Killer Geezer

by T. Jackson King

  The mugger grinned sourly. “I warned you.” He lunged toward me, the knife aiming for my chest.

  Mentally I thought of the wind pushing him away, like I’d pushed away Juarez. My hands moved forward but did not contact him.

  Teen mugger smashed back against the stucco wall, the stringy black hair of his head flying to either side.

  “Thunk!”

  Like Juarez the mugger lost consciousness from the impact. Which like this morning left a deep imprint of his head and body in the stucco. The mugger slumped to the ground. The knife lay in one open hand. The purse fell from his other hand.

  I bent down, grabbed the purse and turned to the woman. “Let me help you up.”

  She looked relieved, then puzzled as she saw the mugger’s imprint on the stucco wall. As her right hand gripped my hand, she braced herself against the side of her car and pushed as I pulled her up. Her weight felt like nothing. Was strength something that went with psychic powers? Shaking my head, I noticed her green brocade dress had brown dirt spots on its lower edge. A few pebbles fell from her knees, which were scraped red. She stared at me as she regained her balance, then accepted her purse.

  “Thank you, good sir. That was, that was—” she looked past me at the stucco wall “—you must be terribly strong to have pushed him that hard. And he had a knife!”

  Giving thanks my play acting had worked with her, I looked to the rear toward the Railyard, saw no one coming from there. Nor was anyone coming up the alley access to the lot. And no new cars were pulling into the lot. Perfect. I smiled at her, then half-turned to leave.

  “Glad I could help. So sorry you got your knees scraped. Do I need to call someone to get you somewhere?” I pulled out my Kyocera flip-phone from my jeans.

  “No thank you,” she said, leaning back against her Mercedes. “I’m Sarah Torkelson. I live up near St. James.” She looked around. “Never thought the muggers would show up this close to the Railyard!”

  “Me either. Sarah, nice to have met you!” I turned fully away from her, aiming for the corner exit to the alleyway.

  “Uh, sir, what’s your name?”

  I stopped, then turned and faced her. Her upset seemed gone and curiosity had become her new expression. “I’m Jack to my friends and to ladies in distress.” I gave her a half bow, then smiled big to make fun of my formal pretension. “Glad I could help.”

  Sarah pulled out her smartphone, an Android from the looks of it. She touched it on while staring at me. Glancing down quickly, she looked up fast. “That police news conference at two said the man who took down four gang members on Delgado was wearing a blue hoodie, had a white beard and was dressed in blue jeans. And he was Anglo. That sure sounds like your description. And you’d have to be very strong to defeat four gangbangers. Were you that man?”

  My heart beat fast. My head hurt from the bright yellow sunlight. And I had no idea the cops would release so much detail from whatever Juarez had told them. Damn. Double damn. Well, time to lie again.

  I shook my head. “No, Sarah, that wasn’t me. Hey, there are a lot of older geezer guys in this town who dress casual, have white beards and like to walk around town. Just glad my movie let out in time for me to help you!”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows, then nodded slowly. “Well, thank you again Jack. Uh—” she held up her purse “—can I offer you some cash for a taxi back to your home?”

  No way in hell would I take money for saving someone from harm or death. “No! Uh, no thank you, ma’am. Just was raised to be a gentleman by my mom. And I still try to act that way even while retired. Have a good day.”

