“That’s why I’m here, honey. I wanted to talk with you, too. I really did sense something was wrong, but, for some strange reason, couldn’t get much. I’m kind of tired right now, so I’m not operating on all cylinders, but I am willing to talk, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
5
Jack Kennedy sat before the four members of his executive council. Was he crazy? Here was a seventy-seven-year-old man who’d hopped a jet to Boston, then found himself sitting before his executive board — all on the whim and fancy of what… a dream? He’d had the fates of nations resting in his hands, and now look what he was doing — following the apparent whims of pure fancy. Just what the hell had possessed him to make this trip? The members were sure to have him removed from the board, if not, committed.
“Well, Jack,” Paul Stanford said, across the table from him as he sipped his latté. “You going to tell us why you’ve called us together on such short notice? I have beach plans, you know.” Paul and the others chuckled.
Jack also chuckled, looking down to his spotted hands. Hands that had shaken the most powerful hands in the world, carved a rescue message in a remote island coconut, and delicately traced the outline of his now-deceased wife’s loving face. Now he was fidgeting and unsure of himself.
“My, ah, apologies… I think I’ve made a grave errah—”
When Kennedy next looked up, however, he found everyone staring at him, wide-eyed. But upon second take, saw they actually stared past him.
Turning, Kennedy saw them.
The two of them stared back at him in the most understanding of ways that cut to the very quick of his soul. Once he saw them, he knew this had, indeed, been the right thing to do.
Behind former President Kennedy, and before the rest of the four-member board, stood two children — a boy and a girl, dressed like any other children of their age. They appeared to be five or six years of age, but both appeared far more intelligent… and aware… than the average five or six year old. They stared back at everyone, as if they were expected to be where they were, doing exactly what they were doing. Kennedy looked back to his board members and found, much to his surprise, that they were all smiling. He turned back to the two children, who were now looking directly at him.
“Hello,” Kennedy said. “It appeeuhs we’ve been awaiting your arrival.”
“We know,” the girl said, sweetly. “And we, you.”
Chapter Fourteen
1
Travis awoke, instantly alert.
Lying on his side and only moving his eyes, he scanned the darkness of his bedroom.
He wasn’t alone.
Someone — something — was in the room with him. He could feel it.
As he scanned the darkness, his gaze came to rest at a far corner, by the window. He squinted. Gradually, a tall, extra-dark outline came into indistinct focus. Travis blinked; tried to refocus on the corner again, but the silhouette was gone — if it had ever really been there in the first place. Kneading the ridge over his eyes, he turned onto his back. Man, he was getting paranoid—
“You’re fucked, and you better not forget it,” an angry voice said.
Travis leapt out of bed like a firecracker, fists flying. His swings connected with air, air, and air. He rushed to the wall switch and flicked it on.
He stood there, alone and in his skivvies, blood pounding in his ears.
The bedroom was empty.
He checked the closet… underneath the bed.
Nothing.
He grabbed a baseball bat from the closet. His breathing rapid and shallow, he darted about the rest of the house, flicking on all the lights as he went.
Still nothing.
Tired, and coming down from his adrenaline high, he collapsed onto the living-room couch.
That hadn’t been just any voice he’d heard. There had been a specific energy to it.
Black.
Things around or about that guy didn’t just happen for no reason, and he was absolutely the last person you ever wanted to visit you — in dreams or otherwise. The first time he’d met him had been at The Center several years ago. He’d felt Black’s penetrating gaze burning a hole through his soul like a laser before he’d even turned around to actually see him. As he was introduced to him and shook his hand, he couldn’t help but wonder how many people he’d killed. His forced smiles were disarmingly unnerving, unnatural, and he always felt as if Black had already known the answers to every question he’d asked of anyone. And that was before Travis’d been trained as a psychic spy.
Oh, yeah, he was fucked.
2
Lizzie dreamed of blue and gray and blood and gore.
In her dream, a battalion of Civil War Federals were yelling and charging and rattling down a decline into Confederate forces.
As she watched the charge, her focus zoomed in on one soldierin-blue, in particular. She didn’t recognize the face, though she knew the essence of the man behind it. There was also another, a Confederate soldier, who stole her attention. A shudder ran through her. He, too, may have been wearing different skin, different clothes, and a different face, but she also knew him for who he was.
Victor Black.
Lizzie “pulled back” to observe the battle. The Federal charge rammed into Confederate lines, and the two men actually recognized each other’s presence, though neither understood what or how they felt what they felt.
Lizzie also saw, in curious disbelief, a girl and boy, both about six, parachuting in under a full-moon night sky, though the battle took place in broad daylight. The girl and boy landed and observed the battle from the treeline at the edge of the field. She attempted to zoom in on them, but her attention was forcibly brought back to the first soldier she’d observed. Now in the thick of hand-to-hand combat, he was bayoneting a man who’d once killed him on another battlefield, centuries past, on far-away soil. They’d both worn armor then. His current opponent had worn the armor of the Roman army, while he’d worn that of barbarian leather. Lizzie returned to the current battle, and found this man to be John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The one-who-would-be-called JFK knew he was on a mission on this battlefield, knew there was something he was supposed to do, though he couldn’t clarify it. He had other things presently occupying his full attention — like not getting killed.
