Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  Lizzie went to the boy, who took her hand, then excitedly rushed her out into the living room. She noticed Lucy curled up on the couch, watching the two of them as they walked past to the front door, which the boy opened. Lizzie stepped outside. She found herself standing on a wide-open plain, and as far as the eye could see…

  Children.

  “It’s okay, Mommy, this is what you wanted.”

  “I know, I know, honey,” Lizzie said, trying to swallow and finding it hard to do so.

  “It’s just kind of… overwhelming!” Lizzie brought a hand to her chest.

  Gentle laughter bubbled around her. As Lizzie looked from face to face, she realized she knew each and every child. Their names didn’t matter… but they were names that were so much more meaningful and full of depth that to utter them would never do them justice. It was the sense about them, the feeling that led her through various inner journeys of each individual that mattered. Like a buoy marker, it was used to identify each boy or girl, but it was so much more than that… there was an inner importance. A flowering of identities. She found she could get lost in trying to sort it all out, but the identifications had already been made, and additional focuses were already shifting in and out of awareness…

  The children’s laughter washed over her, like a warm, gentle rain.

  “Wow. I’ve never been with all of you at once before.”

  “You have, Mommy, you just don’t remember,” her son said.

  “I miss you,” Lizzie said. She went to her knees and hugged him.

  “We all miss you!” the boy exclaimed. Tears ran down his face.

  Lizzie backed away, wiping away her son’s tears. She looked to the mass of children and saw they all cried tears of joy, each pair of eyes brimming with love and understanding.

  “Don’t cry,” Lizzie said, “there’s no reason to cr—”

  But she was already well into her own bout of weeping.

  “When can we come home?” the boy asked.

  “Soon,” Lizzie answered, wiping away tears, “soon! Mommy still has a lot of work to do, you know that.”

  The boy looked down. “I know. We just miss you. We miss you so much, Mommy. It’s that bad man, isn’t it.”

  Lizzie shot him a surprised look. She grabbed him firmly by his diminutive shoulders.

  “You know him?”

  He nodded.

  “How do you know him? Tell me — how do you know this man?”

  The boy looked behind her and pointed. Lizzie turned.

  There stood the Smiling Man, cradling an infant that babbled contentedly to herself.

  “Who are you?”

  The man smiled.

  When Lizzie got to her feet, the man no longer held the infant. She stared at him for a moment before turning back to the sea of children — but they were all gone.

  “They’re still there. We’re inextricably linked,” the man said, smiling. He took a sip of iced tea, then sat in a chair. Lizzie found she now stood on the nighttime porch of a small, cozy clapboard dwelling. The Smiling Man leaned back in his chair until it rested against the outside wall of the house.

  “So… what can you tell me?” Lizzie asked.

  “What do you want t’know?” the man replied, taking another sip of tea. “This is good stuff, you really oughta try it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great!” The Smiling Man all but leapt out of his chair and disappeared into the interior of his house. While she waited, Lizzie went to the porch railing and looked out into the night; inhaled the fresh, cool air, and listened to chirping crickets.

  “Don’t you just love it?” the man asked, back with another glass of iced tea in hand, his glass refreshed.

  Lizzie turned to him. “I do.” Inhaling deeply, she smiled and sighed, then casually crossed her arms. “I really do. I always wanted to live out in the country like this.”

  “But, you already do.”

  “Yeah, but not now.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Lizzie took up the chair next to the Smiling Man, who again leaned back against the house. “Go on,” he chided playfully, “there’s no carpet to dig chair legs into, here.”

  Smiling, Lizzie tipped her chair back against the outside of the house.

  “So, why have we met?”

  “You know. You’re just clouded by all that guilt.”

  Lizzie took a sip of iced tea.

  “You know what I’m talking about — don’t pretend otherwise,” Smiling Man said.

  “You smile too much, don’t have a name, and cop an attitude.”

  “Most of what’s occurring is in the journey, not the destination, and were I to give you blanket answers they’d take away from your journey, and you’d learn nothing. Just because you’re so-called psychic doesn’t mean you’re perfect. To learn, you need to experience not only your answers, but the questions. Sometimes questions are more important than answers.”

  Lizzie took another sip of tea. “I’m not sure I want to find out.”

  The Man with No Name suddenly leapt off his chair and the porch.

  “Hey — let’s do some weedin — and I’ll tell you a story!”

  Lizzie awoke, eyes wide and alert. Though tired, she felt good. She looked to her clock, but the display was partially obscured by a corner of pillow. She packed it down and saw that it was only four-forty-one. She lay back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and quickly fell back to sleep…

  4

  Victor Black opened the safe by the light of a penlight clutched between clenched teeth. He removed a specific handful of sealed envelopes, found the ones needed, and separated them from those he placed back into the safe. Then he took out identical envelopes hidden inside his jacket and held them side by side to the ones pulled. The type-written control numbers were identical. It was their contents that differed.

  Black inserted the switched envelopes into the safe and closed the drawer, spinning the S&G combination dial. He yanked on the steel drawers to ensure the safe was, indeed, locked, then pocketed the replaced documents. He briefly worked his left shoulder when done.

