Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  The lone observer surveyed the nearly completed task with his Starlight Scope. Now, the sweepers pulled up to the dirt driveway, which was the only remaining sign that anyone had ever inhabited this spot of earth, and began erasing all signs of its existence as they drove over and erased any last vestige of human activity. They, too, sped off when complete.

  Satisfied after making another Starlight Scope pass, the man turned to reenter his Jeep — when he spun around.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he asked the intruder, raised his nine millimeter, and fired…

  Chapter Two

  1

  One Tree, Colorado

  July 11th

  2358 hours

  “Will zat be VISA or MasterCard?” asked Lizzie Gordon, in her best faux-Romani accent, stroking her Calico cat, Lucy, all curled up and purring in her lap. How Lizzie kept from laughing at her fake accent was a mystery to her… but maybe it was because she’d been doing it for so long, or that if she laughed it would be her undoing, and she wouldn’t be able to help those who so desperately needed her assistance. Lizzie adjusted her headphones.

  “MasterCard?” the caller replied.

  “Your number?”

  Lizzie glanced to her trailer’s clock and jotted down “11:58 p.m.” in her log, next to the date.

  “Hmmm, almost ze witching hour,” Lizzie said, absentmindedly.

  The caller chuckled briefly and uncomfortably, then gave Lizzie her credit card number. Lizzie read back the number for verification, then got the card’s expiration date and caller’s name (as it appeared on the card). She entered that data into the credit card terminal.

  “Thank you, Sher-i. Zorry about zuch trivialities,” Lizzie said, continuing with her faux accent. “Now… what would you azk Madame Nostradameus?”

  Lizzie kicked away a toy ball that had come rolling under the table, bumping off her bare feet.

  “‘Nostradamus?’ Like that prophet?”

  “‘Nostradameus’—it iz pronounced with a ‘dame,’ az in I am a woman, and Nostradamus wuz a man.”

  Lizzie grew more annoyed with this name than she’d expected. When she’d first created the identity she’d thought it cute, but after having to constantly correct its unwieldy articulation, it had grown quite tiresome.

  “Oh,” the caller said. “Well, it’s about my boyfriend.”

  Lizzie nodded like a bobbleheaded doll, and again adjusted her headset. She looked down to Lucy, still nestled in her lap, purring. The questions were always the same, whether from men or women.

  When will I find true and lasting love?

  Is s/he cheating on me?

  Will I be successful, or rich and famous at (fill in the blank)?

  Should I invest in (fill in the blank)?

  Though Lizzie felt for each caller, since they were calling — most of them, anyway — honestly thinking they were going to get some bit of useful advice. There were also those who called just to test her, to play the “for entertainment purposes only” portion of the advertisement. Why people called these numbers to waste their money amazed her… though she understood. Everyone wanted to find some genuine, life-changing event to affect their lives for the better, something to transcend the mundaneness of everyday life, and this saddened her even more. They obviously never read the disclaimer at the bottom of their television screens, nor put trust into their own lives and direction. But, yes… everyone needed help now and then. She knew that even the jesters hoped — deep down — she’d say something insightful even they could take away with them. As much as humans loved to prove others wrong… they also loved to be pleasantly surprised. It was human nature, plain and simple. Lizzie reached down and scratched her exposed upper calf; took another sip of Mountain Dew.

  Oh, and another reason she loved the job — no dress code.

  “I know… you want to know if he haz been true to you, yes?”

  “Um… yeaaah. I feel bad abou—”

  “Eez okay, Sheri, I understand…”

  It was here, while stroking Lucy, that Lizzie tuned in to Sheri’s question.

  Lizzie psychically split herself apart, so to speak, from the talking her… dissociating herself from the call on the one hand, yet keeping Sher-i occupied in polite conversation on the other. Lizzie suddenly felt that familiar extrasensory ride she’d grown accustomed to all of her life. That feeling of expansion and contraction, of slipping away from her “physical package,” and sliding into another, nonphysical, one. She rode Sheri’s intent and psychically met her boyfriend. She experienced several things at once: her boyfriend’s genuine and (pardon the pun) unadulterated love for her; the fact that though he loved her, he did occasionally look at other women (and even chided himself for doing that); and, thirdly, how he really, really loved mountain biking. Lizzie smiled. There was nothing wrong with this guy nor their relationship. He was a normal, twenty-two-year-old dude in love with his twenty-one-year-old chick. Lizzie returned to the call.