  I turned and walked quickly toward the lot exit, hoping Sarah the rich gal did not ask more questions. Her comment on the police news conference told me I needed to get home quickly and change out of my blue hoodie. While hoodies are common in Santa Fe’s early spring weather, still, the description of me would be drawing looks my way. And my hands had begun to shake from the adrenalin rush of facing off the teen mugger. Either Sarah would tell the store about him or someone who came for their car would call the police. Either way, I needed to be far from here. But my apartment lay 12 or more blocks away. Best to catch the No. 2 bus on Guadelupe, then change to the Route M bus that ran down Paseo. While I would show up on bus security video, so would plenty of other geezer guys. Whatever, I needed to get out of sight, get home, start up my laptop and find out whatever Google could tell me about psychic powers. And how to deal with them. If that were even possible.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning was Wednesday. I sat on the upper level of one of the Rail Runner train cars, my hands folded on my lap, my legs crossed and my eyes fixed on the dry countryside spotted with brown bushes, brown bunch grass and a few rare structures. We had yet to reach the built-up area of Kewa Pueblo, where fed-funded family housing would appear. Other folks on the car included three families with younger kids, a half dozen suit-dressed business folks of both genders and a few casual dressed types like myself. Today I wore a black hoodie, Hawaiian shirt, khaki pants and my leather shoes. I hoped the outfit was different enough from yesterday to not draw attention. Looking around I saw three biz guys in suits with white Van Dyke beards and hair pulled into a man-bun or ponytail. At least my hair was mostly black, though streaked with white. And my beard ran along my jaw to my sideburns. The question of whether to shave off my beard and mustache had hit me this morning. But I’d resisted the change. I liked being who I was. I liked dressing casual. I was done with suits and ties. Being poor while retired was okay with me. And the free Wednesday ride for seniors exactly fit my budget.

  My Google research last night had turned up strange stuff on psychic powers. There were lots of types of powers, according to one page. My fire lighting ability was called pyrokinesis. My shrink-killing kind of fit the term psionics. And my wave tossing of one guy fit what was called psychokinesis or telekinesis. Thank the Goddess I was not telepathic! Reading the thoughts of others would have been too much by half! I had enough trouble with my own thoughts. What had been that bright flash that filled my eyes just before I burned up Antonio? While floating around by way of levitation might be neat, it would really draw attention. Though precognition, the ability to foresee the near future, sounded good. At least I was not pretending to be a medium. Most of the reports on those folks said they were either hope scammers or personally hallucinating. If I knew one thing it was that yesterday had been no hallucination.

  Which was why I was on the train headed for Albuquerque. The University of New Mexico had a School of Psychology in a place called Logan Hall. There were lots of lecturers, assistant profs and full professors working there, teaching classes and doing exotic research, most of which I had no clue what it meant. What was autism spectrum disorder? What was fetal alcohol spectrum disorder? And what was magnetoencephalography? That was one of the specialties of the professor lady I was hoping to see. Claudia F. Robinson was a phud with a research focus on cognition, brain and behavior. While she had no papers in what is today called parapsychology, she did know a lot about the brain. Since no one else at UNM psych did research in paranormal psychology, she seemed like the best bet given she was super-science oriented. And knocking on her door would not cost me anything.

  But I had to resolve one thing. Did my psychic powers work only when my life was in danger? Or could I make things happen when I was not in fear of my life? One way to find out. I looked ahead at one of the families seated on two facing couches with a table between the mom and dad and their two under-10 kids, a boy and a girl. The boy’s brown hair was nearly as long as the girl’s golden yellow hair. The girl put down a pop can that she had just finished drinking from. I knew it was empty since she had held it over her pink lips and shaken it to get the last drops of something purple. Now it sat on the table as she reached out to her Mom, who had pulled an apple from her bulging purse bag.

  “Mom! Can I?” she squeaked in a nice voice that reminded me of Louise at that age.

/>   Her Anglo mom, a thirties-something woman who seemed happy to be with her hubby and kids, smiled big and nodded.

  “Sure thing, Angela! Here?” She held out the apple.

  Angela reached for it.

  Just right.

  In my mind I focused on the purple pop can. Then I waved my right hand at it.

  The can flew off the table and down onto the carpeted aisle between the seat rows.

  “Oh! Angela, you must have knocked that can off. Get it before it disappears under someone’s seat.”

  Angela stuck both little fists into the waist of her green corduroy jeans and glared. “I did not do that! It just flew off the table. Mommmm!”

  Stifling a chuckle, I wondered what else could I do. I had no desire to harm anyone here, or even in Albuquerque. Wait! Could I make the pop can float? Levitate? Make it move back to the table?

  “Get the can, dear girl.”

