head to the two men and looked at them with astonishment. Behind him the phone finally stopped ringing.

  Kheim’s acolyte entered first, to prepare the chamber.

  A slender Oriental adolescent in a white ceremonial robe, he carried a glowing lantern. He hung it on its hook on the wall, then opened the door to the balcony and examined the brazier of charcoal that glowed in the darkness. From a small pail, he spooned incense over the coals; a rush of sudden smoke and spark rose and drifted away into the night.

  The acolyte reentered the chamber to part a black wall curtain and reveal in a niche in the wall a small jade figure. He lit the small votive candle. By its light the figure was an odd, pale green. Seated cross-legged, it had a starveling’s body and a lupine face—a wolf, a fox, a dog.

  The acolyte knelt before the figure, then bowed his head to the floor, where he remained for some minutes in total abnegation. At last the door opened.

  Kheim entered. He wore an elaborate Mandarin’s robe and carried a scroll. On the mat before the figure he prostrated himself, then rose and waited for the acolyte to remove the robe from his shoulders and hang it on a wall peg. Kheim stood now in a white loin cloth, barefoot, his pate freshly shaven, his body giving off the scent from his ritual bath. He knelt, bowed his head to the floor and remained there praying.

  When he returned to the kneeling position, the acolyte behind him opened the balcony door and brought in the glowing brazier. He placed it on a brass stand before the jade figure.

  Kheim stood and gazed deeply into the bowl. Waves of heat rose to his face and neck as he seemed to gather himself. He stared intently at the coals, concentrating.

  Slowly, he brought his two hands forward to hold them cupwise in front of his body. Almost imperceptibly at first, he moved his hands closer to the bowl of coals. He paused and concentrated again. Then he pushed both hands into the bowl, submerging them in the coals. He stepped closer and lifted. In his hands he raised up a mound of ruddy fire. He extended his arms toward the jade figure and locked his elbows, holding the coals as an offering. Through his translucent hands the coals were a pale rose in the dark room. Faint waves of smoke rose from his hands. He held the coals in his hands for several minutes, then slowly lowered them and gently replaced them in the brazier.

  The acolyte stepped forward, lifted the brazier and carried it back out on the balcony. He removed the brass stand and returned to his knees. Kheim stood once more before the jade figure. Once more he gathered himself. He filled his lungs and slowly exhaled.

  Now he raised his right arm straight
over his head. Next he raised his left foot and put the sole against the inside of his right knee. He sighed deeply. His eyes turned upward.

  The acolyte peered into Kheim’s half-open eyes. He saw only the exposed whites. A moment later he quietly left the room.

  Kheim remained. In the semidarkness he stood on one leg, one arm upraised, rigid, for five hours until dawn.

  Benson slept and, sleeping, dreamed.

  He was walking in a wood. The path forked. To the right it led to a meadow filled with sunlight and thronged with late-summer flowers and late-summer buzzing, everything moving and orchestrated in the light air.

  To the left the path descended and curved into a dark thicket densely vegetated with late-season black-green leaves swollen with summer. From it, deep inside, came the sound of falling water, hidden from view. And as he hesitated at the fork, from down in the thicket there came the call of a girl’s voice. “Eddie. Eddie.” It was a gentle voice, mournful and drawn out and so faint he could hardly hear it. “Eddie. Eddie.” It terrified him and he awoke. His hair was matted with sweat. Why had that frightened him? Beyond the bedroom window the rain clouds were breaking up and the moon looked through. He listened to Sue’s breathing and wondered if she were asleep.

  He must have dozed off again, for the sudden laughter that filled the bedroom woke him and rang in his ears. A multitude of voices were laughing—derisive, mocking, scornful, contemptuous laughter. It was aimed at him, and he lay perfectly still, sure he was awake, hearing the laughter die out, even hearing its echo. He sat up and got up and walked out of his bedroom into the hallway.

  As he walked into Renni’s room, he felt a strong draft of very cold air. The echo of laughter seemed clearer here. Through Renni’s window the gate light shone at the end of the lane and the raindrops on the lawn were silver under the dodging moon. Out of round and scarved in clouds, the moon had westered and descended like a solitary ship on an endless voyage.