The Ripper of Blossom Valley

by S D Christopher

  Damn, the flood of memories was distracting me. I stopped paying attention to the game. Alright, time to get serious, back in the zone.

  Buzz! "Young Frankenstein." I steal a quick look at her, and her eyes narrow. The look on her face is as serious and focused as mine must be. No more flirting or even mercy. This is for the big bucks, a buttery roll with lobster meat stuffed inside, and some drawn butter, with fries. Total value: twenty dollars.

  Buzz! "Beautiful Girls." And bragging rights, of course.

  Buzz! "Dangerous Liaisons." And maybe her phone number.

  Buzz! "Being John Malkovich."

  Back and forth we go, each of us cursing the other under our breaths, each of our friends cheering us on. Most of the other patrons are pausing their meals or drinks to either see what the fuss is about, or possibly to mock us. Hard to tell. We pay them no mind.

  She's in the zone, too, I can tell. Our brains aren't even breaking a sweat at this point, the answers just coming to us in an instant, the only delay in how quickly our thumbs can catch up to our minds. It's like time has slowed down, and my mind is separate from my body, watching in admiration. Then, the flood returns.

  Eating some rocky road ice cream when I was eight. Hitting a single in a little league game when I was twelve. Skinning my knee on the playground when I was six. I recall the exact dates and all the little details, too, but I'm off to the next memory before I can dwell on any of it.

  All this time, I'm still answering questions, but with time slowing down around me, it's hard to tell if I'm keeping up, falling behind, or blowing her away. It's like I'm not even in my own body anymore.

  My body...my young, slightly less unfit, prepubescent body, getting slapped with a belt. Dad. This was his favorite method of punishment. I used to remember only the fear of getting hit with the belt. Now I recall getting beaten on a specific occasion. I had hurt my little sister Jeannie. Not on purpose. We were wrestling, and I didn't realize my own strength. I twisted her arm pretty badly, and she ran off crying to Mom. Then came Dad, yelling, unbuckling his belt, not enjoying the lashing, really, but getting some sort of satisfaction out of it. I couldn't sit or lie on my back for days. Cheers and groans snap me out of this particular sequence.

  As I become more aware of what's around me, I realize that Round Two has ended. I look at my friends, and they're a little shocked and confused. I look at Kate and her gang, and her friends are all smiles and high fives. She gives me a prodding look, a furrowed brow and head nod that says, "Bring it, fat boy. Don't hold back."

  I look over at the score, and I'm slightly behind. This marks the first time I've ever trailed anyone, ever, at the end of any round during Trivia Night. I turn to Becks. "I thought I was doing great. What happened?"

  She measures her response. "At first, you were flying, but then...it was weird, like you had this blank stare, you were slower buzzing in, answering in a different tone and cadence. I can't even really describe it."

  Annie chimes in. "And dude, you're sweating. Like, a lot."

  I look down, and she's right. I sweat badly enough under normal circumstances, but I'm drenched. How did I not even notice that? Weird. Anyway, no rest for the weary. Here comes Round Three. TV shows, my favorite and most knowledgeable category. There have been times when I've swept this round, not even letting my opponents buzz in. So yeah. I watch a lot of television.

  Kate and I pick up our buzzers, and our third opponent doesn't even bother. Now he's a spectator, too. He tried to ring in a few times early in Round Two, but he wasn't on the same level as me and Kate. Me and Kate. I like the sound of that.

  Now it's me not even giving Kate a chance to buzz in. She can't match the Vault's instant-lookup filing system, pulling up dossiers on ALF, Press Your Luck, and Fox Mulder with reckless abandon. I can tell she knows these answers. Any great trivia champion does. But each time, she needs to process the question for just a split-second longer than I do. I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar.

  I glance up quickly at the leaderboard, and can see I've already wiped away her lead, and have built up a small one of my own. But she battles back, ringing in on Gunsmoke, Laverne and The Prisoner. I should really see if she wants to watch TV together sometime.

