Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  “Layer cake.”

  “A layer cake — our layer cake — has many layers, and in between each layer are good-tastin fillins. We’re in between some of those layers, like the filling. Like raspberry? Banana?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “That may be, but banana or raspberry—”

  Travis shot up out of the chair. “This is insane! I’m outta here—”

  “You really wanna go back? Aren’t you even remotely curious, pardon the pun, about why this has happened — where you are? You really wanna go back unarmed and unprepared?”

  “Then quit jerking me around and get to the goddamned point.

  “Fair enough.” The Man With No Name nodded. “You are/were, indeed, between time. Time and consciousness, actually. I’ve kind of — how shall I put this?—spliced consciousness, and sort of… split you off from where you were and your points of reference for a ‘space’ of time, into mine. My ‘space.’ My point of reference, that is. By doing this, you have still not lost any so-called ‘time’ where you are, but are also where I am. An internal bi-location. You are, essentially, in two places at once, and no one’s the wiser, cept you and me.”

  “How’d you do this… why’d you do it?”

  “That’s the hard part. That scene you were viewing? You felt it, didn’t you?”

  “The Bravo Force operators?”

  “The tension?”

  “You bet I did.”

  “That was me. I’m interrupting something that was going on — trying to go on. I’ll explain as simply as I can.

  “There are things going on back there at that compound of yours that are upsetting realities. When you interrogated your superior on your friend’s departure, you placed him in quite the bind. He was given specific direction not to talk nor acknowledge anything about Buddy, and was told that he better believe it if he wanted to keep on breathin. But even more to the quick, he was suddenly caught in a reality-confusing situation. He swore that he’d dreamed this all up and had actually begun to question whether or not it had really been a dream at all — or if he was dreaming then, in your ‘now’—when you confronted him. But he also had that directive still floatin around in the back of his mind — the ‘you better believe this or die’ directive, and didn’t know if that had also been a dream or a real directive — but it felt real to him, and all while he felt he was dreamin. He felt it had actually been told to him by your Mr. Black. And, as we all know, everyone’s afraid of that guy.”

  Travis remained silent. Looked out into the blackness.

  “So, what had happened was that he couldn’t answer your question on any grounds. He couldn’t even acknowledge your queries with an answer, for to do so would put him at risk, and if it was a dream, and he questioned it, he still acknowledged your Buddy, which would still put him at risk. But if it was a dream then none of this was real to begin with, so, his action were the lesser of all evils for him, and he simply remained silent, hoping you never pressed the issue — which you didn’t. But the really weird part will be when you return… you won’t remember a thing about Buddy. It’s part of your tasking.”

  “What?” Travis thudded his chair back down to the porch.

  “Not many people are capable of noticing these, but we all have weird little warps that happen to us every day. Things changin… then are taken for granted without our notice. We take on the accepted changes without question, because they’ve insidiously become part of our lives, our realities… our accepted realities… and to do otherwise, to question, wouldn’t make sense to us.”

  Travis blinked.

  “Again, use your psychic experience to bear with me on this. Do you see that as we all go through life, we take different paths? That each and every decision we make changes our direction — the paths — we take?”

  Travis nodded.

  “Well, it’s the same kind of thing that goes on nonphysically, beneath and between the surfaces of our lives, in the background. I won’t go into what or how it happens, just now, but throughout the days and years and minutes things… change… and we never notice. That is, most of us never do. We go right on with our lives as if the changed events have always been a part of our lives, when, in reality, they haven’t; they’d literally changed that instant.”

