Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  “You think we’re being watched — drugged?” Cory asked.

  “No,” Lee said, “I think it’s much more insidious than that.”

  “Agreed,” Gina said. “And it’s only been recently. Like in the past month or so… there’s things I’ve wanted to say, but didn’t know how to — or even if I — we — should.”

  “No place’s safe,” Ryan said.

  They all took sips from their drinks.

  “Something’s going on and it has to do with us, the job, or whoever’s running things. I’m not even sure if Rankin’s safe,” Gina said. She stared off into space blankly for a moment. Ryan elbowed her, and she snapped out of it, eating a handful of beer nuts as if nothing’d happened.

  “Agreed,” Lee said, nodding and eyeing Gina.

  “So… what do we do?” Ryan asked.

  Pensive in his response, Travis smiled and rose his drink before him. With a mischievous grin, he said, looking to each of them, “We do… what we do best.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  1

  Mel’s statement greatly bothered Lizzie.

  He knew or met Black?

  It was hard to get those thoughts out of her head as she worked to fulfill her 1-900-Psi-Kick obligations. Whether it was worrying about Mel, or her afternoon vision, Lizzie was, again, unable to do her job. To read people. She couldn’t fake it and never used Tarot cards, like other “psychic companies” did. Her ability simply wasn’t working, and this was quickly becoming a trend. She’d tried two callers — even made things up — but just couldn’t continue in this way. So what if she was wrong, she figured, no one really believed in the stuff anyway, even though she only made up good stuff — but still, it weighed heavily upon her. She’d hoped she could trick herself into getting into the groove, but it wasn’t working, and she ended up calling it quits for the night.

  And there had been more.

  She’d almost forgotten about them, but she’d had those Bravo Force operator visions again. And every time they intruded, subtle things changed in them. But, that family… it was like they were meant to die.

  Who were they?

  Why were they murdered?

  Vision or not, she kept coming back to what Mel had said.

  He might have already met him. He might even know him.

  Black.

  Why would Black have anything to do with a young kid, like Mel? What could possibly be the connection between them? Maybe she should call him—

  But, she’d never gotten his number.

  Was that right?

  He’d always called her.

  Had it had never come up during their conversations?

  Lizzie got up, almost tripped over some red, blue, and yellow wooden building blocks, and kicked them aside. Paced the living room.

  Black.

  He was obviously central to everything. He’d had contact with the both of them. Somehow, that had to make the three of them related, in some weird, scary way.

  She shuddered, clasping her arms into her chest.

  What could Black possibly want with a seventeen-year-old kid who’d just lost his parents, and a thirty-two-year-old psychic who’d lost her husband?

  She had to — somehow — contact Mel.

  Mel Roberts. She knew his name. Did he have a middle name? Did she know where he lived?

  Somewhere in the Midwest.

  That was all she knew?

  Christ, she didn’t even know his parents’ names! Wasn’t that just a little weird? What had they spent so much time talking about, for heaven’s sake?

  Lizzie sat down before her muted TV.

  Why’d she always leave this damned thing on for, anyway?

  You know why, Mommy, said the little girl who sat on the floor before her, playing with the wooden blocks. Why do you always worry so much?

  “It’s my nature, honey.”

  Do all adults worry so much?

  “Yes, many do.”

  Why?

  Lizzie folded her arms, frowning. “I don’t know. Because we’re insecure, I s’pose. Scared.”

  Oh, the little girl said, spelling out “Mel NMI Roberts” with the blocks on the floor. He’s a nice boy, isn’t he?

  Lizzie nodded. “Yes, he is, and I’m very worried about him.”

  Why don’t you go see him?

  “I can’t, honey,” Lizzie said, getting to her feet. “I don’t know where he lives!”, she said, gesturing frustratedly. “And I have this really bad feeling about things—”

  I thought that wasn’t working.

  The little girl now blocked out the name “Magic Man.”

  “Me, too. Interesting. Maybe I’m basing the feeling on what he said. He said he thought he met him. That scares me. He wouldn’t say something like that if it hadn’t actually happened.”

  He scares us, too.

  “Black” was now spelled out. Lizzie saw the name on the floor.

  “What do you know of him?”

  He’s trying to find us. Get rid of us. But we’re safe for now.

  “Murderer” was now spelled out.

  “Oh, my God. This is… none of this makes any sense. How—”

  You worry too much. Relax. Good night, Mommy.

  As she disappeared, Lizzie grimaced and was about to turn away, when she again saw the blocks. This time they spelled out “relax.”

  Lizzie toed the blocks. They moved, but still spelled “relax.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Lizzie sat back down on the couch, threw her head into her hands, then sat back and closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh.

  Relax.

  How?

  She was a psychic prodigy who’d suddenly lost all her super powers, had ghost children giving her advice, and a strange “man in black” following her — asking her to work for them.

  And why the hell hadn’t she ever asked Mel where he lived? His phone number?

  How could she have been so self-centered? Good God, what was her problem?

  It wasn’t like she could call the cops — all she had was Mel’s name and a mysterious man who she felt could easily cover his tracks.