  Black left the office and walked down the empty hallways like a well-practiced rat in a well-worn maze. He came to the dimly lit cafeteria, and continued through it until he came to the large plate window at the opposite end. He stared out past his reflection at the few lights that showed through the black cherry, maple, and sweetgum trees. He sat down at the end of a table, then leaned over onto it with an elbow, as if in thought. Continuing to stare out the window, Black used his free hand to stealthily reach under the table… careful that the ceiling-mounted “bubble cameras” wouldn’t see his actions. He felt around until he found the compact package that had been taped there moments ago.

  The digital disk of his intrusion into the “control safe” and office, where he’d just switched out documents…

  Chapter Seven

  1

  Buddy LaRouque pinned Gina Massey’s firm, squirming body against his front door as he passionately worked her mouth with his own. Gina pulled Buddy in and ran her hands over his short, crew-cut blond hair and French-Canadian features. Buddy pulled away, smiling, panting heavily.

  “God, I love you,” Gina whispered, breathlessly, her hands anchoring his face before her. She pulled him back in, devouring him some more, then pulled away. “I don’t want to let you go… but I really have to get going…”

  “I know,” Buddy whispered back.

  Both closed their eyes and leaned their foreheads into each other. “Besides,” Gina added, smiling, “we’re not supposed to be fraternizing, you know—”

  “Aw, fuck em all.”

  Gina pulled her head away from Buddy and they both looked to each other.

  “How bout just me?” Gina said.

  Buddy smiled.

  “Blame me?”

  “How could I?” Buddy said. “How could you resist the Buddy LaRouque Machine?”

  “Can’t — no way, no how,” s
he whispered, chuckling. “That’s why I gotta go — now,” she whispered, gently pushing him away and wiggling free.

  Buddy groaned. “Fine.” He relinquished. “Thanks for stopping by. I always love your impromptu… visits.”

  “Oh, right, like you never know I’m coming.”

  “I can always tell by the screams and groans—”

  Gina punched him. She grabbed up the material of his bathrobe in both hands; brought him back in.

  “Hey, just cause we’re government-trained-you-know-whats, don’t mean I have to use it all the time.”

  “Then I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  “It’s already tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll see ya… in a couple hours…”

  “Let me walk you to your car—”

  “I’m a big girl… a psychic big girl who sees no baddies out there — and you’re in your bathrobe…”

  Again they kissed.

  “You make it hard not to be chivalrous.”

  “Thanks for the effort, knight.” Gina smiled, eyeing every inch of his face.

  “Then drive safe, me lady.”

  “Always. Bye, lover.”

  God, he could just fuck that smile of hers.

  They kissed each other one last time.

  Buddy reached around behind Gina and unlocked the deadbolt. Gina reached behind her and twisted the doorknob. Opening the door, but remaining as close to Buddy as long as possible, she slid out — maintaining focused eye contact. Buddy eased the door closed.

  Sliding the deadbolt back into place, he stared into the door as Gina lingered just a moment before her side of the door; she actually touched the door with one hand, head tilted forward and eyes closed. Buddy closed his eyes and thudded his forehead against the door about where Gina’s head was resting.

  “Man, you drives me nuts…,” he whispered.

  I love you, Buddy, Gina thought back to him from her side of the door. She then lifted her head and left, cradling her arms close in to her, as she got into her car.

  Buddy listened as Gina entered her car, closed its door, and started the engine.

  Shivering for just a split second, he smiled.

  I love you, too, he thought back to her.

  Buddy left the door and returned to the interior of his house. A hallway light leading upstairs to the bedroom was still on, and he headed for the stairs — then stopped. Entered the kitchen instead. Standing in the darkness, he found himself drawn to the rear kitchen window. He looked out it into the dark woods beyond.

  The smile left his face.

  There was something about this window… another window…

  A kitchen window and death. A horrible death.

  A family.

  He left the kitchen and went to the study. Leaving the lights off as he made his way through the house. He closed the study door behind him… hesitated — then locked it… pausing for another moment.

  He just felt the need to close and lock that door.

  Kitchen window.

  Death.

  Buddy went to the recliner in the far corner, facing the door. It wasn’t the RoboChair at The Center, but it served quite nicely. He sat.

  Something beckoned…

  Something was up with this program, and he felt he was close…

  Someone was misdirecting him, but it couldn’t last forever. He’d get through — find out what was going on — what had never “felt” right from the day he’d reported in to this unit, about a year and a half ago. He hadn’t wanted to bring any of the others in on any of this until he had better information.

  Someone was messing with things. Now he was picking up something about a kitchen window and death. And this felt strong — close. Real close. He had to track it. The feeling was quite insistent.

  Buddy smoothly reclined his seat back and closed his eyes. Already quite relaxed from his bedroom antics with Gina, he was under in no time, his hands and feet giving him that familiar expansive balloon feeling… his mental focus quickly departing the physical realm…

  2

  Ryan Dunham tossed about fitfully in bed. His partially opened windows allowed in an increasingly building storm’s winds. Branches scraped away at the outside of his apartment windows.