  “Sher-i, I am picking up on… your man… he eez active, hmm?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Where are you calling from — Boulder?”

  “How’d you—”

  “You both love to ride bikes in ze mountains, I zee, he eez very good, but you feel intimidated by theez, yes?”

  “How did you — oh, my God — um, well,” Sheri said, surprised, “I am pretty good myself, but he’s so much better—”

  “Just be yourself, leetle one. You are doing fine. He does not look down upon you nor your ability, but eez pleasantly amused and gratified you keep up weeth him when you go out together. There eez nothing to worry about — but I digress. I see… I see that theez man truly loves you, my dear. You have nothing to worry about… and Madame Nostradameus means for you to believe her. Your man eez quite in love weeth you, but you know theez…”

  “But I catch him—”

  Lizzie chuckled her faux-Romani laugh. “Looking at other women? Eez that eet?”

  How long could she continue with this ridiculous accent?

  “I do not mean to laugh at you, my dear, but have no worries. Your man eez just that — a man — and as such, men are — how shall I put theez?—much more… ummm, visually stimulated… than weemen. It is in their nature to look. After all, eez that not how he found you?”

  “Well, uh…”

  “Does he not continue to find you attracteev?”

  “Sure, I mean… I guess, but…”

  “Then you do yourself a great deez-serveez to compare yourself against others! You are beautiful yourself — he loves your auburn hair, your large brown eyes—”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  Lizzie chuckled. “Am I not Madame Nostradameus?”

  “But I thou—”

  “You thought me a fake? Ack! Eez all right! There are many charlatans out there — Madame Nostradameus knows all! Your man, though he eez a man, and though he may occasionally look at other weemen, knows what he has, knows heez love for you. Just as he appreciates the beauty and majesty of the mountains and trails, he alzo appreciates the beauty of weemen. You know each other’s hearts… be not afraid, my dear. He eez true to you.”

  Sheri paused, and Lizzie heard — felt — her relief at the other end of the phone. Just don’t cry, she thought, just don’t…

  “Thank you, Madame Nostra… dameus… for everything,” Sheri sniffled, “You don’t know how much this means to me—”

  “Ah, but I do, my sweet!,” Lizzie said, smiling, “now go — call heem — but go in peace… and love.”

  Lizzie disconnected from the call and sat back, staring at the muted TV screen across the room from her. She wiped away her own tears. Damn them when they cried! She took another swig of Mountain Dew, focusing on the muted television, which was set to the SCI FI channel, and on which there just so happened to be a commercial for her 1-900-PsiKick hotline — call now! Lizzie needed a break and called in to disconnect. She removed the headset and slowly came to her feet, allowi
ng Lucy time to leap off her lap. As she took her first step toward the kitchen, she kicked aside a green-colored plastic donut from a children’s Rock-a-Stack rings set. She opened the refrigerator, but nothing hit her fancy. She didn’t have to be psychic to know what she really wanted.

  To the freezer, she redirected.

  Dreyer’s.

  Yeah, baby — Vanilla Bean. That was what she needed. As she dug into the container, her mind’s eye filled with the happy, smiling faces of hundreds, thousands of playful children…

  2

  Travis Norton pulled off Nellysford, Virginia’s Highway 151, down another short stretch of road, then onto the crushed-stone driveway that led up alongside his small, two-story clapboard house. He shut off the Jeep Cherokee and sat staring out into the whispering trees; the calm, cool serenity of the nearby woods and early morning breezes.

  Always there, always comforting.

  Hardwoods and softwoods… the soft, hushing carpet and deep woodsy scent of forest humus. Wildlife coming and going. Chirping birds. The grounding, relaxing scent of pine and moist air. What had this area witnessed across the centuries, whether or not it had been an open plain or its current treed forest? Storms? Battles? The growth of civilization? How had this spot of ground changed?

  What did the woods know?