  As we volley back and forth, each getting some nice streaks going, I feel myself slipping further and further back into the zone, but something feels different, not right. Another flood of memories comes back to me, and I try to ignore them, but it's tough. How can I focus on Sarah Michelle Gellar being on All My Children before Buffy when I'm engrossed by biting my fingernails while waiting for the doctor to call my name? This incredibly boring moment of my life is so lucid, I feel like I'm reliving it! Then things start to get weird.

  I begin recalling events that I shouldn't be able to. They say most people can't remember anything prior to when they're about three years old, but I vividly replay a tantrum from when I was two, because Mr. Rogers was over, and I didn't like The Electric Company. Then I go even further back, to walking on a playground and being pushed in a baby swing by my mom. I was seventeen months old. I relive eating solid food for the third time. It was mashed up bananas, and my mom was nervous, because she's allergic to them, and hoped I wouldn’t be.

  Then, the truly bizarre, breastfeeding as an infant, three months old. Why do so many of my memories on this journey revolve around food? Ok, now I wish I was thinking about food instead of this...childbirth is as gross as I imagined. I wonder if I'm the first person to re-witness his own birth. The smells sure are distinct.

  Then, nothing. Void. Well, I guess that calls it quits for reincarnation, and I'm a bit relieved I can't remember my brief time as a sperm and/or egg.

  Then I hear the moans. Oh no, not conception. Please don't let this be my parents doing it, creating me. Gross...no, doesn't sound like them. It sounds like...

  "Bob! Can you hear me?!?!"

  Just like that, I blink, look up, and realize that my circle of friends is, well, encircling me.

  "Are you ok?" I've never seen Becks look this concerned. Come to think of it, I've never seen any of them look this worried since Tom.

  "Yeah, I feel fine. Why?"

  Their expressions of alarm contort to that of disbelief, shock, exasperation, or anger. "You ass! You had us so worried we called 911!" Annie has a fire in her eyes, like I've played the cruelest trick imaginable.

  "Uh...why?"

  Chris fills me in. "Dude, you totally froze. Like, first you slowed down answering the questions, but after awhile, you were like in some kind of trance. We thought maybe you were having a stroke!"

  Jesus, my memory slip. Wait... "Did I win?"

  "Did y...did you win?!?!" Becks looks incredulous. In hindsight, that probably wasn't the first thing I should've asked. "Well, you're alive, so yeah, I think you won."

  I look up at the video monitor, and Kate crushed me. I look to her table, but she's not there, just her friends looking this way with a similar, albeit subdued, set of concerned faces. Pete backs away, and Kate steps in.

  "Sorry, Bobby. I didn't realize I'd make you catatonic. I'm glad you seem ok, but you should get checked out." I assure her I’m fine, much to the consternation of the gang that just called me an ambulance. She seems a bit relieved. "Good. I want you in tip top shape next month, so we can do this again and see who the real champ is."

  She kisses my bald forehead, and it's my new favorite memory.

  Chapter 10

  Madison

  It turns out having what most people would call "superpowers" has some downsides, too. They don't cover that so much in comic books or movies. It's all about the fantastic, the amazing, the incredible…with none of the shortcomings or disadvantages they bring.

  "Superman, for instance, would tear through objects because of his strength, not stop them in their tracks. Thanks to this thing called physics, this power would do far more harm than good. The momentum of trying to stop a metal airplane mid freefall, for instance, would cause his bare
hands to just slice right through it, killing many more people than he'd save."

  My brother Sam simply blinks as I continue.

  "And the Flash: he would need super speed in his brain in order to function well, or else he wouldn't be able to process visually what was around him as he ran, and then splat! He'd be squished like a grape running into some object he didn't see in time. His mind would need to be running at super speed just to keep up. But it would also incur the downside of perceiving the world in perpetual super slow motion. He'd be bored out of his skull most of the time, waiting for the rest of the world around him to catch up."

