Dreamcast 3, page 19
A line of sectional cabinets, full of linens, blankets and hospital gowns blocked the rear walls. That didn’t seem right. Could I have been wrong? But then I noted casters under each of the 4 foot wide units. Though at times I could, in the psychic state, manhandle small items, I wasn’t up to pushing these units out of the way. But I could push myself through them, and that was what I did. Carefully avoiding screws and nails, I passed through the wood, the linen and the backing to the hidden section of the wall. Working down the line I soon found the two rectangular breaches in the wall and what must have been the back plates to bins 3 and 7, just as I had suspected. Success at last!
No question about it. At the appointed time, two of the blocking shelf units were muscled out of the way and the back plate of bin 3 or 7 removed. The body was then pulled out, operated on, and when finished replaced and sealed back up. Was there any evidence for all this? I looked, in the psychic sense, and found noticeable marks from the casters for the two units in question, but not the others. Also I found some flecks that could be from spattered tissue scraps or body fluids where the operation took place. Case solved.
Not quite. Who were the perpetrators? I looked around for any signs of them. What did I expect, name tags? Footprints? I minutely went over the area, searching... searching for anything. That’s when it happened. I saw a burst of stars. The whole psychic world shook, and suddenly imploded. Darkness swallowed everything, the psychic and the real.
*****
When I came to, I was back in my body and my head hurt atrociously. It was pitch dark and silent... except from a low-level background hum. Where was I? I reached out and contacted metal. All around me was a rectangular box and with a sudden sinking feeling I knew I was inside bin 3 or 7. Obviously, while I was exploring the inside, someone found my caretaker body lying unprotected in the corridor and knocked me out, then stuffed me out of sight into the bin. Stupidly, I still wondered was it 3 or 7? as if that made any difference.
Concentrating I took stock, my thoughts accelerated by the urgency. How many cubic feet of space did I have? How long before the oxygen ran out? In minutes I would suffocate.
“Miles!” I cried out, but knew that the message would die within the metal container. I had so little time left. I had to stop breathing, or close to it. Meditate! Bring your metabolism down! I knew that in the psychic state, the body automatically went into a catatonic suspension that required little of anything. It wasn’t conscious in any real sense, it was passive, enduring, barely breathing.
Panic washed through me, and I gagged. Was I already running out...?
Immediately I launched and hovered just inches from my own body, keeping clear of the metal sides. But that close, I kept falling back into myself, much like a magnet that was brought too near. I had to launch several times and only through the utmost concentration was I able to stay clear of myself.
I didn’t know how long I was this way: the psychic and real time didn’t synchronize. It seemed like an eternity and I had ample time to worry about what would happen to me. How would the end come? Would the body die? Would the psychic essence simply dissipate, or would it still hold together? Oh my God, here I was again. Deep in shit and no way out. When would I learn...? How many times would I be confronted with this?
Then the air ran out. Or felt like it did. Even in my psychic self, I was struggling to breathe. Stop that! You’re imagining it! Get a grip! Things became slow, then slower as I concentrated on enduring. There was pain, of course, burning from my head to my lungs, and regret, always regret eating into my brain.
I held on, shutting everything else down. You’re a bird, turned into the wind, letting it blow by you. Letting it flow past. Make yourself small, offer no resistance. As my thoughts receded a grayness embraced me, wiping out concerns, just fading away. Was this death?
From deep, deep down, I floated towards a surface. I heard sounds without meaning, saw shafts of light without shapes. I couldn’t move. I was in my body again. But in this world or the next...? Things still hurt... so I was alive!
“We’ll wrap up the body, take it out to the back parking lot. Drive over to the new supermarket construction site, dump him into one of the forms. Tomorrow they’ll pour concrete and he’ll be safely entombed. In 30 or 40 years when they tear the place down, maybe they’ll discover him. But by then it’ll be a cold case and we’ll be long gone.” The voice sounded confident. “Ross, get the car. Tommy, you get some blankets and rope.”