  He’d read in metaphysical texts that trees were supposed to have lives of their own (beyond just growing and bearing leaves or needles)—as well as an actual perception of human beings. That they were able to see the human equivalent of fifty years into the future and past. What did they see about him?

  He’d have to look into that someday.

  But Travis couldn’t delay his enthusiasm — right now he was absolutely ecstatic.

  For the first time ever, he’d actually had a good feeling returning home from a mission. Usually his tasks were all doom and gloom, peeking in on drug traffickers, terrorism, or other intelligence targets, but this one… this one had been fun — left him with a light, airy, downright optimistic feeling. He’d picked up on a group of young children dancing and playing about in a street, singing nursery rhymes… in front of a home. A home that had been the epitome of normal… yet somehow also had an indefinable element of strange to it… and to which he had been totally unable to penetrate. There had been an incredible overall feeling of giddiness and love to these kids and their play, and it not only permeated his mission, but instantly and thoroughly permeated him. It had been so intense; he had felt it long before “seeing” it. There had been levity on levels he simply couldn’t begin to explain, a joy that had been more intense than anything he’d ever known. Never before had he experienced such an intense concept of the word. It had simply been out of this world — totally and lovingly enveloped his soul — as if he’d been enwrapped in thick down comforters on a cold winter’s night. It had been his first mission as a remote viewer that actually had him feeling good — not only about the target… but himself.

  Travis exited the Jeep and went to the porch, which was in dire need of a good sweep and coat of paint. The front door was similarly challenged. Fishing out his keys, he unlocked the door — and stopped. Furrowing his brow, he turned back around to again face the woods.

  Nothing but woods and road… the sound of birds. The smell of fresh air, the hush of a light breeze through the trees, and the shiny glint of sunlight off their twitching leaves…

  He felt… watched.

  Travis squinted into the distance as if he would actually see something.

  Was he actually being tracked, or was it just an aftereffect from a hard night’s taskings?

  The feeling immediately dissipated.

  He continued on into the house.

  A smile on his face, Travis went to the refrigerator for a beer, then changed his mind and pulled out an AriZona iced tea, instead. He popped open the tall can on his way into his home office and took a sip, swallowing the sweet raspberry tang. He went right for the closet. Opening it, he reached in for the only item that always made him feel good about at least part of himself — the last (unofficial) part of his own, personal, operative protocol about which he never told anyone — but (no doubt) his superiors already knew. He was a long way from that boy who’d built this plastic model, a long way in more than years from that boy of twelve, who’d found the somewhat beat-up model kit at a garage sale. It was the flying saucer from the sixties television show, The Invaders, starring Roy Thinnes. He’d never seen it in its original telecast, of course, but once he’d found the model, he searched the show out and found the series still in occasional reruns on late-night TV on the SCI FI channel, and, of course, on DVDs. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was about this model that so captivated him, except that it was absolutely cool looking, but home he’d run with his newly discovered kit as that twelve year old, and immediately set about putting it together. Maybe it was the basic, smooth lines of the finished craft, or the fantastic imagery it represented, but whatever it was, this was the neatest version of a flying saucer he’d ever seen (well, next to that Forbidden Planet spaceship). He was quite disappointed to later discover that that spaceship actually belonged to The Bad Guys, the aliens who were always out to get us. Roy Thinnes had been The Good Guy and had been trying to warn everyone about The Bad Guys…

  Travis took his UFO and iced tea and sat down, placing the craft on the desk before him. He stared at it. He had to admit, he’d done a superb job in putting the thing together. Its near featureless, gray plastic surface had only a small rectangular, indented view-screen near the top raised dome of the craft, and above that were the small, elongated and rectangular red running lights he’d painted himself. Underneath the six-and-a-half-inch diameter saucer-body circumference were five translucent red bubbles around a painted-orange center grill. He may not have known what had attracted him to the model all those years ago, but what he knew now was that this one model, perhaps no longer made, reminded him of the childhood naïveté he’d all-too-quickly lost and wished dearly to regain. Of his boyhood purity, now so far — light years, in fact — removed from his adulthood filthiness. God, how he wished he could return to that pure state and do things over again. Pick another line of work. As that twelve year old he wasn’t divorced, and wasn’t poking his nose around in everyone else’s shithole business. He was constantly sticking his nose into (and inhaling deeply) the underbelly of the world’s most scum-sucking bottom-dwellers. This ability to see what others did was so powerful, so wondrous an ability… yet he had to be wallowing in the parochial and shortsighted end of things.