  This is what you talk about as a psychologist when your brother is a huge comic book nerd. Thanks, Sam.

  He just stares at me, incredulous, and shakes his head. "You just have to ruin everything don’t you? What you need, lil sis, is some good old-fashioned fun. Get out of that stuffy office of yours once in awhile."

  "Who has time?"

  "Everyone has time for a date here and there. Enjoy all the nightlife our fair city has to offer."

  If only he knew what I did at night.

  Or what I really knew about real life superpowers. Starting with my own.

  When I first discovered it, I managed to quickly get through the first two phases of my enlightenment, which I later called Confusion and Paranoia. Once I did, this mild-mannered psychotherapist followed anyone I was able to detect for as long as I could, whenever I felt the tingly sensation that's become familiar to me. After Paranoia gave way to Phase Three: Epiphany, I confirmed my theory that I was not being watched or followed, but rather was subconsciously sensing others like me.

  The first proof came when my footsteps alone caused my target to flee, before he could even see me. Further validation occurred when I knew I was tracking someone but couldn't spot her visually. It took some time to figure out she was blending in with her surroundings, camouflaged. Her case showed me that some of the people I detect don't just have enhanced senses, but instead can manipulate their own bodies in some way. They're both patients of mine now, after gaining their trust, but this took some time, having to track them down once Phase Four: Usefulness became a reality. Naturally, our sessions are free of charge.

  I haven't had any of my dozen special patients meet each other, or told them of the others that I'm tracking, who I suspect are using their gifts for more sinister purposes. All I've told some of them is that there are others like them, and when they're ready, I'm happy to have them meet. They're all too damaged at this point, though. They're only where I was during Paranoia, or worse.

  I'm one of the lucky ones, with my training in behavior analysis and mental process. Coupled with my sessions with Dr. Pearsall, I was able to avert the downward mental spiral that I see in my patients. I think I'm starting to break through with a few of them, especially those who knew me before I discovered their gifts. I am, though, waiting for the inevitable revelation of the downside of my own gift. Other than the initial feeling that I was being watched and followed, which I have since managed to suppress, nothing else has yet manifested.

  That is, except for putting myself in considerable danger with my nighttime antics, such as I plan on doing again this evening.

  ----------

  I have you now.

  Closing my eyes, focusing on each of the two targets, I confirm that I'm finally locked on. This is them, the two that I've seen and followed before, but have lost a few times, due to either a lapse in my concentration, or a scrambled signal from other...what do I even call us...Powered? Sensitives? No one's written a paper on us that I’ve been able to find, so I need to coin a better term before any derogatory names take root. Once people find out we exist, the slurs will surely proliferate.

  At long last, I'm getting better at this. Instead of having to camp for an hour or two where I think or hope they might show up, I'm beginning to feel them from further away, and I know for certain that it's them. My development and training would make a fascinating case study, if I ever dare tell anyone about it.

  I slowly follow this crooked cop and his companion, far enough behind for them not to notice, but not so far that I risk losing their signatures again. The first time I followed them purely out of curiosity, as I do with all my marks. They didn't put their skills on display. Once they went into that house, I didn't think anything of it, so I moved on to see who else I could find. The next evening, though, I saw that same house on the news. A girl had been killed, and I soon came to the horrific realization that the two people I followed had somehow, for some reason, used their enhanced senses to murder an innocent woman. Worse, I paid little attention to their appearance, due to my focus on trying to catch a glimpse of their more intangible qualities.

  I didn't know at the time that one of them was a police officer. That discovery came later, by accident. I didn't believe it at first, tried to convince myself that I was wrong. No cop would coldly execute someone. God, was I gullible.

  After tracking him on several occasions, there was no denying who he was. But who is she? And why is he helping her? He's risking an awful lot. Conversely, I could be mistaken. It's possible she's helping him, voluntarily or otherwise. I won't know the whole story unless I can catch them in the act.

