Bingham wasn't one to smile, but he did appear pleased. "Be glad. A different selection of kids might have killed you."

Booker laughed. "Oh, I was scared for a moment."

"We all were!" said Ms. Fitzhugh, entering with a fresh cup of tea.

There was laughter-from a small audience. Elisha looked to her right, and along the back wall, facing the big screens, was a sizable group of faceless people sitting in the dark.

Bingham spoke to them, apparently in the middle of a lecture. "We interviewed and handpicked every child. This year we were looking for a particular, modern personality, the media-oriented, amus.e.m.e.nt-dependent, consumer type; a child who hears with his eyes, thinks with his feelings, and has been made to believe there are no absolutes, and therefore no right or wrong. Children from dysfunctional families were preferred; runaways provided an ideal subject pool." He looked toward the big screens as a technician cued a recording.

Elisha's mouth dropped open. There, while one big screen continued to show the raiding of the tool room, another big screen replayed footage of the red-headed woman, Margaret Jones, talking with Ramon, then Britney, then Alice/Marcy/Cher/ Mariah/Joan, then Harold "Alex" Carlson and Alvin Rogers over a bowl of soup in a youth shelter, asking them questions about right and wrong and showing them a brochure.

"Using what we've learned in the previous years, we've been able to isolate and encourage a personality type that doesn't think but only follows, and believes any lie as long as there is pleasure attached to it."

On the screen, Alexander was sitting on the picnic table, announcing the headband requirement. Kids all around him grabbed, ripped, or cut anything they could find to wrap around their heads.

"Oh, and please note this result."

Elisha saw herself and some others in a muddy, dark picture, their faces blinking in and out of the dark as unsteady flashlight beams flashed around the room. The camera zoomed in on Joan's face as she said, "I was afraid," and ran out of the building.

"One of our finest moments," said Bingham. "Take away truth, and people will lie. Scoff at virtue, and betrayal becomes a matter of course."

"Then these techniques really work!" said a man in the audience.

"Absolutely," said Bingham. "If you'll pardon the expression." The audience laughed. "But it takes time, the right personalities, the right circ.u.mstances."

"So what about this young lady?" someone asked.

"Mmm," said Bingham with a testy side-glance at Elisha. "This young lady and her brother." He nodded to the technician.

Elisha was stunned. Now she was watching Margaret Jones talk to her and Elijah at that same table in the same youth shelter. For all she knew, even the soup was the same.

"We chose these two because they do have a strong religious background and they do believe in absolutes. Our goal, of course, was to compare their reactions to the same situations, and see if their particular system of truth could be broken." With another sideways glance at Elisha, Bingham quipped, "And as we antic.i.p.ated, it hasn't been easy"

Bingham nodded to the technician, and another video began to play on the big screen: Elijah and Elisha reciting the Ten Commandments in Booker's cla.s.s; the two of them debating Mr. Easley; Elijah telling Booker, ". . . it's like you and I are from different planets or something. For you, it's all power and money. For me, its G.o.d. Its Truth. I could never work for you ..."; and Elisha surrounded by the kids in the Rec Center, telling Alex, 'Jerry would have to bow to you. He'd have to say you're right, and he won't do that. And neither will I," and handing the scarf back to Cher.

The audience members groaned with dismay at every scene.

"No, no, be encouraged," said Bingham. "It's all data, useful in future research. For example ..."

The technician cued another recording, and there, on the big screen, was a video of Elijah and Alex having their terrible fight, and a few instant replays of Elijah finally decking Alex with a high kick. The audience loved that.

"You'll notice how even a reasonable person can be reduced to brute force when truth and reason are no longer available."

"Ahh," said the audience, feeling better.

"But this is why we brought them here. Let's face it: Children of this type will always be our greatest challenge. They're difficult to deceive, they can't be programmed, they don't believe something if it isn't true, they don't put their own comfort before their sense of right and wrong, and worst of all, they actually think things through. As we have seen, discussion groups and consensus conditioning couldn't undermine this mentality, nor could peer pressure, nor could intimidation and fear. However ..."

Bingham came closer to Elisha, eyeing her as if she were a rat in an experiment. "We have both of them in place for the final phase, and we're ready"

"But ...... Stern asked, jotting on his clipboard. "How do we factor in the fact that they-"

"Are undercover investigators?" Bingham asked. The audience rustled and murmured with alarm, but Bingham held up his hand. "It only sweetens the pie. That call she made will actually be to our advantage, bringing all the birds into one snare, so to speak." He leaned on a control panel, looking gleefully at the young lady in the chair. "And judging from the condition of her brother ..." He chuckled rea.s.suringly. "In just a matter of hours, neither of them will be anything to worry about."

