The Dead Zone (25 page)

Two sets of TV light bars flashed on, bathing the lobby in an unearthly glare. Doctors and nurses gathered by the lounge doorway to watch. Johnny winced away from the lights, wondering if this was what they meant by the lime-light. He felt as if all of it might be a dream.

“Who're you?” one of the reporters yelled at Weizak.

“I am Samuel Weizak, this young man's doctor, and that name is spelled with two X's.”

There was general laughter and the mood eased a little.

“Johnny, you feel all right?” Weizak asked. It was early evening, and his sudden insight that Eileen Magown's kitchen was catching fire seemed distant and unimportant, the memory of a memory.

“Sure,” he said.

“What's your statement?” one of the reporters called.

“Well,” Johnny said, “it's this. My physical therapist is a woman named Eileen Magown. She's a very nice lady, and she's been helping me get my strength back. I was in an accident, you see, and . . .” One of the TV cameras moved in, goggling at him blankly, throwing him offstride for a moment. “. . . and I got pretty weak. My muscles sort of collapsed. We were in the physical therapy room this morning, just finishing up, and I got the feeling that her house was on fire. That is,
to be more specific . . .”
Jesus, you sound like an asshole!
“I felt that she had forgotten to turn off her stove and that the curtains in the kitchen were about to catch fire. So we just went and called the fire department and that's all there was to it.”

There was a moment's gaping pause as they digested that—
I sort of got the feeling, and that's all there was to it
—and then the barrage of questions came again, everything mixed together into a meaningless stew of human voices. Johnny looked around helplessly, feeling disoriented and vulnerable.

“One at a time!” Weizak yelled. “Raise your hands! Were you never schoolchildren?”

Hands waved, and Johnny pointed at David Bright.

“Would you call this a psychic experience, Johnny?”

“I would call it a feeling,” Johnny answered. “I was doing situps and I finished. Miss Magown took my hand to help me up and I just knew.”

He pointed at someone else.

“Mel Allen, Portland
Sunday Telegram,
Mr. Smith. Was it like a picture? A picture in your head?”

“No, not at all,” Johnny said, but he was not really able to remember what it
had
been like.

“Has this happened to you before, Johnny?” A young woman in a slacksuit asked.

“Yes, a few times.”

“Can you tell us about the other incidents?”

“No, I'd rather not.”

One of the TV reporters raised his hand and Johnny nodded at him. “Did you have any of these flashes
before
your accident and the resulting coma, Mr. Smith?”

Johnny hesitated.

The room seemed very still. The TV lights were warm on his face, like a tropical sun. “No,” he said.

Another barrage of questions. Johnny looked helplessly at Weizak again.

“Stop! Stop!” He bellowed. He looked at Johnny as the roar subsided. “You are done, Johnny?”

“I'll answer two more questions,” Johnny said. “Then . . . really . . . it's been a long day for me . . . yes, Ma'am?”

He was pointing to a stout woman who had wedged herself in between two young reporters. “Mr. Smith,” she said in a loud, carrying, tubalike voice, “who will be the Democrats' nominee for president next year?”

“I can't tell you that,” Johnny said, honestly surprised at the question. “How could I tell you that?”

More hands were raised. Johnny pointed to a tall, sober-faced man in a dark suit. He took one step forward. There was something prim and coiled about him.

“Mr. Smith, I'm Roger Dussault, from the Lewiston
Sun,
and I would like to know if you have any idea why you should have such an extraordinary ability as this . . . if indeed you do. Why you, Mr. Smith?”

Johnny cleared his throat. “As I understand your question . . . you're asking me to justify something I don't understand. I can't do that.”

“Not justify, Mr. Smith. Just explain.”

He thinks I'm hoaxing them. Or trying.

Weizak stepped up beside Johnny. “I wonder if I might answer that,” he said. “Or at least attempt to explain why it cannot be answered.”

“Are you psychic, too?” Dussault asked coldly.