  My big breakthrough should help in that regard. I've recently become able to identify specific individuals, and pick them out among others, instead of just feeling a faceless presence in a sea of bodies.

  The ability to pick up on some markers that make each of them unique allows me to target the subjects from a safe distance. That list is short but growing. Soon, I'll need some help keeping track of all the ones who worry me. But these two require my utmost attention at the moment.

  Now that I can reliably track them, I have a new dilemma: whether to approach them, or just take pictures of them entering a home and try to report them, evidence in hand. That's tricky, though, knowing one of them is a high-ranking detective. Who exactly would I report them to, and would they believe me without something more concrete? I know the men and women in blue are quite protective of each other, as they should be. But they should also be held accountable when they overstep their authority or use their power and public trust to benefit themselves.

  A handful of officers have been patients of mine, but I don't know any of them well enough outside of our sessions that I'd entrust them with something this big. Perhaps I can figure a way to contact Internal Affairs. That's their job, right? I had hoped sending him that letter might deter them, but something tells me it had little effect.

  A confrontation would be even less advisable than navigating those tricky waters, I've decided. Not only would I be outnumbered, but I don't know what they're capable of. Well, in a way I do. They've killed before, possibly more than once. I wouldn't exactly be helping anyone by dying, if it came to that.

  I don't know for certain what they're up to tonight. They lead me to a quiet neighborhood, but I still follow far behind; enough to sense their presence, but not close enough for them to see me.

  Shit! What if they can sense me, too, but from farther away than I can? They could be luring me in. I didn't think of that. I don't even know what they can actually do yet. Breathe, Maddy; as long as I keep my distance, I can always run. Unless one of them can run very fast. I feel Paranoia rearing its ugly head again.

  I sense another powered individual a few blocks away, but he or she won't make me lose focus this time. My attention span is better than it was at the beginning of Epiphany.

  Ok, they've slowed down now. I need to be extra careful. They may have gone inside a home or business, or they could be standing on a corner, or lying in wait to ambush me. I should really reconsider following them alone. Note to self: tomorrow I begin my search for a private investigator who wouldn't mind a psychotherapist tagging along on his job.

  After deducing that they're probably indoors now, as they haven't moved much for some time, I take a calculated risk and make my approach. As I reach the street they've se
ttled on, I slowly peek my head around the corner and scan the sidewalks. Sore thumb, stuck out. If they have better eyesight than my normal human stock, I'm done for. After the initial rush of adrenaline fades, I muster the courage to proceed down the block.

  So far, so good. They either can't detect me, or their trap is set and I'm walking right into it. I slowly reach the house they're holed up in. There's some light coming from inside, so I sneak around to the window giving off the most light. I take a deep breath, get my phone out, and peek inside.

  Nothing. Ok, so they're not in this room, a dining room from the look of it. I can tell they're close, but I don't know if I can pinpoint them within a few feet, or if I can even tell which floor they're on. My senses are a bit overloaded now, and I haven't had much chance to improve my location accuracy this finely. But I press on, around to the next window that might at least give me a decent look in.

  There's not much light coming from the dining room into this room, but I can tell it's the living area. But I don't see--Shit! She just stood up! I duck my head below the sill. Thankfully her back was turned. I'm not sure how much can be seen out the window from inside the house, but I'm not taking any chances. I double check that my phone's camera flash is disabled, and slowly bring it into view.

  Through the phone's camera screen, I see them both standing now, in profile compared to me, talking to each other. Perfect! I snap a few shots, almost giddy. The feeling doesn't last, though. As I pull the phone down and scan the shots, I realize that the low light means the pictures have come out quite fuzzy and pixelated. There's not enough detail to identify either of them, probably even for their closest friends or family.

  So much for all these megapixels they're always touting. Without a bright source of light, they're useless. Damnit, I knew I should've bought that professional camera. It's just a hobby, I said. Can't justify the cost, I said. Reason number thirty-seven to hire professional help.