  Would she really be able to bide her time and wait things out?

  Lizzie looked to the clock. It was only midnight. Legs running in place a million miles an hour, she deactivated the TV’s mute button. A commercial about peace flashed across the TV screen, which then returned to the movie, The Terminator. In less than an hour, Lizzie had nodded off into a troubled sleep, before the terrorizing cyborg killing machine and its glowing, red eye…

  2

  It was the sunlight boldly streaming in her windows that woke her. A Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea rerun played on the TV she’d left on. Lizzie shot a glance down to the floor. The word “relax” was still there, a couple of its letters knocked out of place from where she’d toed the blocks. Lizzie grunted and sat up; rubbed her eyes. Her stomach rumbling, she got up and made her way toward the bathroom, but diverted to the front window. It was another positively beautiful morning. Should she make breakfast or head outside for a walk? When was the last time she’d gone for an early morning stroll?

  Oh, yeah — Black.

  Damn him, he was still harassing her, if only through her own thoughts constantly gravitating to him.

  Lizzie watched the beautiful golden rays spray across the tops of the spruce trees. She left the window and hurried into the kitchen, grabbed an apple from the refrigerator, and filled a water bottle. She put her hair into a ponytail, threw on sweats, sneakers, a baseball cap, and sunglasses, and flew outside her trailer. She inhaled deeply of the cool morning mountain air, took a bite from her apple, and made her way out of the trailer park onto the back country road that skirted it. The sun’s disk was just clearing the treetops.

  Relax, the blocks had said, relax.

  Sure, in a perfect world… before Joe had been ripped away. Before reliving his death yesterday.

  Something inside her seemed to have chan
ged. Her abilities had deserted her.

  Why?

  And how was she going to handle her renewed angst… her fears about Mel — and, above all, why the hell was Black still on her mind? She’d already given him her answer, and he’d taken it… and maybe that was the problem. He’d taken it too easily. Why he really wanted her, she didn’t know, either, but he’d obviously put some serious time and effort into finding her. That scared her. She was a nobody… yet this government agent had put in all this time and energy to locate and track her down.

  Why?

  Finished with her apple, she flicked the core into a roadside bush, took another sip from her water bottle, and again looked to the sunrise.

  Absolutely stunning.

  It stopped her dead in her tracks.

  With so much beauty in the world, how could there be so much evil?

  Perhaps they balanced each other out on a global Zen level, but for now Lizzie was going to put — or try to, anyway — her problems behind her and complete the rest of her walk. In relative peace.

  Enjoy the sunrise…

  … easier said than done.

  Problems didn’t just go away when ignored.

  On top of everything, she’d tried to figure out some way to contact Mel. A total bust, of course. She had nothing, not even Caller ID (apparently it had been blocked). She’d stopped several times to clear her head, soak up the sunlight, and bathe her face in the sunrise’s glow… but thoughts of Joe (and everything else) nagged. Once or twice she even swore she’d felt Joe holding her hands.

  Finally, he seemed to be making himself known.

  If he’d decided to be with her, now, while she enjoyed the sunrise, then, better late than never.

  But there was Black.

  His face continually invading her warm fuzzies.

  She’d be all warm and cozy with thoughts of Joe, then — BAM! — in would pop Mr. FBI. Mr. Weird. Mr. Evil. Granted, it was easy to refocus back in on Joe and the glorious sunrise as it hung above the earth like a Biblical

  (Nostradamus)

  prophecy, but this — this man — always snuck back into her head.

  Why had her life taken such a bad turn? She used to be so fervent in her beliefs, so sure of them and her life. That life would take her where she needed to go, that good things would fall into place — which, for the most part, they had.

  It was Joe’s death that had thrown things upside down.

  Now, she asked herself, as the sun rose higher above the trees, what was she supposed to do?

  What was life about, now? Why was she where she was?

  There had to be more to life than met the eye, her livelihood was supposed to be proof enough of that, but, then, how could things go so terribly wrong with Joe’s passing? And it wasn’t even a case of looking at Joe’s death as “bad”—we all have to die sometime of something — but she felt there was something more to all this.

  And why now?

  Why did Joe have to go before her, and in the manner he did?

  Sheesh, die in your sleep, for Chrissake!

  She believed we all, on some level, pick our time of passing, and maybe that’s what bothered her the most.

  Why had Joe decided to leave like that?

  What could have possibly forced him into leaving when he had — and in the manner he’d chosen? Death wasn’t the end and she knew (or at least used to believe she knew…) that, but, dammit, why? She still felt him out there, in the afterlife, but if he was allowing her to feel him now, why wasn’t he giving her more to work with?

  Once or twice she’d even heard the ghostly laughter of her children as they milled about, as she walked this empty road, and had even seen a group of them up ahead, playfully skipping and laughing and tussling with each other. So, her abilities hadn’t totally deserted her. The children should have made her smile, but, truth be told, they only brought on another level of sadness and longing.

  Joe and her were supposed to have had children… but they’d found a problem, hadn’t they? She’d been tested… declared “unable to bear.” Wonderful. No kids for you, but, hey, let’s taunt you with visions of what you could have had, for the rest of your life…

  Lizzie entered the trailer park, head down

  Defeated. Trailer trash, that’s all she was.