“Sure thing, Vernon.” The two hurried off.
Things were gelling into focus. Slowly I opened my eyes and turned my head. Ten feet from me was the man called Vernon, in hospital green sorting through some sheets. He tossed several over me, cutting off my view.
When I sensed him bending over me, I reared up, casting the sheets aside. I straightened, not sure of my footing. Openmouthed, he gaped at me, “You’re dead! You’re supposed to be dead. You were in there for an hour...” He took a step back, then pulled a gun from inside his smock, his jaw firming up. “Well, no matter, you’ll soon be...” He took aim, lining the gun up on my chest, his face a mask of fury.
I looked into the hole of the barrel. I’d escaped one death only to find another! My brain was still sluggish from the suspension where I’d been, but I knew with a certainty that I was going to die. I saw him cock the revolver, saw the chambers turn, the finger squeeze the trigger, heard the loud bang, the explosion of the smoke leaving the barrel, and in slow motion, I saw the bullet appear and drill its way straight toward me... Death was on its way and there was nothing I could do about it.
“MILES!” I think the psychic jumped out of my body in super fast motion.
My physical self waited for the bullet to bore into my flesh and carve a pathway through soft tissue. It waited for the pain, envisioning the end. There was no time for protest, for regret, for making deals with the Almighty. The time of reckoning was closing faster than the speed of sound.
Why wasn’t I falling then? How was I still standing? And where was the pain?
Halfway to me the bullet dropped to the ground and smoking, rolled on the stone tile floor.
“What?!!” Vernon staggered back, his eyes on the bullet. He didn’t understand. I didn’t understand. How did the bullet drop out of the air in mid flight?
Vernon pointed a shaky arm at me and jerked the trigger again but the bullet whizzed harmlessly by, not even close.
I felt a surge of tremendous energy explode through me, and before Vernon could try another shot, I hit him with my psychic fist. As if struck by a car, he was catapulted back, knocking over a line of storage lockers. The gun fell from his hand. He was out, if not dead.
And me? I felt immensely powerful, invincible. Was this surge also one of my abilities that I hadn’t been aware of? Something generated only by dire circumstances? I flexed my muscles, the power singing through my veins. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating.
Tommy or Ross, one of the underlings, came back, froze on seeing Vernon plastered all over the floor, and I hit him too, easily knocking him out with one psychic punch. He bounced off the wall and flopped to the floor. It was unreal how easy that was. Why couldn’t I have done it with Mex or Tex, saving me from all those dangers and hurts? Did I have reserves I hadn’t before suspected...?
“Dad? Dad?” suddenly broke into my thoughts.
“Cindy? What’re you doing here?” Cindy and I communicated after a fashion. Not in clear sentences, but I’d learned to translate her messages.
“Miles.” What did he have to do with it? “Miles wanted me to call. To ask if what he sent got there in time?”
So it was Miles after all, I thought with a strange regret: I was just getting used to claiming all that power. How did he do it? How did he do anything? He couldn’t explain it, all he ever said was, “I just do it.”
“Yes, Cindy,” I replied, “Tell him it got here just in time and be sure to thank him.” Then it occurred to me that there was one more left. “Tell him to stick around though, I’m not quite done.”
“Sure thing, Dad.” The message was weaker; she was tiring.
On cue, the other henchman appeared, bearing a load of blankets. Tommy, or perhaps Ross, stopped dead on seeing the mess. He widened his eyes at me, not wanting to believe what he saw. I hit him in the guts, and he doubled over and slipped to the floor. Gathering up the rope he brought, I twisted his arms behind and hog-tied him. And then his buddy. Both were out cold but breathing normally. Vernon barely had a pulse and I suspected that he’d suffered some internal injuries. Just to be safe, I tied him up too.
Looking around I marveled at the shambles. Lockers were spilled onto the floor, bins scattered and knocked over. And in the middle of this mayhem, three bodies. Mess with me why don’t you, I taunted my hapless adversaries.
