Dreamcast 3, page 20
Maclure arrived in an unmarked car, and I got in. He gave me his usual once over, finally breaking into a smile. His voice boomed cheerfully, “Thanks to you, the case is solved. We found everything just as you said, and are mopping up. Vernon is an ex-military man with third level medical training who performed the extractions, and the custodial gents, Tommy and Ross, made up the rest of the crew. Gallo was arrested on the front end.
“There also had to be an expert at the start somewhere. In the OR itself. Someone who could evaluate the suitability of each cadaver. The military vet couldn’t have done that. Anyway, we’re still looking for this individual. Maybe even a surgeon. We’re also looking for a charter plane that fits our time line, intended destination and so forth. We might not be able to trace it back to the top men but we have put an end to their operations here. Let the Feds do the rest.” I let him talk without interrupting. He was enjoying himself. This would be another feather in his cap, maybe he would rise above Captain after all. In front of my house he let me off, promising to take Amanda and me to the best restaurant in town.
The housekeeper let me in, a broad smile on her face, “Nice to have you home, Sir.” She told me that the kids were out: Cindy with friends and Miles at the library. Would I like something to eat? Not yet, I replied, and went down to my studio. The place looked neglected as things hadn’t been touched in the past months. It felt strange, almost foreign. I drifted around, slowly reconnecting. There was a partially finished painting on the easel, and I was surprised that I couldn’t remember anything about it. Why had I been doing it and what had it been about? The last month had overwritten many of my memories.
We had our family dinner. My mom was there too, looking a little shrunken and lost without dad, but she smiled at us from time to time. I was content, of course, but I playacted being deliriously happy for everyone. Cindy sometimes frowned at my overacting, no doubt surreptitiously sampling me, but she was willing enough to go along with the pretense. Miles seemed obtuse, which reassured me a little that I was indeed all right if I passed his “physical.” He had such powers, if I only knew what.
Later, Miles and I had a talk, the longest ever. I tried to get out of him how he’d managed to do what he did. As usual he was unable to explain it. “I just do it,” was his stock answer. “It’s there when I need it.” He sounded almost resentful that I was grilling him. I wanted details. “Cindy was jumpy, got me up and demanded I do something but couldn’t tell me what. Still she kept badgering me, five times. Then I heard you yell, as clearly as if you were in the room and I instantly charged up. I was juiced, and I directed all that energy to you...” More I couldn’t get out of him.
So my final conclusion was that he gave me the power that energized me, the rest I did myself. I stopped the bullet, and I couldn’t explain it any better than he could.
That night in bed, Amanda was concerned about what would come next. I agreed to continue therapy with someone she recommended, knowing I had residual problems to work on. She asked questions, in her own way “sampling” me, gauging how healthy/unhealthy I was. Soon we were talking about my fight against dad’s cancer. I’d told her all this before while I was in the midst of it, but never so completely at one time: the tremendous effort it took to concentrate at such a minuscule level, to target individual cells, to focus enough psychic energy to kill them then move on endlessly. Then the accompanying ups when I thought I was winning and the inevitable downs as I realized that I was defeated. And the final agony of struggling to make a decision and letting go. How excruciating it all was and how much shame and guilt was generated by it.
“You poor man,” she said, stroking me as we suffered through it all.
“You poor woman,” I said. “You had such a load to carry...” We commiserated and consoled each other. It was past two in the morning by the time we’d burned off enough of the tension from reliving the past to allow us to settle down.
“It was for better or worse...” she muttered. Yes, our commitment to each other was, but why did we have to slam into the worse so often?
Next morning over coffee, I told her about the side investigation and how Maclure was mopping up the remains. She just looked at me incredulously.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that? In the midst of all this hell, you were investigating? What got into Maclure to foist this on you...?” She was getting mad, at both Maclure and me.
“It was all for the good. I needed something to distract me from my troubles?”
“Your family wasn’t enough for you? The worry and pain wasn’t enough to distract you? You had to get involved in something...?” she fumed. I pulled in my neck, realizing I had to weather the storm. When she left for work, she wasn’t in the right mood to listen to other people’s problems.
It took three months of therapy to reconcile me to my father’s death. Dr. Lemke was the polar opposite of Dr. Samos; he was a soft-spoken guy, who never confronted or pressured me in any way. He let me talk at my pace, and rarely if ever interrupted me. He was good at reframing my concerns and reflecting my feelings back in a way that I could accept. I found it easy to open up to him, and grew to respect his gentle manner.
Amanda had recommended him, thinking him a better fit for me than someone more autocratic. She was right as usual. Dr. Lemke was a widower who lived alone, working out of his home. It was comfortable being in a lived-in space one could feel human in. He avoided any impression that he knew everything better or had an answer to everything. In fact, he was basically a humble person whose ego never got in the way of his clients’ therapy.