  Angela scooted off her bench seat, bent down, spied the can five feet from her and knee-walked toward it. Just as she reached for it I thought of the can shooting up to the table in an arc. I waved my left hand just in case.

  The pop can flew up from the little girl’s hand and landed on the table. Right in front of her mother. Who squinted hard, then turned left and looked down at her little girl.

  “Angela! Thank you. But there was no need to throw it up onto the table. It might have hit your brother or your papa.”

  “Mommm!” squealed Angela, rising to stand in the aisle as she glared at her mom, who was now joined by her bearded dad in being curious. “I did not touch that can! It just flew up there. Just like it flew off the table!”

  Angela’s mother sighed, looked at her husband, then reached out to hug her rambunctious daughter. “Come to me, little Angela. It makes no difference what happened. Your papa and I love you. Come.”

  Angela frowned hard, looked down at the can, looked over at her younger brother who was smirking at her, then counted a hug as better than a scold. Once in her mom’s arms, the girl whispered “Well, it really did move all on its own.”

  The mother just patted the back of the girl’s flowery blouse as her brother reached out, grabbed the can, turned it upside down, then put it on the table and snapped his fingers.

  “Move!” he ordered.

  Nothing happened.

  His father chuckled deep, his voice like that of a kind logger I’d met while on an outdoors research project in the Jemez Wilderness.

  “Jason, enough. You two need to save your energy for our tour of the Biopark. Aren’t you excited to be seeing the penguins?”

  “Angela, here’s that apple I offered,” said her mother.

  Routine resumed for the family of four.

  I sat back, glanced out the window, noticed we were passing by Kewa Pueblo and closed my eyes. In minutes we would be in downtown Albuquerque. Where I would have to call a taxi and pay good money to be taken to the UNM campus. I did not know the bus schedules of that town and the office hours listed for professor Robinson were limited to times before noon. After that she worked at what was called the Transcranial Stimulation Laboratory. Whatever that was! Maybe when I saw her I would ask. Maybe not. It depended on how she reacted when I asked her if she believed in psychic powers.

  I knocked on the glass windowed door of Room 136, on the first floor of the three-story pueblo-style building that was Logan Hall.

  “Come in!” called a hearty female voice.

  I turned the door knob, pulled open the door and stepped inside. The doc’s office was about as big as the living room of my garage apartment. Bookshelves and DVD racks lined one wall. A large window occupied the far end. And Dr. Robinson sat behind a classic gray metal desk on the right side of the room. An attractive Navajo woven carpet filled the floor in the middle. Two wheeled chairs sat opposite her desk. Behind and above her on the metal wall were framed degrees. She looked up, her blue eyes fixing on me.

  “Yes? Are you a student here? I don’t recall seeing you before.”

  Robinson’s curly blond hair framed a squarish face showing a few pale dark spots, while her hair touched the collar of her green and white blouse. Papers and an iPad lay on the desk before her.

  I smiled, stepped forward and held out my hand. “Dr. Robinson, my name is Jack. And no, I am not a student here.” I remained standing until she gave me a nod of attention. “I’m a retired newsman from Santa Fe. I recently had some unusual psychological events happen to me and I was hoping I could discuss them with you before you left for your lab.”

  The woman’s light brown eyebrows rose a bit, as if she were wondering if I were the deluded type, or someone real with a real issue. She looked middle-aged young and her online bio said she had worked in Finland doing research on SQUIDs to explore the deep mechanics of the brain. So she was no naïve researcher.

  “Well, we have clinicians working in this building who help people with psychological problems,” she, her tone carefully neutral. “Perhaps I could arrange an appointment with one of them?”

  I shook my head. “No thank you. I am not depressed nor have I ever been diagnosed with bipolar or other ailments. I came to you because you do deep brain function research. Or so I read on your university bio page. Could we talk?”

  She gave a sigh, then sat back in her wheeled rocker chair. “Well, I can give you five minutes, Jack.” Robinson gestured at her desktop. “I have a student research proposal yet to read and a pre-pub printout of my most recent article to review.” She grabbed a Kleenex tissue from a nearby box, held it to her nose and sneezed hard. “Sorry. The juniper pollen is getting to me.” She gestured to me to sit opposite her. She had yet to shake my hand so I lowered it.

