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learned English as a second language. "I might even say it is a natural outgrowth of the science of
acupuncture. If—"
"Pierre," Pak interrupted him. "I don't think Detective Harland came here to hear about medical
philosophy."
"Forgive me," Christophe said, ducking his head. "I am very serious about my work here—"
"Pierre," Pak said. Christophe ducked his head again and shut up.
I sighed. "Okay, I'll bite. Just how is this supposed to work?"
"You're probably familiar with at least the basics of acupuncture," Pak said, reaching into the vault to
pluck out one of the wax dolls from its dirt footbath. "Thin needles placed into various nerve centers can
heal a vast number of diseases and alleviate the pain from others." His face cracked in a tight smile.
"From your reaction, I'd guess you also know a little about voodoo."
"Just what I've seen in bad movies," I told him. "The dead chickens were always my favorite part."
Christophe made some sort of disgusted noise in the back of his throat; I ignored him. "Let me guess:
instead of sticking the acupuncture needles into the patient himself, you just poke them into his or her
doll?"
"Exactly." Pak indicated the hair and fingernail clippings on the doll he was holding. "Despite the
impression Hollywood probably gave you, there does seem to be a science behind voodoo. It's just that
most of the practitioners never bother to learn it."
I looked over at Maxwell, who was looking simultaneously worried, tense, and embarrassed. "And
you're telling me the President of the United States is involved in something this nutzoid?"
He pursed his lips. "He has some pains on occasion, especially when he's under abnormal stress. Normal
acupuncture was effective in controlling that pain, but it was proving something of a hassle to keep
sneaking Dr. Pak into the White House."
" 'Sneaking'?"
He reddened. "Come on, Harland—you watch the news. Half of Danzing's jibes are aimed at the
state of the President's health."
And whether or not he was really up to a second term. Senator Danzing had played that tune almost
constantly since the campaign started, and would almost certainly be playing it again at their first official
debate tonight in Baltimore. And with the election itself only two months away... "So when the possibility
opened up of getting his treatments by remote control, he jumped at it with both feet, huh?" I commented.
"I can just see what Danzing would do with something like this."
"He couldn't do a thing," Maxwell growled. "What's he going to do, go on TV and accuse the President
of dealing in voodoo? Face it—he'd be laughed right off the stage, probably lose every scrap of
credibility he has right then and there. Even if he got the media interested enough to dig out the facts, he'd
almost certainly still wind up hurting himself more than he would the President."
"He could still make Thompson look pretty gullible, though," I said bluntly. "Not to mention reckless."
"This wasn't exactly done on a whim," Maxwell said stiffly. "Drs. Pak and Christophe have been working
on this technique for several years—these dolls right here represent their sixth testing phase over a
period of at least eighteen months."
I looked at the dolls in their planters. "I can hardly wait to see the ads when they have their grand
opening."
Maxwell ignored the comment. "The point is that they've been successful in ninety-five-plus percent of the
cases where plain acupuncture was already working—those figures courtesy of the FBI and FDA
people we had quietly check this out. Whatever else you might think of the whole thing, the President
didn't go into it without our okay."
I glanced at the tight muscles in his cheek. "Your okay, but not your enthusiasm?" I ventured.
He gritted his teeth. "The President wanted to do it," he growled. "We obey his orders, not the other
way around. Besides, the general consensus was that, crazy or not, if the treatment didn't help him it also
probably wouldn't hurt him."
I looked at Pak and Christophe, standing quietly by trying not to look offended. "Did it help?"
"Of course it did," Christophe said, sounding a little hurt. "The technique itself is perfectly
straightforward—"
"Yeah. Right." I turned back to Maxwell. "So what's the problem? Either Dr. Pak moves into the White
House until after the dust of the election has settled, or else Dr. Christophe goes ahead and makes
Thompson a new doll. Surely he can spare another set of fingernail clippings—he can probably
even afford to give up the extra hair."
"You miss the point," Maxwell grated. "It's not the President's pain treatments we're worried about."
"Then what—?"
"You mean you have forgotten," Christophe put in, "how voodoo dolls were originally used?"
I looked at the doll still in Pak's hand. "Oh, hell," I said quietly.
—
"Our theory is that it is the protein signature in the hair and nail clippings that, so to speak, forms the
connection between the doll and the subject," Christophe said, gesturing broadly at the dolls in the vault.
"Once that connection is made, what happens to the doll is duplicated in what happens to the subject."
I gnawed at my lip. "Well... these dolls were made specifically for medical purposes, right? Is there
anything about their design that would make it impossible to use them for attack purposes? Or even to
limit the amount of damage they could do?"
Christophe's brow furrowed. "It is an interesting question. There was certainly no malice involved in their
creation, which may be a factor. But whether some other person could so bend them to that
purpose—"
"If you don't know," I interrupted brusquely, "just say so."
"I do not know," he said, looking a little hurt.
"What's all this dirt for?" Maxwell asked, poking a finger experimentally into one of the row planters.
"Ah!" Christophe said, perking up. "That is our true crowning achievement, Mr. Maxwell—the
discovery that it is the soil of Haiti that is the true source of voodoo power."
"You're kidding," I said.
"No, it's true," Pak put in. "A doll that's taken away from Haiti soon loses its potency. Having them in
Haitian soil seems to keep them working indefinitely."
"Or in other words, the doll they stole will eventually run out of steam," I nodded. "How soon before that
happens? A few hours? Days?"
"I expect it'd be measured in terms of a few weeks, maybe longer. I don't think we've ever gotten around
to properly experimenting with—"
"If you don't know," I growled, "just say so."
"I don't know."
I looked at Maxwell. "Well, that's something, anyway. If it takes our thief long enough to figure out what
he's got, it won't do him any good."
"Oh, he knows what he's got, all right," Maxwell said grimly. "Unless you really think he just grabbed that
one by accident?"
"I suppose not," I sighed, glancing back at the rows of figurines. None of the others showed evidence of
even having been touched, let alone considered for theft. "Dr. Christophe... is there anything like
a—well, a range for this... effect of yours? In other words, does the President have to be within
five miles, say, of the doll before anything will happen?"
Christophe and Pak exchanged looks. "We've treated patients who were as far as a hundred miles
away," Pak said. "In fact—yes. I believe President Thompson himself was on a campaign trip in
Omaha two months ago when we treated a stomach cramp."
Omaha. Great. If this nonsensical, unreal effect could reach a thousand miles across country, the thief
could be anywhere.
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