by Bill Alive
“I grew up with Catholic kitsch,” Mark said. He shrugged. “I didn’t think you all had your own crappy statuary too. I’ll tell you, I expected better. Now I’m sad.”
“Get ready to get sadder,” Vivian said, as she finally shoved the door open. “Coming?”
Truth be told, Mark flinched. But he gave a casual nod and followed her in.
Chapter 10
The back room at Valley Visions was once an employee lounge, and it still has kitchen equipment that mostly functions. But now it’s crammed with office stuff, with computers and filing cabinets and a photocopier I’ve never seen anyone actually use, plus a sprinkling of dream catchers, wind chimes, and kitten posters that I’m pretty sure are unironic.
Vivian prepared three cups of tea (100% Organic Sustainable Fair Trade Tea, Hand-Harvested by Tibetan Monks) and popped them in the microwave. Then she sat at the tiny table, which seated two, and nodded Mark into the other seat. I leaned against the copier, holding my breath with excitement.
“Most normal humans have at least some empathy,” she began. “We pick up vibes, we share emotions, we get a freaky sense of what someone’s going to say. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t last long as a species. What you have isn’t fundamentally different.” She smiled. “But it’s off the spectrum.”
“You just met me,” Mark said.
“I’ve seen it before.”
That got him. “Really?” he blurted, forgetting to look cool.
“Once,” she said. “But he was a master. A very, very old man. Old and wise.”
“The guy in New Jersey, right?” I put in.
She sighed. “Yes. But he was born and raised in a remote Indian village. And he knew how to shield, Mark. He had to. Just to get through the day, let alone interrogate murderers.”
“I’ve been doing all right,” Mark said. “I faced that cop.”
“Ramiro Romero? Pete told me about that,” she said. “He’s an overconfident ass. You sucked up his confidence.”
Mark wilted. “Crap.”
“Shielding isn’t easy, but it is simple. Visualize your defense, and give it all your energy.”
“When do we get to the part that makes sense?”
Vivian smiled sweetly.
I knew better than to interrupt now, but I thought toward Mark as hard as I could to cut the wisecracks. The only time I ever saw that look on Vivian was when customers turned out to be Republican.
He didn’t look like he got my message.
“Visualize your defense,” she repeated, with angelic calm. “You might imagine a shimmering golden bubble, surrounding your entire body. Or enclose yourself in a castle wall of six-foot stone. You may also imagine your guardian, however you choose to see this being. Choose what feels right to you, a defense that you can trust.”
“Seriously?” Mark said. “I imagine myself as an anime superhero? That’s the big plan?”
“Shields up,” she said quietly.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means cover your ass,” she snapped.
And her own face contorted with pain.
Across the table, Mark writhed. “Holy crap!” he shrieked. “OW!”
“Imagine … your … shield,” she grunted, through clenched teeth. Her face was wracked and she was breathing hard, like she was lifting a car or giving birth.
If I’d been any less mesmerized, I would have been terrified. I mean, more terrified. I’d never expected this.
“How are you doing this!” Mark gasped. “It’s crazy!”
“What I feel … you feel … shields up! I can make it worse!”
“I highly doubt that,” he groaned.
She winced.
He jolted like she’d slapped him in the face. “Argh!” he groaned. “Sadistic bitch!”
“Not fair … babe,” she grunted. “This really does hurt me … more than it hurts you.”
“I’m pretty fricking sensitive!”
“Then make your damn shield.”
“Fine!” He scrunched his eyes shut and knit his brows.
I held my breath.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Are you backing off?” he asked, eyes still shut.
“Nope … it’s less … isn’t it?”
“Holy crap,” he said.
“It’s working!” I yelled. “It’s working!” I know I sounded like Anakin Skywalker in Episode One, but it was one of those moments where you need someone to high five.
Vivian laughed with delight. Then her face wrung into fresh torture.
“GYAH!” Mark shouted. “What the hell?”
“More … practice …” she gasped. “How do you think … murderers … will feel?”
“I know how murderers feel!” he bellowed.
They practiced for hours.
Well, it felt like hours. I think it was actually more like fifteen minutes. Mark was shielding faster and faster, but Vivian was looking older than I’d ever seen her. I was amazed she could put herself through such emotional pain, and that she was choosing to do it. No matter how well Mark shielded, she was still feeling it full force.
For once, I was grateful not to be an empath. Even so, it was hard to watch.
Finally, she mustered some unholy concoction of misery that twisted her face into a wrinkle-trenched nightmare.
Mark slumped onto the table. Knocked out.
Vivian cursed and jumped for the huge fridge. “What was I thinking?” she muttered. “He must be exhausted.” She ransacked the shelves, grumbling, then shrieked “Ah!” and lunged for a cabinet.
“Is he … hurt?” I ventured.
“I’m sure he’s seen worse.” She snatched a plastic package, ripped it open, and swooped to Mark’s side. “Eat this!” she thundered, and shoved the thin package in his face.
His eyelids fluttered, but that was it.
She yanked a green strip from the package, broke a piece, and pushed it between his lips.