  I sat, crossed my legs and thought hard about how to start. “Dr. Robinson, I came to you because yesterday I had a very unusual series of events happen to me. In short, I seem to have developed psychic powers.” Her mouth closed and she turned grim in her look. “I seem to have the ability to move things, lift things and set fire to things with just a few thoughts and mental images.” I held up my right hand as she leaned forward, clearly ready to dismiss me. “Please, one moment. Goggle says these abilities are known as psionics, psychokinesis and pyrokinesis. And no, I am not a medium or a seeker of money for my new abilities.” I licked my dry lips. “I came to you to see what you think could have caused me to develop mental abilities I have never before had. To see if science has an answer for what happened to me. Please?”

  Robinson gave a deep sigh, closed her eyes, then opened them. She stared at me with clear irritation. “Jack, do you have a last name?”

  “I do.”

  When I did not give it she shrugged. “Fine. Be mysterious. What I can tell you is that while the Parapsychological Association is an affiliate of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, no one who is a member of AAAS puts any credence in these reported mental manifestations.” Her voice was firm and definite, as if she were putting to bed a bothersome issue. “Sooo, you could contact them. Maybe they have someone you could talk to.”

  I nodded slowly. Then I focused on the iPad sitting in front of her. “Dr. Robinson, I’ve always been a paranormal skeptic myself, all my life. My reporting of weird types in Santa Fe confirmed in me there was no reality to purported claims of talking to the dead and foretelling the future. But yesterday morning, before I was assaulted by a street punk, a white flash of light filled my mind. And no, I was not looking at the sun rising in the east.”

  She nodded quickly. “Then perhaps you need to see your primary care physician? Since you are older than me, perhaps you had a brief stroke?”

  “I don’t think a stroke would explain this.” Pointing at the iPad, I visualized it floating off the table and over to my lap.

  Which is exactly what it did.

  Robinson gasped. Then she stared hard at me. “Did you bring in some kind of hallucinogen? That’s impossible!”

  I did not smile. I met her hard look with one of my own. “True. I
always thought levitating of objects, or people, was impossible. Now I can levitate objects. And people. And do more.” I pointed at the crumpled tissue sitting on a bare corner of her metal desk. My mind filled with flames yellow and orange.

  The tissue, the size of a tennis ball, burst into flames.

  “What!” Robinson yelled. She slammed her hand down atop the burning tissue. That cut off its access to oxygen. But when she pulled her hand up, flames reappeared on her palm. “Oh! No! That hurts!” she yelled loudly.

  I thought away the flames that clung to her, just the way they had clung to Antonio. The flames vanished. But her right palm showed red blistering from the flame. What could I do? I had not expected her to touch the burning tissue. Thought she would just let it burn out. The small amount of black smoke emitted by the tissue had not been enough to cause her room smoke alarm to go off. But she was in pain and looking at me strangely.

  “Let me hold your burnt hand. Now!”

  As I reached out to her with my hand, she slowly moved her hand to mine. We held hands. In my mind I thought of healing energies flowing down my arm, through my hand and into her hand. I felt that happening. Then my healing energies stopped flowing. I let go her hand and sat back.

  Robinson looked at her right palm. Where before there was red blistering, now her palm looked normal with no sign of burn blistering. The wrinkles common to every palm were there as if nothing had happened. She licked her pale red lips. Shook her hand. Compared it to her left hand. Then she sat back and looked at me with a confused expression.

  “What the—”

  The entry door swung open abruptly.

  “Claudia! I heard you scream,” called a black woman dressed like a fellow professor. The woman glanced at me, then focused on Robinson. “Are you okay?”

  Robinson moved from confused to determined. “Yes, Olivia, I’m fine. I just put out a tissue that caught fire from . . . from my eyeglasses.” She pointed at glasses with metal frames that looked thick. “Sorry to disturb you. Thank you for checking on me.”