“Yes, all neurologists must be, it's a requirement,” Weizak said. There was a burst of laughter and Dussault flushed.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press. This man spent four-and-a-half years in a coma. We who study the human brain have no idea why he did, or why he came out of it, and this is for the simple reason that we do not understand what a coma really is, any more than we understand sleep or the simple act of waking. Ladies and gentlemen, we do not understand the brain of a frog or the brain of an ant. You may quote me on these things . . . you see I am fearless, nuh?”

More laughter. They liked Weizak. But Dussault did not laugh.

“You may also quote me as saying I believe that this man is now in possession of a very new human ability, or a very old one. Why? If I and my colleagues do not understand the brain of an ant, can I tell you why? I cannot. I can suggest some interesting things to you, however, things which may or may not have bearing. A part of John Smith's brain has been damaged beyond repair—a very small part, but all parts of the brain may be vital. He calls this his 'dead zone,' and there, apparently, a number of trace memories were stored. All of these wiped-out memories seem to be part of a ‘set'—that of street, road, and highway designations. A subset of a larger overall set, that of where is it. This is a small but total aphasia which seems to include both language and visualization skills.

“Balancing this off, another tiny part of John Smith's brain appears to have
awakened.
A section of the cerebrum within the parietal lobe. This is one of the deeply grooved sections of the ‘forward' or 'thinking' brain. The electrical responses from this section of Smith's brain are way out of line from what they should be, nuh? Here is one more thing. The parietal lobe has something to do with the sense of touch—how much or how little we are not completely sure—and it is very near to that area of the brain that sorts and identifies various shapes and textures. And it has been my own observation that John's ‘flashes' are always preceded by some sort of touching.”

Silence. Reporters were scribbling madly. The TV cameras, which had moved in to focus on Weizak, now pulled back to include Johnny in the picture.

“Is that it, Johnny?” Weizak asked again.

“I guess . . .”

Dussault suddenly shouldered his way through the knot of reporters. For a bemused moment Johnny thought he was going to join them in front of the doors, possibly for the purpose of rebuttal. Then he saw that Dussault was slipping something from around his neck.

“Let's have a demonstration,” he said. He was holding a medallion on a fine-link gold chain. “Let's see what you can do with this.”

“We'll see no such thing,” Weizak said. His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows had drawn thunderously together and he stared down at Dussault like Moses. “This man is not a carnival performer, sir!”

“You sure could have fooled me,” Dussault said. “Either he can or he can't, right? While you were busy suggesting things, I was busy suggesting something to myself. What I was suggesting was that these guys can never perform on demand, because they're all as genuine as a pile of three-dollar bills.”

Johnny looked at the other reporters. Except for Bright, who looked rather embarrassed, they were watching avidly. Suddenly he felt like a Christian in a pitful of lions. They win either way, he thought. If I can tell him something, they've got a front-page story. If I can't, or if I refuse to try, they've got another kind of story.

“Well?” Dussault asked. The medallion swung back and forth below his fist.

Johnny looked at Weizak, but Weizak was looking away, disgusted.

“Give it to me,” Johnny said.

Dussault handed it over. Johnny put the medallion in his palm. It was a St. Christopher medal. He dropped the fine-link chain on top of it in a crisp little yellow heap and closed his hand over it.

Dead silence fell in the room. The handful of doctors and nurses standing by the lounge doorway had been joined by half a dozen others, some of them dressed in streetclothes and on their way out of the hospital for the night. A crowd of patients had gathered at the end of the hallway leading to the first-floor TV and game lounge. The people who had come for the regular early evening visiting hours had drifted over from the main lobby. A feeling of thick tension lay in the air like a humming power cable.

Johnny stood silently, pale and thin in his white shirt and oversized blue jeans. The St. Christopher medal was clamped so tightly in his right hand that the cords in his wrist stood out clearly in the glare of the TV light bars. In front of him, sober, impeccable, and judgmental in his dark suit, Dussault stood in the adversary position. The moment seemed to stretch out interminably. No one coughed or whispered.

“Oh,” Johnny said softly . . . then: “Is that it?”

His fingers loosened slowly. He looked at Dussault.