  But, that’s what covert government psychics did.

  He wanted to be engaged in its use in more peaceful methods. In more Humanity advancing endeavors. He wanted to use it as it was meant to be used — to change things before they turned rancid. He knew there were other units doing that kind of work, but somehow, over the years, he’d gotten stuck in the garbage-sifting end of the business. He wanted to see into the future and change world paradigms… end global warming, the burgeoning global drought, or any other declining environmental or financial issues… or just find a fricking cure for cancer, for crying out loud. That’s what Kennedy’d intended, they all knew that — hell, they were psychics — they saw past the bullshit they were fed by superiors, but when it came right down to it, it was a job… and what were ya gonna do?

  Travis set down his tea.

  Hell, maybe they were using it as designed, and he and the others just weren’t aware of it. After all, it’s not like remote viewers had answers for everything. There was only so much an individual could process, do in a day, even a psychic. The human organism still got physically, mentally, even psychically exhausted, and could only handle so much. And besides — Big Question: just who would be deciding what would and wouldn’t be changed?

  Changed to what?

  One solution would bring up a thousand more questions. What we needed, Travis mused, would be a whole new race of people gifted in this ability. People who were jus
t a level or two above the standard human. Saints, aliens, or a demigod or two. Maybe that was what they needed… a demigod or two walking among us…

  Or maybe humans just weren’t meant to dick around with life quite so directly, and on that scale.

  Travis picked up the gray spacecraft and removed the lid. Inside were five compartmentalized sections of the spacecraft, complete with eight miniature figurines, all glued into place.

  Compartmentalized.

  Just like his life. His job. The person in the next office — sometimes standing right beside you — couldn’t tell you what they were working on.

  And wasn’t that just the irony?

  They were psychics. Government trained. Trained to ferret out just that kind of information.

  Three of the figurines were in the model’s main control room, one sitting in the “captain’s chair,” with the other figures standing to either side; all were before the main view screen, which was behind the inside portion of the indented view port on the outside of the ship. Travis had long ago painted the four interior screens black. Of the three control-room figurines, one was an anatomically correct space babe. Okay, for a one-inch-tall figurine, she was stacked. Travis smiled, he’d painted her hair silver, and as he looked closer… saw there was a gossamer strand of what had to be twenty-two-year-old glue linking the silver-haired space babe to the seated pilot.

  In the port-side compartment stood two other guys, observing another, painted-black observation screen. Directly across from these two, on the starboard side of the ship in another compartment, was a single guy attending to storage lockers. And to the aft of the ship, in yet another compartment, were two more men glued into their eternal positions in two of the three “accelerator tubes,” as they were called.

  As Travis looked closer, he noticed something he’d never noticed before as he played with the angle of the ship. In the singular guy’s locker room he saw a strand of thick white hair sticking up from the floor, caught and glued under a section of gray plastic bulkhead. How interesting, he thought — had that always been there? It had to be a piece of hair from “Crackers,” one of his family’s dogs, a mixed Dalmatian that had long-since departed. He missed her. Thumped several times by cars, and, in later years arthritic, she kept on going until one winter, while home on vacation, he and Crackers had gone for a walk on crusty snow in a field of theirs in upstate New York. Crackers had run up ahead and gotten caught in a section of snow where brush had poked up through the crusty surface. She’d fallen through and couldn’t pull her hind legs out. She looked up to him, helpless. Travis, his heart breaking, rushed to her, lifted her out of the hole she’d made for herself, and had taken her away to where the snow wouldn’t break from her weight. He knew he wouldn’t see her that next year… and hadn’t. His dad had had to put her down. Her arthritis had been far too advanced, she’d had a loss of bowel control, and there had been all her whining and groaning at night in her sleep. It was too much even for his father, a tough upstate New York State Trooper. Crackers had had one last summer before she’d met her Maker.