  “‘That’s nuts’… I was going to say,” Travis said, “until I remembered… when I was a kid, I grew up out in the country. We lived on a small farm. Had gardens. So, my dad had me rototilling those gardens, and I loved doing that — especially as a young kid — doing work I associated with my dad. He’d taught me how to use it, and it was one of the chores I actually enjoyed doing. And I remember how neat it was to churn up all that dirt and make it silky smooth-looking and ‘fluffy.’ But a couple years ago, I was talking with him and talked about how I used to do this, and he swore up and down that he had never — ever — let me or showed me how to rototill. At first I thought he was fooling around, but I soon realized he’d been dead serious. In fact, he started to get kinda pissed about it when I pressed the issue. I began to wonder if he was just losing his memory — I mean, I remember doing this like it was yesterday. Then, a couple years later, he totally agreed with me.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Travis sat, pensively. “And there was this other time… there’s this town in Australia — Woomera. All my life, I swear it was placed on maps way out in the very center of the country, in a No-Man’s land, the Gibson Desert, I think it’s called. Well, about a year ago, I was talking to someone about it, and this person told me it was just north of Adelaide, above Spencer Gulf, on the coast. I said, no way — but this person had actually been there. So we pulled out a map, and—”

  “It was where your friend said it was, wasn’t it?”

  “How do you argue with something like that? With facts?”

  “Facts change.”

  “But how? How can that be? Facts are facts, because, well, they’re facts.”

  The Man With No Name stared at him.

  “Facts aren’t supposed to change! That’s the whole damned point!” “Everything changes, friend, but, as I said, there are those of us who notice some of these changes, while most never do. Like Buddy. When you get home, he will never have been. And you will no longer remember him. It was part of your tasking. All the rest of it was obfuscation.”

  “How can someone make someone else so totally disappear that no one — I mean no one — is the wiser? Who has that kind of power?”

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  The Man With No Name stood before the railing, set down his iced tea, and stared out into the night.

  “All I can tell you — now — Travis, is that we’re gonna meet again; you’re not alone.” He turned around. “You, and others like you at The Center, are noticing strangeness afoot, because something is going on. You don’t know what to do about it, or what it’s all about, but you feel it, smell it. You just can’t put your finger on it. And you all know Black’s behind it. It’s a largely unconscious issue, but that’s where I come in. My associates. We’re here to help. Take control.”

  “Control of what?”

  “Black. He’s experimenting on all of you. Trying to change reality, at least as far as you and the rest of humanity understand it. And he’s using you guys and gals as his unwitting tools. He’s switching out official task orders with his own set… but I keep interfering… and it’s pissing him off. To my extreme amusement, I must say,” the Man With No Name said, grinning. “He just doesn’t have a clue — well, that’s not entirely true, either.”

  “He knows?”

  “I’ve been tracking him for a long time. He can’t figure out who is messin around with him, but he knows someone is. He’s trying to hunt me down… thinks he’s gotten close—”

  “Has he?”

  “In a manner of speaking… he’s closer than he realizes. And there’s so much more at stake than even he realizes. But on the other hand, it’s not as
big a deal as he thinks.”

  “Why is everything out of your mouth a contradiction?”

  “It’s the only way to fully communicate the issues. We have to use words, however limited in this environment, and this is their inner translation. But, it’s time to return you to your world—”

  “I thought we were outside of time?”

  “It’s not so much about ‘Time,’ as intensities.”

  “Okay…”

  “And you won’t remember any of this.”

  “How won’t I?”

  “I’m working at such an obtuse angle to your consciousness, I’m not in an area that’ll be readily available to you. Okay, maybe some will bleed through, but — for the most part — as I’ve mentioned, I’m operating outside normal perceptions, even psychic ones. It’s for your own good. Black has a knack of seeing through the best of you… hence, Buddy. But, as I started to say, there are more of you — not only at The Center — but elsewhere. I’m merely initiating contact… laying the foundation for our mission to put an end to Black and his efforts. I may be sarcastic and flippant in my delivery of this stuff, but this is deadly serious business.”

  The Man With No Name raised his glass before him, saluting Travis, then took a sip.

  “The less you and the others know,” the Man With No Name continued, “the better. Right now he’s paranoid of his own shadow. I wanna keep it that way. But, let’s get you back to where you belong, shall we?”

  Travis cast him a sidelong glance. “Just keep me from getting killed, and we’ll call it even. And—”

  2

  “… did I say they’re feeling confused… as if something’s clouding their minds, their judgment?” Travis asked the monitor.