He puckered, gagged, then opened his eyes and chewed. “Ugh,” he said. “What is this?”
“Finish it,” she said, and pushed the rest into his mouth. “You’ll have to start managing your energy.”
He swallowed as fast as he could, then grabbed the package. “Japanese seaweed?” he said. He flipped it over to check the price. “They charge that much for four ounces? There’s hardly anything in here! I could buy a pizza for that! Two pizzas!”
“It’s nutrient dense,” Vivian said. “And you feel better, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t if I’d had to pay for it!”
Vivian folded her arms. “How much sleep do you get?”
“Plenty,” he said.
I scoffed, Mark-style. Turns out, it’s kind of fun.
“You don’t have unlimited energy, babe,” Vivian said. “Every mode of empathy takes energy. Shielding, reading, transmitting—”
Mark perked up. “What do you mean transmitting?”
Vivian’s face clouded. “Maybe later.”
“Tell us!” I said.
Vivian hesitated. Then she restarted the microwave for the tea, which we’d all totally forgotten about, and slowly sat again. She sighed, and her mouth drooped in a tired sag.
“I guess it’s safer if you find out now,” she said. “Somewhere else, you might not hear the risks.”
“What risks? What are you talking about?”
“Reverse empathy, Mark. You’re not just a receiver. You can also, under certain circumstances, transmit.”
Mark blanched. He literally got pasty white.
“Awesome!” I said. “‘These aren’t the droids you’re—’”
“Thanks, Obi-Wan,” Vivian said. “But in real life, transmitting is super dangerous.”
“What kind of dangerous?” Mark asked.
“Depends on how hard you’re transmitting, and how hard the recipient is shielding. In a sense, we ordinary people transmit all the time, because we’re always broadcasting our feelings. But th
e signal’s usually weak. Others might not even notice it, let alone feel it themselves. For a non-empath to feel a transmission at an empath level, it takes a lot more energy.”
“How much?” I said.
“Exponentially more. More than a normal human brain can handle. But an empath brain can handle it … in theory. I’ve never witnessed transmission myself, but the one verified incident I know of … the empath sweat blood.”
“Blood?” I blurted.
She nodded. “And then he blew a major vessel in his brain.”
Silence. The microwave dinged.
Vivian quietly passed around the tea. “Of course, he might not have had to transmit quite so hard.”
“No worries,” Mark said. “I’m not going to push my thoughts on anyone. Fricking abusive.”
Vivian shrugged. “You’re an empath. Everyone else is pushing you all day long.”
“But not on purpose.”
Vivian twinkled and sipped her tea.
“It’s different!” Mark said.
“Just keep your options open,” she said. “It’s possible you could transmit any kind of thought … an idea … a command …”
“You said some dude blew his brain out!”
“He was untrained,” she said. “You have a gift, Mark. With training, you could use it for good.”
Mark frowned. “That’s what they all say.”
“If you don’t train, and you ever need to use it—”
“Drop it!” he barked.
We finished the tea in silence.
Mark stood. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “That was intense.”
“Anytime,” Vivian said.
He nodded with quick politeness, like he was trying to downgrade this from “actual invitation” to “just being nice”. He turned to me. “You good to ride home with Ceci?”
“Mark, no,” said Vivian. “You’re not driving now.”
“What? I’m good.”
“Pete can drive. Won’t be long. I can see his hours are going to get increasingly erratic.”
“You’re the best boss ever!” I said, and pounced in a spontaneous hug. Yes, I sometimes do that.
She hugged back, but made a wry face. “That’s why I pay you by the hour.”
“Seriously, I’m okay,” Mark protested. “I mean, I am a little … wait …” He eyed Vivian with suspicion. “You pushing me?”
“I’m only feeling concern! I’m allowed to feel things!”
“Come on, Mark!” I said. “What’s the point of a trusty sidekick if you have to drive everywhere?”
Mark sighed. “Fair enough.”
I whooped and rushed to unlock the front door. I admit that my enthusiasm was partly due to Vivian apparently promoting me to Show-Up-Whenever-You-Want, at least for as long as she was enamored with Mark. Sure, I was going to have to make sure I still got enough hours in, (spoiler alert: ha!) but I was already intoxicated with sweet, sweet freedom.
Behind me, Vivian was reminding Mark to take care of his energy, get enough sleep, eat right, and basically do the opposite of every habit he had.
“Sure thing,” he said, with a polite smile.
But when he climbed into the passenger seat, he conked out in less than a minute. Last night, after the funeral, he’d been tired, but now he was out. His mouth hung open, not even moving to breathe, and his skin was white and cold.
He looked dead.
Chapter 11
The next morning was Saturday, and we headed for the local airport. It seemed a logical place to start, since we could meet Lindsay’s flight instructor and find out whether she was really such an amateur that she could easily crash.
Also, it was way less intimidating than starting with her family.
“This plan is good!” I shouted as we Thundered down the country highway toward the airport. The August broil had returned with a vengeance, so the windows were down and the wind was roaring. (Thunder’s AC is essentially decorative.) “You can practice asking questions and vibing with people who definitely aren’t the murderer!”