Lizzie fast-forwarded to the next important moment during the battle, and saw the Civil War Black swinging around a busted-up musket in the hand-to-hand mêlée. Behind him was the JFK persona, still using his bayoneted musket — which had just been knocked from his hands. JFK sidestepped the attack and immediately lunged for his attacker with his bare hands, grabbing him by the throat. JFK channeled all his hate and fear and anger into killing this man — and broke his neck. Ducking another miscellaneous swing of weaponry, he picked up his musket, and turned — and came face to face with Black, also covered in blood and grime, also with his broken weapon poised before him. They stared at each other. Neither had ever before lain eyes on the other until this moment — in that life, that battle — but both had known they’d been searching each other out an entire lifetime. Or two. Unconsciously, both shared dreams each’d had of each other… of this battle, this place… of other times and other bodies, but always… them.
Before Black could react, JFK broke free from his trance first. Black was too far away for JFK to lunge after him with his rifle bayonet, so he shot a hand to a scabbard and withdrew a knife. In a blink of an eye, he flicked the blade at Black, who’d expertly caught it in his upper left chest. Black lunged for JFK, but before he could make contact, another soldier unintentionally intercepted Black’s path, and Black’s musket ended up hitting him instead. Black and JFK attempted to re-engage, but scores of fighting bodies quickly pressed in around them, and both had to deal with other attackers…
They would meet again, Lizzie knew. Had already.
Lizzie looked up to the contradictory full-moon night and sunny sky — and was pulled from the dream.
3
Travis hadn’t been able to sleep once he’d gone back to bed, and hadn’t been able to put aside the disembodied-voice incident. Somehow, he felt, it hadn’t been a nightmare at all. Someone had been there, he was certain of it — and Black had been known to dabble in remote viewing himself, but it had been years.
Granted, dreams weren’t in the technical sense remote viewing, but how far off were they, really? And what about RV projection? Like out-of-body projections? When Travis’d tried to zero in on the incident, all he got were weird sensations… like tasting color, hearing sight.
He looked to the clock (five a.m.) and decided to stay up and get in his morning run a little early. Dressed and ready to go, he grabbed his keys as he headed out the door, and again glanced at the time.
Four a.m.
Travis slammed to a stop, staring at the clock.
Four a.m.?
He went to the kitchen clock, then looked to his watch — to the curtained window. Dark.
Four a.m.—to be sure.
Okay, weird, but not entirely unheard of. This was one of his own, what he called, “Freaky Shit” experiences and it happened to all of his group from time to time, more often than any of them preferred. It came with the psychic territory they frequented. It wasn’t just about time, there were other instances of Freaky Shit, everything from extremely elevated levels of déjà vu, to spontaneous and conscious out-of-body experiences, and usually, of course, at the most inappropriate of times. One classified report described one remote viewer as having had a spontaneous out-of-body projection while driving on the D.C. area Beltway. That remote viewer had died from injuries she’d sustained from the subsequent traffic accident she’d caused.
Not a big deal, Travis decided to continue with his run, anyway — which went uneventfully — but when he’d returned and cleaned up, the weird feelings returned, and he still hadn’t quite felt “all there.” Time continued to feel simultaneously elongated and compressed. He just wasn’t quite synching up with reality. He didn’t know if his nightmare had caused everything, or if the phenomenon itself had caused the nightmare. Whatever it was, it wasn’t correcting itself. Things should have righted by now, especially with the run and focusing on things-physical. Though this was nothing new to him, the art and skill was in going along with things until they played themselves out — until you “reacclimatized” back into your current reality. Things always returned to normal — as long as you didn’t kill yourself in a car crash — and it was weird that his reacclimatization was taking so long, but perhaps it was precisely because he was outside of the “time” he needed for things to take, for things to dampen back out and return to current reality, that things seemed so long in coming…
Travis cleaned up and left the house. A handful of miles down the road he pulled into Becky’s Place, a local restaurant that served the best blueberry pancakes in Virginia. Becky McAllister, who owned and operated the restaurant, usually opened around six, but it was only five-forty. There were no customer vehicles parked in the parking lot, and though lights were on inside the restaurant, the “We Ain’t Here” sign was still up. Travis pulled up into a slot directly before the entrance, and shut off the engine. Rubbing his eyes, he again mused at his timing. He’d sworn it was much closer to six. Placing his head back against the headrest, he again recalled the nightmare-shadow in his bedroom, and tilted his face to better see the early morning rays of the sun, as they began to peek up and over a nearby ridge. He closed his eyes. The sound of quiet was beautiful… the distant, quiet roar of early morning wind across the tops of acres and acres of hard and softwoods… the smells of cooking… the laughter of children…
Travis opened his eyes.
The parking lot was filled with cars and trucks, even two eighteen wheelers sat purring at the far end of the parking lot. He shot a glance to his watch.
Six-fifteen.
“Damn it.”
Travis clambered out of the Jeep and made his way into the restaurant. Several patrons looked up as he entered. He nodded back to them.