  “No… no… no, no — NO!”

  He shot upright in bed.

  “What?” he said, clearing his throat, shaking his head. “No…”

  He blinked several times, wiped at his eyes. Scanned the bedroom’s dark interior.

  “Windows… win—?”

  He looked to his windows. Listened to the scratching of the branches outside.

  Ryan hopped out of bed and came to the windows. He peered outside and angled himself to better see what branches scratched the outside of the building.

  “Huh,” he said, examining the glass and window frames, “what about windows?”

  More images.

  A reflection in a window… death.

  Something about knives…

  He backed up to the edge of his bed and sat, dropping his head into his hands, then rubbed his face.

  Exhausted. He was flat-out exhausted.

  The taskings at The Center had been nonstop the past month, and it was wearing them all out. Messing with their minds. All of them — Travis, Gina, Buddy, Cory, Ryan, and Lee. It was as if they could no longer tell fantasy from reality. Maybe “fantasy” was the wrong word — supernatural from the natural. As cool as some thought that might be — it wasn’t. In order to live and function in this world, one had to be focused within it. If you constantly questioned whether or not you were walking down a street, or being tossed out of an airplane — well, that presented problems. Or if you were driving your car and you kept slipping in and out of Psychic Land, you had issues — accidents.

  Images of a stabbing — in a bed…

  Ryan jumped to his feet and spun away from the bed. Plastered back against a corner, he stared at the bed; jumped to the wall switch and flicked it on.

  There was no one else in there with him.

  He was alone.

  He violently threw aside all the sheets and blankets… hurriedly went through them.

  There were no stabs marks, holes, blood — nothing.

  Ryan checked out the rest of his apartment, checked the deadbolt and flip lock, then returned to the bedroom. Flicking off the lights, he stared at the shadows that danced across the walls.

  Yeah… some thought it cool that others with the psychic gift could dip into other realms, and made movies and wrote books about it, but the reality of it was that it really messed you up. At least the way they were using it. When your whole day was consumed with peeking in on assassinations, kidnappings, intelligence gathering, and drug shit — and you couldn’t get those images out of your mind when you left work, or they assaulted you late at night — life took on a whole new tint, and it definitely wasn’t

  (pink)

  (red)

  rose-colored.

  Something wasn’t right, and he wasn’t able to bring it in, wasn’t able to focus on it at all.

  The images were—

  Ryan stared blankly into the dark, the storm wind hollering outside his window and walls.

  Images? What images?

  Again, he just stared blankly into the night.

  Hadn’t he just had a dream — a nightmare?

  Maybe not.

  Mind’s constantly fucked up. Who knew what they thought they thought…

  Yet a nagging feeling remained. A feeling that death was at his front door…

  Or somebody’s, anyway.

  3

  Grasping the arms of his recliner in a death grip, Buddy flung open his eyes — just in time to see a weapon pointed at his forehead and the explosion of white light that took away his life…

  Chapter Eight

  1

  Lizzie wandered down the aisles of Babies R Us, pushing one of their partially loaded shopping carts ahead of her. In it were several toys. She only wanted one, bu
t couldn’t make up her mind about which one, so brought all of her choices along with her as she roamed the aisles. What she really wanted to check out was something called an “Incrediblock,” but so far hadn’t found it. One would think a psychic wouldn’t have any such trouble…

  But, perhaps the real reason she couldn’t find what she was looking for — or make up her mind — was because she was consumed with Agent Black and his offer.

  No matter how she dissected it, something about him just wasn’t right, FBI or not. But every time she peeked into Black and his life, she found nothing — other than the line of work he was in, which she definitely picked up was government. But that was all… and it didn’t sit well with her. She wouldn’t feel this way for no reason… yet that was exactly what she was finding — nothing.

  Why would he have searched her out?

  For that matter, how did he even know her? Know about her?

  Short of cooperating with the law, agencies like hers never gave out their psychics’ real names. But, even beyond that, how and why would she ever stand out to anyone? She’d been very careful not to let too many know just how good she really was. Very careful. Sometimes intentionally not telling her clients anything at all, if it didn’t matter. You didn’t want to be too good. That attracted attention.

  So, how had Black found her… and why?

  Strange events had always been a part of her life, and she had, for the most part, grown accustomed to them, but

  (til death do us part)

  there was something downright scary — not right — about this man and what he’d proposed, and the fact that she couldn’t pick up anything on him… well, nothing like this had ever happened to her before, except for—

  Lizzie looked down to a little girl standing before her.

  “Hello,” Lizzie greeted.

  “Hello,” the freckled little redhead said. “Can you tell me where Hello Kitty is?”

  Lizzie smiled. “Of course, dear, I saw it two aisles over. That way,” she said, pointing.

  “Thanks, Mommy,” the girl said, cheerfully, and did a quick about-face. She sprinted off in the direction Lizzie had told her — then disappeared before turning the corner.