Now that the danger was over, my mind didn’t want to deal with the consequences. What came next? I forced my thoughts to grapple with the problem. There’d been, what, two shots? Shouldn’t somebody be investigating that? Checking to see if the three were indeed secure, I strode to the door and took a quick look into the corridor. To my shock two security guards with guns drawn were working their way towards me.
“Stop! Put your hands up!” was shouted at me. I suddenly realized I had Vernon’s gun in my hand. Both guards dropped to the floor, aiming at me. They were jumpy but so was I. I didn’t trust them not to shoot. I threw myself backward, catapulting my body into the storage room. Two shots followed then two more, smashing into the wall where I’d been. I slammed the door shut, glad for all the protective metal. I was breathing heavily, still afraid of being killed by the “right side.” I slowed my heart so I could hear over the thundering pulse in my ears.
“Throw out the gun and come out with your hands in the air!” I heard from the outside. “We have you trapped, there’s no other way out of there.”
But I wasn’t ready to let go yet. There was still somebody out there belonging to the gang that could hurt me. If I had to look into another barrel I wanted a gun in my own hands, no way was I going to give that up. I opened the door a crack and yelled. “I’m a deputy police officer. I’m here on police business. Call Maclure at Police Central. It’s his case...” I pushed the badge through the opening crack of the door. I heard scurrying and whispers back and forth. More voices arrived and a new voice demanded that I give myself up.
Not on your life, or mine. “Get Captain Maclure here. I’m not opening until then. Tell him it’s Travis Howard working on his case. Travis Howard. He’ll know...” The smell of gunpowder hit my nose and made me even more determined not to yield. I trusted nobody.
For 20 minutes the standoff continued. They threatened then cajoled, trying to lure me out. I was sure that there was someone out there who’d love to take a shot at me in all this confusion. No, no. I wasn’t going to budge.
“Hey, Travis,” Maclure’s voice finally boomed from the corridor. “Open up, Son. We’re here now to take over.”
I opened the door, welcoming him. His face had an eager look, the bastard was looking forward to mopping up. It was obvious he expected me to have solved the case. I warned him not to let his troops trample over the crime scene then let him and two others inside. I introduced him to Vernon and the other two. One of them was just coming to, groaning. No doubt he was trying to remember what had happened. Good luck with that. He had run into an invisible psychic fist out of thin air.
I pulled the shelves away and explained how it all was done. The back cover of bin 3 was still on the floor; so it’d been in 3 that I was stashed. I looked into the back recess, marveling that I’d stayed alive for over an hour in there. Maclure poked about happily, confident that his case was nearly solved. All that remained was to roll the rest of it up. The others were sorting through the evidence, removing the prisoners: Tommy and Ross were dragged off under their own power but Vernon had to be carried out on a stretcher. Finally, Maclure peered at me appraisingly and said, “Man, you look all done in. We’d better get you back in bed.”
I was tired and shaky; the “borrowed” power had left me. I was escorted upstairs and into bed. Maclure assigned a policeman to guard me. Somewhat reassured I fell asleep.
In my dreams I thanked Miles for his timely help. With Cindy transmitting, Amanda’s face loomed large, chewing me out for taking risks again. Then I refought the battle with various outcomes. Without Miles’ help I would have died, there was no question about that. I puzzled the mechanism of the rescue. Did Miles stop the bullet in midair or did he weave a protective field around me that the bullet couldn’t penetrate? How did he do that? I chased it around in my head without resolving it.
When I woke it was 8:30 at night. The nurses told me that Amanda had been there earlier with Cindy and Miles to make sure I was really all right. But instead of them, I found Maclure in the visitor’s chair waiting patiently for me to wake. He was relaxed and buoyant, now that the case was so well in hand. For the next hour, he and Gil walked me through my statement which I signed. Gil left.