“Morning, Trav,” Edna, one of the two servers, greeted. Travis took a seat at a booth. As he looked toward the door, he saw two kids enter the place by themselves, casting him long glances.
When he blinked… they were gone.
Edna came over with a menu and a much-needed cup of coffee.
“Here ya go, hero. How ya doin this morning?”
“Not all there, ’mfraid.” He picked up the coffee. “I really need this.”
Travis took a sip, picked up the menu, and winced behind it, out of sight from Edna.
What the hell was the matter with him?
Two other patrons entered the restaurant.
“So… will it be the usual — or you need more time?”
Travis put down the menu. “I really don’t know why I even bother to look at this thing anymore,” he said. “Sure, usual, please.”
Edna scribbled on her ticket. “One order of Blueberry Mountain, three eggs scrambled, no toast. You got it,” she said, and departed.
Travis kicked back, took another sip of coffee, and acknowledged a wave from Becky herself, back behind the counter, busy with breakfast orders.
“Hey, Trav, great to see you!” Buddy LaRouque said, as he took up the booth seat across from him.
Travis shot up from his seat, but his legs rammed into the table’s edge, forcing him back down and upsetting his table’s contents — namely knocking over the sugar container.
“What the hell?” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘What the hell?’” Buddy LaRouque said, grinning.
Confused, but all smiles, Travis reached out across to shake—
Nothing.
No Buddy LaRouque nowhere. No Buddy LaRouque hand to shake. All there was, was air — and lots of it — and Travis Norton reaching out across an empty table to shake a nonexistent hand.
Travis stared at his hand. Brought it up before him. Saw Edna and some others looking to him from all the racket he’d caused slamming into the table. He smiled embarrassedly to no one in particular, shook his head, and had another sip of coffee.
Okay, he thought, that was weird. Nothing like that had ever happened bef—
He closed his eyes tight, then again looked up… and again… Buddy LaRouque sitting directly across the table from him, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“Hey, bud,” Buddy said, “what’s up, eh? You’re supposed to be government trained, roll with this, would ya?”
Buddy’s hand was still extended.
Flabbergasted, again the reflexes and instincts kicked in, because he saw — thought he saw, swore he saw — Buddy LaRouque sitting across from him, hand extended in a continued gesture of greeting. Human-American protocol dictated immediate extension of your own hand in return. So that’s what he did, but as he reached out to shake hands, the image again disappeared, and Travis was once more left holding his hand out before him like an idiot.
“You okay, hero?” Edna asked, returning with his breakfast. She stood beside him, holding his order and ticket. Stood the sugar container back on its base and rearranged the jelly holder.
Travis looked up.
Where the hell was he?
What was he doing, and who was this?
“Um, sorry — I really don’t… Edna?” He shook his head. “Sorry,” he continued, “I’m having kind of a rough start.”
Edna looked him over. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you look fine.” Then she cast a quick look to the rest of the room. “Can I ask a question, though?” she asked in a hushed tone, placing his food before him.
Travis massaged his brow, looking down at the table. Without looking up, he said, “Sure.”
“We were all wondering,” she said, clasping her hands together before her, “why do you keep reaching out in front of you? Should we be worried?�
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Travis peered up from behind massaging fingers to her — past her to the rest of the customers, some of whom looked away as he made eye contact.
“No… I think…”
He glanced down to his plate, and saw his food partially eaten, and that he’d now — apparently — held a fork with pancake on it, ready for an apparent return-trip to his mouth. He smacked his lips together and tasted maple syrup and pancake. Smelled the rich maple syrup and pancake aroma coming up from the table before him, and even saw how he’d pushed off the butter to one side of the plate. There was even less coffee in his coffee cup. Yup, coffee taste was in there, too.
“Spasms.”
“Excuse me?”
“Muscle spasms,” Travis repeated. “I’m having really bad ones this morning. You know, like leg or eye twitches? I’ve always been prone to them,” he lied, “but sometimes — like now — they get out of control, but thanks for asking.”
Edna narrowed her gaze. “Never seen anything like that before…”
Edna turned to leave, then quickly returned to him. Eyeballed him. “You sure you’re all right?”
Travis dropped his pancake-laden fork to his plate and smiled, reaching out to her. At least she was real.
“Really. I’m fine. But, thank you for your concern,” he said.
Edna smiled, squeezed his hand, and cautiously moved on, occasionally glancing back in his direction as she worked her way across the restaurant.
Travis looked down to his partially eaten breakfast. Pancakes and eggs. Something was obviously and severely weird. Why was he seeing Buddy LaRouque sitting before him when he really wasn’t there?
Or was he?
In fact—
Travis froze.
In fact what? What was it about Buddy?
Was there “anything” about him? Where’d he been? Didn’t they normally have breakfast together, or…
Or what?
Nothing was making sense. Only that—
Without looking up, Travis saw a hand reach out from across the table and to his plate. In the hand was a down-turned fork. Buddy LaRouque was again sitting before him, only this time cutting off a piece of his pancake. Travis stole side glances to his unintended audience.
Psychic Page 15