“How do you know it’s not someone at the airport?” Mark asked. With his low growl, he didn’t have to shout.
“They weren’t at the funeral!”
“You sure? Did you see every last person who was there?”
“No! But … um …”
“What if someone tampered with the glider?” Mark said. “You’d do that at the airport.”
“But then how could she have been flying it?”
“A pilot might know how to break it just enough that it would fly for a short distance, then crash.”
“Huh! Maybe!” I thought about this as we whooshed down the road’s curves, flying past pricey rural houses and the occasional derelict country grocery that was possibly still in business. “I guess we need to ask whether they went to the funeral.”
“That’s going to sound natural. ‘So, strange person I’ve just met, did you attend the funeral of this woman you might have murdered?’”
“Dude, none of it’s going to sound natural! We’re a couple of random dudes hassling them with questions! About a possible murder!”
Mark frowned. “Maybe I should have thought this through.”
“Hey, hey! None of that!! What’ll Gwen say if we quit before we even start?! Imagine her smug face!”
Mark growled. And kept driving.
I’ve never gotten used to calling the Brown County Airport an “airport”. I grew up in the city of Manassas, which is basically the westernmost urbanish outpost of the Northern Virginia Sprawl. Although Manassas technically does have its own airport, “airport” in the Sprawl means the mega-chaos of Dulles International, where the sheer trek from wherever you parked is itself an epic journey. Compared to Dulles, calling what we have the Brown County “Airport” is like calling an ice cream stand a “shopping mall”.
Normally, like everything out here in the valley, Brown County Airport tries to be scenic and mostly succeeds. The quaint little airport building squats like a ranch house between the ambitiously oversized parking lot in front and the generous runways stretching behind, and in the distance, the smooth Blue Ridge mountains soar above it all.
Today, though, as we pulled in, the near-empty lot felt isolated and private, for Actual Pilots Only. The low building seemed to sense our intrusion and glower with country menace, like a porch grandpa about to call out the pit bulls.
“Relax,” Mark said, as we walked right toward it anyway. “It’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Of course not,” he snapped. “But the last thing I need is you going all energy vampire. That’s the opposite of your job description.”
“Wait, you mean I’m just here to vibe you positive energy? Like an emotional recharge battery?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You could just get a puppy!”
“Puppies don’t pay rent.”
“Mark!” I squawked, genuinely hurt.
“Ow! Yikes!” he said, jolting away from me. He grabbed the handle of the glass front door, then paused. “Kidding, okay? Joke! You’re a wonderful human being, and a highly valued member of the team. Got it? We good? Can we go humiliate ourselves now?”
“I guess.”
The airport lobby was deserted. It didn’t feel at all like an “airport” lobby, more like the visitor center for a tiny dead town, complete with racks of faded pamphlets advertising attractions (some several states away) and a round reception welcome counter with no one there. The wide back wall of glass showed an empty runway that yawned like a giant mouth. Dusty model airplanes hung from the ceiling, almost whispering ghostly warnings.
I approached the abandoned counter. The desk behind it was strewn with official-looking papers, including one marked “FINAL NOTICE.”
“You think there’s some bell to ring?” I said.
“Shit,” Mark breathed.
“Relax, I can knock—” I started, and then I gasped too.
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Outside, behind the glass wall, a burly bearded man in grimy coveralls was giving us the glare.
You know how you can be parked at a stoplight and you suddenly twist and see some dude with nose rings staring at you in the next car? This was like that, except that this guy didn’t look away, and he looked pissed, and we were kind of in his living room.
He was wiping his hands with an oily rag, slowly scrubbing his fat, hairy fingers. Still staring.
Finally, without a word, he turned and lumbered away.
Mark mumbled, “Numb.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“I just got a word, ‘numb’.”
“You read his mind? Like actual specific words?” I said. “Wow!”
Yes, I know Mark seems to read my mind every five minutes. But this was a complete stranger. And that creep was totally a suspect! If Mark was already swiping clues from random hostiles, we were going to wrap this case by lunch.
“It was only the one word, Pete,” Mark said. “It’s not something I can control, and I’m not positive I didn’t imagine it. Besides, what the hell is ‘numb’ supposed to mean?”
Even as he said it, his face changed. He looked stricken.
“What? What is it?” I said.
“It’s fine, it’s nothing.”
“You look super scared.”
“I just … I have a problem with older fat men with beards.”
“A problem? Like how?”
“Intellectually, I know that they’re probably a jolly demographic, but adrenalin-wise, they’re kind of a trigger. Bad past experiences.”
“Really? Fat dudes with beards? There’s a lot of those guys. Especially out here.”
He gave me a tight smile. “I’ve noticed.”
A side door banged open, and a middle-aged guy with fancy glasses and flabby pasty cheeks barged in, trailed by the anxious click-clack heels of a plump secretary who hadn’t updated her Dolly Parton hairdo since at least 1985.
“You refer all his questions to me, Peggy!” he barked. “He may say we’re partners, but I sign your checks.”
Peggy bobbed him a nod of dutiful pain, like a stage III chemo patient faking thanks for another needle. Then she flicked a nervous glance in our direction.