  A widowed ex-psychic. Nothing more than Colorada double-wide trailer trash.

  So, why then did someone like Black need her? Why was she so damned important?

  Keys out, Lizzie looked up as she approached her trailer—

  Or what should have been her trailer.

  She stood before the structure that should have been her home.

  She looked about her.

  No… she hadn’t made any mistakes. This was the right spot.

  But where her trailer should have been… now stood a completely different one in both design and paint.

  In place of her trailer.

  Impossible. This was impossible!

  How could something like this happen?

  Lizzie spun around and again examined her street and the neighboring trailers.

  It was all right… all the other trailers she recognized were still there, the address was correct, but, where there ought to be her trailer, was a different one.

  Knowing how warped life could be, she still tried the lock.

  No go.

  The key didn’t fit.

  She stepped back, grimacing, hands on her hips.

  “What is going on here?”

  She again looked to the other trailers.

  “Okay, this makes absolutely no sense—”

  Lizzie scratched her head and looked back to what was supposed to be her home. Again tried the key. Still no-go.

  “What the—”

  A large hand slipped around her neck, cupped her mouth, and a body

  (Joe!)

  pressed up behind her.

  She swooned with excitement, tasted something sweet, but soon realized that the grip about her body was anything but pleasant, the hand cupping her mouth anything but amorous, and actually held a wad of material in it — material that smelled of ether and was forcefully shoved and held over her mouth and nose…

  3

  Victor Black quickly threw the slumped body of Lizzie Gordon over his shoulders and disappeared between and behind the trailers. A dark van sat idling, rear doors open. Quickly and well-practiced, Black deposited her unconscious form into it and closed the doors. He never looked back as he calmly entered the driver’s side of the vehicle, undid the brake, and pulled out from behind the trailers, forever leaving behind the rest of One Tree, Colorado’s trailer trash.

  Chapter Twenty

  1

  Mel awoke on the floor of a room totally white and, apparently, without doors or windows.

  He awoke to an extremely sore jaw, cheekbone, and left elbow, and lay within a dark puddle of what had to be his own blood; had a dried and crusty trail of same about his nose, mouth, and chin. His vision was cloudy — or merely overcome by the intense glare emanating from all surfaces of the totally empty room — which also brought on a spate of nauseating vertigo.

  “Where is he?” came an angry voice. “Where is he?”

  Mel shakily pushed himself upright.

  “Where is he?”

  Mel unsteadily got to his feet. His sense of balance was heavily impaired from the lack of solid, physical references. And glare.

  “Where’s who?” Mel asked, painfully working his jaw and shielding his squinting eyes. Both his elbow and face throbbed. Before he could ask anything else, he was struck hard from the left. Mel dropped like a sack of potatoes, and smashed his face into the blinding floor.

  Calmer now, the same disembodied voice again asked, “Where… is… he?”

  Mel opened his mouth, but the excruciating pain and the torrent of blood that freshly issued from his nose and mouth, mixed with a reissuing of snot and tears, made it all but impossible. His jaw felt broken.

  M
el looked up just as a barely discernible figure, covered head to toe in white, delivered a powerful kick to his stomach. The figure quickly retreated back into the white and glare. Mel lurched, more blood and snot ejecting from him and arcing its spray across the floor. He lay there, unable to move, staring into the ever-widening puddle of the only color in the room. Even his clothes were gone. He also wore a white — albeit blood-and-snot stained — overall of some kind, his hands, face, and feet exposed.

  Where was he and how had he gotten here?

  Something moved — flashed before him — and he felt a kick to his back. Kidneys.

  None of this could possibly be real. Had to be a nightmare!

  All he had to do was to outlast it all until he woke up… most probably on that downstairs couch before the TV. Maybe give Lizzie another call… Lizzie…

  He didn’t see the next kick coming, again delivered from behind, but, this time to his head. It shut down all the glare and light as neatly as if a light switch had been thrown…

  … the next thing Mel experienced was the pain of opening his eyes. He remained imprisoned in the same pristine white room — but found himself… standing.

  Yes… he vaguely remembered having been helped to his feet…

  He looked down. Barefoot and hunched over, he was barely able to hold himself in this way. Yet, he still stood in a puddle of red, his red. A puddle of red that was smeared across sections of his blinding white overalls; stray blood, he could barely make out in all the glare, was what had to be darkly scattered across the walls. Tentacles of pain speared and throbbed throughout his body in sickening waves, as he forced himself upright. Checking his mouth and jaw, he found his wounds fresh and flared pain when he worked his jaw too much. He couldn’t have been out more than a minute or two. His vision remained blurred and nauseatingly unsettled.

  All he wanted to do… was die.

  Mel coughed, and felt as if tiny knives lacerated his throat. He instantly doubled forward, back into that upright fetal position, and began to sob.

  What the hell had happened to his life?

  Two sets of hands reached out to him; gently supported him.

  He started, staggering backward a step, and almost slipped in the blood-and-vomit puddle when the hands stabilized him.