  “Yes,” the monitor said flatly. “Is there anything else?”

  Travis paused. An indistinct déjà vu overcame him.

  “There’s a great stress running among them, and—”

  Travis was knocked out of the session, eyes open and stunned.

  “Wow.”

  “What happened?” the monitor asked.

  “I don’t know… it was like I couldn’t get past something — whatever ‘it’ was — it was kind of magnetic, like two opposing magnets. Knocked me right out of the session. That’s exactly how it felt, like an intense magnetic — repelling — force. Never experienced anything like that before.”

  The monitor scribbled away on his notepad.

  “Let me back in. I wanna give it another go—”

  The monitor didn’t look up as he continued scribbling. “No… not for now. That’ll be all. We’ll get back to you.” The monitor stood and abruptly exited the room.

  Travis knew better. No one ever got back to them. They were constantly left in the dark, but they were all used to that by now, and expected no less. It was all part of the game. If they hadn’t been producing, they’d have been out of business a long time ago. Since they were all still employed, they all assumed they were doing something right.

  Stone-faced, Travis followed the monitor out.

  3

  Lizzie closed the door behind her and was immediately overcome by tears. Setting down the children’s books, she allowed herself to look about the small room she only rarely visited. Looked to all the scattered children’s toys across the floor that appeared as if they’d all just been played with… to all the children’s drawings taped up on the walls. To the hobby horse in the corner.

  It’s okay to cry, the little girl’s voice whispered.

  “I know, honey, but it’s getting too painful.”

  Why?

  “Because these things bring back to us — me — the way things were… can never be again. At least not in this life. It brings up all the possibilities we’d hoped to change… but couldn’t. I never thought it’d be so hard. It’s difficult to explain.”

  Lizzie wiped her eyes and went to a crayon drawing on the far wall. It showed the stick figures of a man and woman holding hands, standing amongst the many smaller stick figures of children. A yellow crayon-sun shone above, with thick green crayon-grass at their feet. One of the large stick figures had long hair, symbolized by large “S” curls to either side of its less-than-perfect-circle head. Beneath the entire scene were the words “We love you!” written in multicolored, upper-and-lower-cased, unmatched, crayon-letters.

  We’re sorry you’re crying. We wish we could make you stop, the little-girl voice said.

  “It’s okay, I’ll get over it soon enough. It’s just hard coming in here anymore. I just don’t understand… all this. Why things happened the way they did…”

  Everything’ll be all right, Mommy, you’ll see.

  Lizzie again wiped her nose. “I’m not so sure anymore, honey.”

  4

  Kennedy lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He shot up in bed and looked to the Victorian chair in a corner of his bedroom. The silhouette of a man sat in it.

  Kennedy went for the .357 in the nightstand drawer.

  “It’s only me, Mister President — nothing to worry about.”

  Kennedy paused. Squinted. That voice was familiar… extremely familiar… and hit a deep place within him.

  The silhouetted man continued, “From the White House Rose Garden, back in ’62? Pressed white shirt, whacky Dalmatian-spotted tie? Gave you the idea for you-know-what?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry, this is all a dream.”

  “A dream?”

  “Things are getting out of hand, sir.”

  “I, ah, remember, now… yes… the Rose Garden. Who are you?”

  The silhouetted man sent a short burst of images through Kennedy’s mind, images of wars and philosophies, men and women. A house that didn’t exist in upstate New York.

  Kennedy reeled. “What the hell?”

  “Let’s just keep matters simple and say I don’t have an identity. Safer for all involved. You know who I am.”

  “I do,” Kennedy said, sitting up and adjusting his back against the headboard. “What’s, ah, gotten out of hand?”

  “This mutual acquaintance of ours.” The Man With No Name sent Black’s image to Kennedy. “He’s stirring things up again.”

  “That’s nothing new, but how do you know him?”