Chapter 14: The Mind Maze.

orth Idaho was very scenic, but very frustrating if you wanted to get anywhere in a hurry-such as the tiny town of Stony Bend, deep in the St. Joe National Forest. The highway followed the St. Joe River, which meant it wandered, wiggled, and wound for mile after mile, with hills, curves, and blind corners that could not be driven too briskly if you wanted to arrive at all. Nate drove, Sarah slept, and then they traded, and finally, just before night turned to gray morning, they pulled into the town-what there was of it.

Stony Bend was still asleep. The local cafe was closed and dark. A few of the small, metal-roofed houses had porch lights on, but that was all. Some logging trucks were parked along the highway, loaded but going nowhere at the moment.

"Let's try that all-night gas station," said Nate, still waking up.

Sarah pulled in next to the pumps. "I'll fill the tank, if you want to go inside."

It was a typical quick-stop, a place to buy gas and a little bit of everything else. A ponderous woman was sitting behind the counter amid the beef jerky and chewing tobacco, smoking a cigarette and listening to a country music station.

"Good morning," said Nate.

"Hi there," she replied, crushing out her cigarette.

"I wonder if you could help me ..."

Sarah used her credit card and started pumping the gas, watching Nate conversing with the big woman inside. The woman was listening, but now she was shaking her head, looking like she didn't know anything. Nate and Sarah had seen that response a lot since arriving in Idaho.

A pickup truck pulled in on the other side of the pumps, between Sarah and the store. Sarah had to move a little to one side to see how Nate was doing. He must have asked directions. The woman was pointing up the highway, scratching her head, reaching for a pen ...

The driver of the pickup started pumping gas into his truck, leaning against the side of his truck, his eyes staring into the distance at nothing in particular. Sarah glanced at him-and moved quickly behind the pumping station, turning her back, stroking her forehead to conceal her face. Hang on, girl. Don't freak out. Steady. Steady.

Carefully, discretely, she edged around the pumping station just enough to catch a good look at the man's face. He was still staring off into the distance, waiting for his tank to fill. He was a little man with a round head and thin, black hair.

The clerk from the Dartmoor Hotel.

Get out here, Nate. Come on, get out here.

Even though her tank wasn't full, she hung up the nozzle, screwed on the gas cap, and jumped into the car, ready and waiting behind the wheel.

Clunk! The little man's tank was full. He hung up the nozzle and climbed into his cab.

Nate!

The pickup pulled out of the station. Nate was walking back, looking at some scribbled notes and looking around.

Sarah put the heel of her hand to the car horn and left it there. That got his attention. She gestured at him madly, and he ran.

Mr. Bingham turned toward the big screens. "The Maze."

All four screens combined to form one huge image, that of a tiny figure stumbling, staggering, arms covering his head, surrounded by a mad swirling of shapes, surfaces, colors, sounds, swept and tossed like a particle of lint in a cosmic washing machine.

Elisha bolted to her feet. "Elijah!"

The thin tech with the ponytail stepped in, gently touching her shoulder. "Please. Sit down. It'll be all right."

Elisha sat, her eyes glued to the big screens. Her brother fell, got up again, turned several circles, clamped his hands over his ears. "Stop it! STOP IT! What are you doing to him?"

Bingham nodded to a technician, who went to work at his console.

The horrible bedlam subsided. The colors faded. The noise quieted down. Elijah was now in a white fog, with nothing visible around him. He was standing still, dazed, staring, half-consciouslike Alvin Rogers.

Bingham began explaining to his audience, "This is a continuation of a previous experiment. As you recall, a breach in the system allowed our last subject to escape-most unfortunate!-but that problem was quickly contained, and now we have a replacement volunteer. The question before us: Can the human psyche really function in the absence of truth? How far can the mind go when nothing, nothing at all, can be known for certain?"

He looked at Elisha, checking her over, and then nodded to the techs sitting at all those consoles.

Lights came on around Elisha, making her jump.