We met for an hour twice a week, and I was always amazed how quickly the hour passed. With his effective guidance and mentoring, I was able to resolve my anger, then forgive myself and shed my guilt. Not at once, of course, but at a reasonable, purposeful pace. When I felt ready, he had no difficulty letting me go. He wasn’t one of those therapists who dominated and then came to “own” their patients.
So now, when I thought of my father, I didn’t cringe with pain. I still missed him, of course, but his memory came with a sweet sadness that didn’t freeze me up. The sinkhole in my life was also gone. His shadow was there but it didn’t haunt me anymore. I’m still convinced that I could have saved him had I been more decisive from the start, but I no longer beat myself up for it. I also knew what I was capable of. That last part, however, awakened in me a feeling of responsibility that I ought to be doing something to help to relieve others of their suffering. But there were countless people and only one of me. I couldn’t afford to sacrifice my life, my family to take on such a crushing burden. In the end, not knowing where or how to start, I did nothing.
“You have to spare yourself and remember, your children need you,” Amanda added to my reasoning.
I heard from Maclure that the organ harvest case was wrapping up. The front-line foot soldiers were arrested, pled guilty and were sentenced to 20 plus years in penitentiary. A surgeon was also charged, Dr. Ambrose, who claimed to be acting out of some humanitarian motivation to provide desperately needed resources, hard to access through established medical channels. That defense fell apart when the DA dragged the jury through forensic accounting to show how much money the doctor received for this “humanitarian service.” For his greed the doctor received a stiff 30 years’ sentence with no possibility of parole for 20.
The FBI had arrested a few higher ups in this food-chain, but their cases were still pending.
For myself, I lost all interest in the case, finding too much legal posturing and cheap moralizing on both sides. Just because there was a great need didn’t mean that the dead had lost all their rights.
So, as far as I was concerned, the case was closed. Maclure got a citation and there was talk of promoting him. My God, I thought, he and Smythe could easily end up running the Westchester Police Force. Both of them tried to convince me to join the police as an independent consultant (putting my psychic powers to good use), but I declined, of course. “Don’t let them exploit you any longer,” was Amanda’s take on the offer.
After months of cajoling, we finally convinced my Mom to see Dr. Lemke for therapy to help her get over her grief. She was lost without my dad and didn’t know what to do with herself. She saw Dr. Lemke every week and right away we saw her change, become more self-assured, and much less stressed. She blossomed, taking a renewed interest in life. She joined a reading club, a bowling team for seniors and volunteered again for community programs.
After about six months she abruptly stopped therapy.
“But we thought you liked him,” Amanda and I said.
“I do, but I won’t see him for two years,” she said with newfound determination.
“For two years...?” My jaw dropped to the floor. The time a professional was required to abstain from contact with a former client, before allowing a personal relationship to develop. Just like Amanda and me...
Well think of that, something else to get used to.
So, life goes on, only death is final. The haunting was thankfully over.
Goodbye Dad. Your loving son, Travis.
The End
Big City Dragnet
Chapter 23
As far as possible, I’ve fictionalized this episode to protect myself from any legal repercussions that might arise. I’ve changed names, places and pertinent facts. Of course, for anyone who follows the national news, it wouldn’t be hard to piece the real story together.
After 26 years of marriage, Amanda and I were still very much together. Maybe some of the fire had gone out of our relationship, but the caring and partnership were even stronger. We’d both been successful in our chosen fields, her in mental health, me in teaching art and painting. Of course, we had Cindy and Miles to take joy in as well. The years had been good to us, our lives peaceful enough, except for those instances where the paranormal got us into trouble.
Amanda and I spent six months in couples’ counseling to resolve issues of privacy and boundaries. We’d dealt with it reasonably well in our marriage, but when the kids also turned out to be paranormal, the whole issue got stirred up again. Amanda often felt on the outside, as if we were trying to put something over on her. The therapist couldn’t understand our challenges since we never admitted ESP or the like. We had to talk in code, not to reveal ourselves. We gave up after he labeled me engulfing and Amanda as histrionically oversensitive. What did he know? In the end, we found a workable compromise by ourselves.
We had a little trouble dealing with our kids’ coming of age and struggling with their sensitivities. Cindy, after finishing her Master’s in psychology, worked in outpatient counseling at the main hospital in town, but gave it up after a year and a half, finding the place stifling and rule bound. She joined a legal firm which specialized in conflict resolution and quickly earned herself a reputation for her high success rate. She admitted to me that it helped that she could read thoughts and insert ideas into the warring sides. “The biggest problem tends to be the lack of trust and goodwill to work out compromises,” she said, trying to explain her role to me. “I’m the bridge between the sides and coax them along, manipulating them in their own self-interest.”
I tried to find out how she did this and why I couldn’t. “Dad, you’re too analytical. You expect a stream of complete, grammatical sentences. It’s not that straightforward. You have to be patient and let it all accumulate, one fragment at a time, maybe none of it’s understandable separately. But the whole might make sense.” She looked at me so earnestly, the way her mother did. “A nail’s just a nail by itself, but it makes more sense when you see it holding a box together. It then takes on a new relationship to the whole.”