  “It’s complicated. I know there’s no love lost between you two, but I don’t mean to be taking up all your time with small talk, Mister President. I’ve come because things are not working themselves out fast enough for my liking, and you’re growing more troubled about how to handle him. I may have a solution. One you can live with. It’s not immediate, and aspects of it may yet change, but you won’t have to take him out and can look at yourself in the mirror in the morning.”

  “I’m listening.”

  5

  Lizzie Parker and Joe Gordon had met when Lizzie was twenty-eight and Joe twenty-seven. Joe had only been in construction a couple years and hadn’t yet established his own business. They’d both met at Lake Dillon, in Colorado’s Summit County, during the spring of 1989—just like Lizzie knew they would. She’d first seen it in a dream a year before, seen it multiple times since, and it had been pure hell trying to be patient for that day to arrive. She hadn’t been one to frequent Summit County, and wasn’t sure if she really ever would… if it hadn’t been for her dreams. She’d made one or two trips up during that year, not really expecting to find her husband-to-be, she kept telling herself, but was impatient, pure and simple, and was hoping she could speed things along a bit. Of course, that didn’t happen.

  She had been leisurely window shopping the day they were meant to meet, when she’d seen him walk out of Bentley’s Restaurant. He’d left the restaurant and had turned away from her, heading back to the jobsite — and had never even noticed her. Aghast — he hadn’t even looked at her!—she launched after him. She hadn’t known what she was going to do or say, but had decided to let Fate and faith take over. As she closed the gap bet
ween the two of them, Joe had reached around to his rear pocket and found his wallet missing. It was then he’d hit the brakes and did an abrupt about face — right into the oncoming train of Lizzie Parker. Struck all but dumb, Lizzie now faced the situation of literally being face-to-face with the man of her dreams… dumbstruck. Joe still had his right hand on his rear pocket, thinking “wallet,” and Lizzie had had her hands up in a knot before her, not thinking at all. The two had just stared at each other, as Lizzie realized she’d held her knotted-up hands pressed tightly against the man’s fairly firm abs, braced for their collision.

  Romancing took over, and the two began their courtship.

  It hadn’t been long before Joe had confessed to Lizzie that he’d also dreamed of her. He’d had several dreams in which he’d been walking away from the very same restaurant, turning around, then literally running into her. Everything was the same except he didn’t have her name.

  Lizzie unafraid of who she was, never blinked when she told him of her abilities, and how she’d also seen how they’d meet. Joe, who never gave much thought to dreams nor the paranormal, hadn’t minded that his future wife was psychic and actually became quite proud of her ability. It came in quite handy when he’d asked her if she thought he should stay with his present company or move on. With whom he should or shouldn’t trust when starting his own company, where to buy a house, that kind of thing. The only thing it hadn’t been any kind of handy in had been in the hiring of Jeff Skopchek.

  After moving to One Tree, Colorado, a friend-of-a-friend had approached Joe after work one long summer’s day and asked if he could use another hand. This friend-of-a-friend had said Jeff was basically a good guy, but had been going through a rough patch. This friend-of-a-friend and Jeff had worked together for years in construction and he swore Jeff was an able-bodied hand. Jeff could really use the work, and really needed the money — he was going through a divorce. So, without consulting Lizzie, Joe thought he’d do a friend-of-a-friend a favor. Jeff really was likable enough, got along great with the rest of the crew, knew his trade — and was a skilled crane operator, which Joe needed. He did solid work, but when it came to women… this was Jeff’s Achilles’ Heel. He could never keep his eyes or hands to himself, which was what had brought about the divorce. He claimed to still love his wife — yeah, he wasn’t perfect, but he’d explained to Joe one night after work that he just couldn’t help himself and didn’t know what to do about it. He used to think that if his wife hadn’t settled into marital complacency that that would have been half the battle. But she was no longer the woman he’d married, claimed she was no longer interested in him, but nonetheless kept checking up on him when he had to stay late on jobs. The list just went on and on, he said. So, when other women gave him the time of day, “let’s just say,” Jeff told Joe, “it wasn’t hard talking back.” And there had been the excitement of it all. Before Jeffy knew what was going on, he’d been in… deep.