“Well?” Dussault asked, but the authority was suddenly gone from his voice. The tired, nervous young man who had answered the reporters' questions seemed also to be gone. There was a half-smile on Johnny's lips, but there was nothing warm about it. The blue of his eyes had darkened. They had grown cold and distant. Weizak saw it and felt a chill of goose-flesh. He later told his wife that it had been the face of a man looking through a high-powered microscope and observing an interesting species of paramecium.

“It's your sister's medallion,” he said to Dussault. “Her name was Anne but everyone called her Terry. Your older sister. You loved her. You almost worshipped the ground she walked on.”

Suddenly, terribly, Johnny Smith's voice began to climb and change. It became the cracked and unsure voice of an adolescent.

“It's for when you cross Lisbon Street against the lights,
Terry, or when you're out parking with one of those guys from E.L. Don't forget, Terry . . . don't forget . . .”

The plump woman who had asked Johnny who the Democrats would nominate next year uttered a frightened little moan. One of the TV camermen muttered “Holy Jesus” in a hoarse voice.

“Stop it,” Dussault whispered. His face had gone a sick shade of gray. His eyes bulged and spittle shone like chrome on his lower lip in this harsh light. His hands moved for the medallion, which was now looped on its fine gold chain over Johnny's fingers. But his hands moved with no power or authority. The medallion swung back and forth, throwing off hypnotic gleams of light.

“Remember me, Terry,” the adolescent voice begged. “Stay clean, Terry . . . please, for God's sake stay clean . . .”

“Stop it! Stop it, you bastard!”

Now Johnny spoke in his own voice again. “It was speed, wasn't it? Then meth. She died of a heart attack at twenty-seven. But she wore it ten years, Rog. She remembered you. She never forgot. Never forgot . . . never . . . never . . . never.”

The medallion slipped from his fingers and struck the floor with a small, musical sound. Johnny stared away into emptiness for a moment, his face calm and cool and distant. Dussault grubbed at his feet for the medallion, sobbing hoarsely in the stunned silence.

A flash-pak popped, and Johnny's face cleared and became his own again. Horror touched it, and then pity. He knelt clumsily beside Dussault.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .”

“You cheapjack, bastard hoaxer!” Dussault screamed at him. “It's a lie! All a lie! All a
lie!”
He struck Johnny a clumsy, open-handed blow on the neck and Johnny fell over, striking his head on the floor, hard. He saw stars.

Uproar.

He was dimly aware that Dussault was pushing his way blindly through the crowd and toward the doors. People milled around Dussault, around Johnny. He saw Dussault through a forest of legs and shoes. Then Weizak was beside him, helping him to sit up.

“John, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“Not as bad as I hurt him. I'm okay.” He struggled to his feet. Hands—maybe Weizak's, maybe someone else's—helped
him. He felt dizzy and sick; almost revolted. This had been a mistake, a terrible mistake.

Someone screamed piercingly—the stout woman who had asked about the Democrats. Johnny saw Dussault pitch forward to his knees, grope at the sleeve of the stout woman's print blouse and then slide tiredly forward onto the tile near the doorway he had been trying to reach. The St. Christopher medal was still in one hand.

“Fainted,” someone said. “Fainted dead away. I'll be damned.”

“My fault,” Johnny said to Sam Weizak. His throat felt close and tight with shame, with tears. “All my fault.”

“No,” Sam said. “No, John.”

But it was. He shook loose of Weizak's hands and went to where Dussault lay, coming around now, eyes blinking dazedly at the ceiling. Two of the doctors had come over to where he lay.

“Is he all right?” Johnny asked. He turned toward the woman reporter in the slacksuit and she shrank away from him. A cramp of fear passed over her face.

Johnny turned the other way, toward the TV reporter who had asked him if he'd had any flashes before his accident. It suddenly seemed very important that he explain to someone. “I didn't mean to hurt him,” he said. “Honest to God, I never meant to hurt him. I didn't know . . .”

The TV reporter backed up a step. “No,” he said. “Of course you didn't. He was asking for it, anybody could see that. Just . . . don't touch me, huh?”