Suddenly, she saw herself on the big screen, sitting in the same chair, except ... she looked great. She was wearing a white blouse, a clean pair of jeans, some cool western jewelry, and a pair of boots beyond a Springfield budget. Her face was clean, her hair was neat, and she wasn't sitting in a strange little green alcove surrounded by lights-she was sitting quite comfortably in the family room of a huge log home. There was a large, stone fireplace behind her, soft living room furniture around her, a deep, wool rug on the floor. There was a weird, white fog in the room, but it was quickly dissolving away.

Elijah's ears were ringing and his head was spinning, but for now, for this one brief moment, the ride was over. He was weak and trembling, hunched over. His hands were shaking. He'd already thrown up a third time and his stomach felt like it would never hold food again, but at least the floor, the ground, the haze, the bog, the water, the sand, whatever it was under his feet, had stopped moving. The white fog around him was clearing. He thought he saw a wool rug below him, and then ... a wall made of logs ... a soft couch ... a crackling fire in a stone fireplace.

Was he still alive? It was so hard to think, to place one thought after another.

"Elijah," came a lovely voice, like an angel. He knew that voice. "Elijah."

He saw his sister, seated in a comfortable chair, smiling at him.

"Sis?" he asked, his voice hoa.r.s.e from screaming.

"It's all right, Elijah," she said. "Come and sit down. Take a load off."

He hobbled forward, comforted by her smiling, serene face, by the warmth of the lovely room. This had to be real. He wanted very much for it to be real. "Is this heaven?"

"It's anything you want it to be."

He sank onto the couch, then reclined, his head sinking into the soft pillows.

"It feels great to finally rest, doesn't it?"

He could only sigh a deep, tired sigh and nod his head.

"So just ... just let go."

Even with his mind mangled, Elijah still found a tiny spark of curiosity. "Let go of what?"

"The struggle. Trying to know. That's where all the pain comes from, Elijah: trying to believe that some things are true. Life is so much easier when you don't have to worry about truth."

"That lying little imp!" Elisha said to herself as she watched herself on the screen. "Elijah, don't believe her!"

So the whole thing was a hologram, an incredibly realistic, three-dimensional projection! That explained the mysterious image of her brother that lured her into this place. She looked around her, above her. For the first time, she noticed a camera lens pointing down at her from the ceiling. These clever people were recording her image as she sat in the chair, enhancing it with all their fancy computers, and rea.s.sembling it in front of her maze-dazed brother, making it tell the most outrageous lies.

I've got to get through to him!

Nate and Sarah followed the pickup to a slightly sagging little cabin off a side road. By now, they were more than ready for a direct approach. Sarah walked right up on the front porch and gave the front door several sharp raps.

The little man opened the door, plainly curious and annoyed. "Yes?"

"Hi. Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning. I was wondering, have you seen a boy and a girl around here, both sixteen, good looking, like their mother?"

He started to shake his head. "No, I haven't-" But then he got a good look at her.

She confirmed it for him. "You're right! You know me from somewhere! "

"I, I don't think so."

"Sure. The Dartmoor Hotel in Seattle. You were the desk clerk, remember?"

He started to close the door. "I'm busy-"

She kicked the door, hurling it open and hurling him a good distance, too. "Or maybe it was the Light of Day Youth Shelter. I get the two confused."

He was about to argue further, but there was an angry mama bear coming into his house, and while she was not overly hefty, she was not pet.i.te, either. He turned and ran through the cabin and out the back door-where Nate was waiting for him and quickly slammed him face-first against the back wall, holding him there in an inescapable armlock. "Now we can make this really simple. You have our kids and we want them." He gave the little man another slam against the wall. "Your turn."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Another slam. "Wrong answer."

A voice behind them ordered, "Let him go, Springfield."

There was a tall, imposing man standing in the backyard, one hand tucked inside his suit jacket.

Sarah and Nate froze, but Nate didn't let go.

"Easy now," said the man. "We're on the same side." He pulled some ID from his jacket pocket and showed it to them. "The name's Nelson Farmer. I'm with the Bureau for Missing Children. I've been on this case since your children disappeared."

"Nelson Farmer," Sarah repeated thoughtfully.

"So who's this guy?" Nate demanded.

"One of the people we're after. You're right. He's a front man for the Knight-Moore project, and we're in the same boat as you are: There are kids missing and we want to know what he knows. Now just take it easy and let him go."

There was a wooden bench on the back porch. Nate put the man there, keeping an eye on him.

Sarah approached Nelson Farmer. "What do you know about our kids? Where are they?"

Farmer stepped forward, reaching inside his jacket again. "We're clearing up the details right now-"