“I guess I owe you another one,” Maclure said, leaning back in the chair, inclined to be generous. “What do you want? A commendation? A reward? I think I can squeeze a vacation out of this for you and Amanda, all expenses paid by a grateful city.”
I just shook my head. “The less said the better. I don’t want to get The Clarion sniffing on my case again. We’ve kept the psychic out of public awareness and that’s the way I like it. Any public recognition would jeopardize my anonymity.” So we agreed to sweep it under the rug as much as we could.
“You know you probably need to testify along the way if this comes up for trial,” he warned, but I shrugged my shoulders; my statement had been carefully crafted to minimize my role and to divert attention from myself. He left when the duty nurse brought me a special meal in exchange for the supper I’d missed.
Chapter 22
I spent a leisurely hour the next morning washing up, getting dressed in my street clothes, straightening my bed and packing up my few belongings. If everything went according to plan, I’d be discharged by 11:00. I ate breakfast with renewed gusto, then waited. I looked through the paperwork trying to pin down the identity of the still hidden perpetrator but personnel not assigned to the morgue weren’t included in the documentation. The case was solved as far as I was concerned; let Maclure do the rest. It was probably good that I had this to distract me from my own concerns. I carefully sampled my feelings and thought of dad, firmly locking onto a happy time, a day at the beach when my sister and I were just kids. I tried to enjoy the memory while blocking out the sadness at the sight of my father enjoying family life. I recalled many snippets while working toward the present. The nearer I got, the more sadness came through that I could deal with in tiny increments. But I still couldn’t face the last part.
Midmorning an intern showed up. He took my pulse, checked my pupillary reflexes, then pronounced himself satisfied. “The log shows you’re OK. The admitting doctor has discharged you on the basis of your record. You can sign out in the Admin Office. See Dr. Samos before you go and set up outpatient appointments.” So it was official, I could go home.
On my way out I stopped by the nurses’ station to say goodbye. I knew Naomi and Thalia the best, and they were happy to see me up and about. I signed out in the Administration Office, then went to Outpatients. Dr. Samos invited me in right away and took my mental temperature.
“You’re OK. Stabilized at least. Enough so you can deal with it. I’ll see you maybe in a week, just to check how you’re doing. OK?” Sure, I nodded.
“Good.” He leaned back in his swivel chair, laced his hands behind his neck and regarded me wistfully. “You know I would’ve liked to find out more about your psychic thing. It’s fascinating what you told me so far.”
“What would you like to know?” I felt good toward him: he’d been decent and fought hard for me.
“Well, for one, the way you fought cancer. The mechanics of it.”
“I’m not sure I can explain it. When I did it, I pictured my intention as a narrow beam of light, much like a laser, focusing on a cancer site, concentrating on a single cell, burning it up. Beyond that I don’t really know how it worked, but the cell died, that’s what matters.”
“Interesting. A bit like focused radiation.” He pursed his lips, trying to picture it. “That must’ve been tough.”
“It was.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Near the end... the very end, I just wished it was over with.” A bitter taste of defeat flooded my mouth.
“I know you realize you have issues left over. You should find someone to work with; I can refer you to a competent practitioner, if you like.”
“Thank you, but my wife’s in the field. I’m sure she already has someone in mind.”
“Good.” He straightened in his chair: we were coming to the end. “You know, I’ve made no mention of the psychic part in your record. For obvious reasons it’s better that way.” I nodded as we shook hands. “See you in a week.”
Outside, I was at a loss for what to do. I’d come with nothing in my pockets, no keys, no wallet, no way of getting home. I asked reception for an outside line and called Maclure for a ride. He promised to come right away. Then I called Amanda at the office and told her I had a way home. She was happy to hear it and said that since the kids were still here, we should order in a dinner to celebrate. OK, I said, though I had to wonder how my stomach would react to rich food after the tasteless hospital meals. I was surprised that after all the tensions of the last days, I could have such mundane concerns. Why worry about the rumpled bed when the house was burning down? But I was healing, I guess.