“How did you come up with this?”
“By reading Fluffy.” Fluffy? The dog of her childhood? I was astounded.
“Animals don’t use words or concepts. They think through sights and smells, all the senses. Habits are very important to them and they get very upset when the routine’s disturbed. Anyway, I could always tell what she wanted. Food, drink or to go out for a walk, or just to get my attention.” Fluffy had been undisputedly her dog. “When it comes to people, I just use the same technique.” She coached me in her method, and after a time I became more adept at reading thoughts and inserting suggestions. But I could never match her level of skill. I told myself that was because I came to it later in life, fighting it off in my early years. I was glad that Cindy never exploited her ability for purely selfish purposes.
Miles was a bit different. To him ESP was an ability to be used, not hidden. All of us tried to warn him not to be public about it but, of course, he had his own ideas and agenda. Strangely it was the story of Frankenstein that finally convinced him to be careful: the monster with a heart, who was destroyed by fearful neighbors for being different. “You are different,” I explained to Miles. “If people knew how much, they’d call you a freak, and be envious or afraid of you. You’ll never be allowed to have a normal life.” My poor Asperger’s son, he made a rule out of it, not to become like Frankenstein and incite the world against him.
On the whole, we got along without ESP quite well. Amanda had learned to recognize our individual intrusions, and in self-defense would fill her mind with something noxious. With me it was the sound of a ukulele that sent shudders down my spine; with Cindy it was whiny country songs that kept her at a distance; and with Miles it was the sight and sound of closing doors, shutting him out. And for the most part it worked, unfortunately too late to save us the expense of half a year of counseling.
That more or less brings us level with the story. Of late, I hadn’t done anything for the Westchester Police, and Maclure knew better than to ask me. I was now head of the Visual Arts Faculty, which was mostly administrative, trapping me in long meetings debating policy matters, or in functions to raise money for the college. I taught a little, in the lecture hall or in the studio, but even that got a bit tiresome. I’d seen too many students come and go, striving for fame and instant recognition, elbowing each other on the way. I felt out of step with the latest art trends, and started to worry about becoming fossilized, a leftover from a previous age. My paintings were still selling well, but I was not on the A-list of who’s-who in the art world. More likely I’d never get higher than the B-list. I didn’t drink; I didn’t have any mistresses or controversies to excite the press to build that kind of interest. I was content, aside from the generalized ennui and lack of challenges. Perhaps that’s why I let the events carry me into unexpected turbulence.
We were on a trip (the city shall remain nameless), visiting a major art exhibition of international fame. I was one of six minders, shepherding 22 of our best art students from one viewing hall to another, debating the techniques and merits of each artist hanging there. It was part of the curriculum, Arts201, with tests and an essay due by the end. For most students, it was the first time out of state, and we had to keep a close eye on them to keep them out of trouble. The art on review was shaped by the wars of the 20th century, dark, brooding and pessimistic. The students couldn’t relate to it on a personal level but it was part of the course they were tested on. The fact that we were a thousand miles from home, in a more sophisticated environment, was more of an inducement than the lectures or the art.
I wasn’t really needed as we had more than enough help. Moreover, most students were intimidated by my title, and although I tried to be congenial, few of them ever approached me. By and large, I remained apart and most of the time I was plain bored: I knew the art and artists too well, having studied then lectured on all of them.
I lounged in my hotel room after a long day, reading some of the assignments the students handed in. The writings mostly regurgitated the museum brochures. They couldn’t appreciate the times, the protest, the compliance, the avoiding or marching off to war, the self-sacrifice that went with it. Today’s generation was coddled, promised everything, growing up with a large sense of entitlement. The soul seemed to be missing. For me, it symbolized the rut I found myself in. That it was a comfortable rut didn’t help much.
A distinct knock interrupted my preoccupations. I checked my watch; who could it be at 9:45 at night? I cracked open the door to find two men standing in the corridor.
“Yes?”
“I’m Police Chief Harding and this is Lieutenant Maxwell. We’d like to talk with you. May we come in?”
“No,” I said definitely. Ever since Jenny’s case I’d never surrender my rights easily to the police. I stepped into the hallway, to face the two policemen. “What’s this about? Is it one of our students?”
“No. No. We’d like to ask you a favor.”
“A favor?” What kind of favor? And why?
“Really, couldn’t we talk someplace more private?” A trace of irritation crept into Chief Harding’s voice. The man was used to issuing orders, not being stonewalled.
“Sure. Meet you in five minutes in the coffee shop in the lobby,” I said, taking charge. Whatever this was, it was best discussed on neutral ground. I shut the door on them, cutting off any objections.
Five minutes later, I went downstairs and found them squeezed into a booth in the farthest corner from the other customers. I marched up to them, trying to decide who to sit beside on the narrow bench. In the end, I grabbed a chair and stuck myself at the head of the table, so I could watch both of them from the same angle. “So?”
