Killer Geezer

by T. Jackson King

“Hurry up bitch! Get me the money now! No stalling!”

  The robbery leader stomped toward Mabel who had turned to focus on the register’s flat screen. She was swiping at it and trying to reset the control app. Somehow she had shut it off and now had to reboot it in order to open the cash drawer.

  “Just a minute! Please! It has to reboot. The drawer will—”

  Leader swung his right hand in an arc that ended on Mabel’s face. She gasped.

  Her green eyes grew wet. Whether from pain or from embarrassment at being struck in front of her customers was unclear.

  Fury hit me.

  Overwhelming fury raced through me from head to toes to fingers. I felt as if lightning filled me. My off focus vision showed the boss robber enveloped in a black tornado. The two other guys near him had auras that were mostly black. The shorter, younger guy had an aura that was half black, the rest showing the colors of dark blue, dark pink and dark green. Red spots on his left arm suggested he injected often. A druggie. The other three, though. They were just evil. Incarnate.

  I stood up.

  That drew the attention of robber boss. Who was as tall as me but had a beer belly pushing out his Hawaiian shirt. He twisted the shotgun to point it at me.

  “You! Get the fuck on the floor!”

  I took a step toward him. Behind me I heard a whisper from Petros. “I’ll rush him.”

  That would not do.

  “No one harms those who are my friends,” I said softly into the sudden quiet as dozens of people watched me. Including Lorenzo and Mabel, who now looked worried for me.

  Boss grimaced. “Well, cars backfire often on Canyon. One less geezer won’t be missed.” He steadied his shotgun. His right trigger finger began to pull back.

  Yellow and orange flames filled my mind.

  I pointed at him, then the other two.

  All three became enveloped in flame, like the pistol mugger in Albuquerque. Nothing slow about this immolation. I wanted them dead. Dead fast. They barely had time to scream. Then their mouths and throats and chest became flame vapor. As did most of their bones. I held my breath to avoid breathing in the odor of burnt flesh. The four retired couples made the mistake of gasping. A few of them vomited onto the café’s black and white tile floor. A hot breeze brushed past my face, then vanished as the flames died out.

  Three piles of black ash fell to the floor before the bay window. Blackened guns and a shotgun fell atop the ash. No gun fired as I had told the flames to melt the internal parts of each firearm.

  I looked to the short guy. Whose body was shaking.

  “I’m not like them!” He dropped his pistol. “Please, don’t hurt me! Please!”

  I raised my right hand, pointed it at him and gestured upward.

  The druggie’s head impacted the concrete of the café’s ceiling.

  “Ohhh,” he cried before going unconscious.

  His body fell to the floor, one arm swinging out and scattering some nearby black ash.

  “I’m out of here!” screamed one of the biz guys.

  “Me too!” yelled a fake stud guy who had a man-bun and was dressed in PC Western clothing.

  They both ran toward the rear hallway that led to the bathrooms and the back door exit.

  Everyone else jumped up and became a crowd of lemmings as thirty people tried to fill a narrow hallway. Elbows jabbed, people yelled, elderly folks moaned. But no one died. No one suffered broken bones, unlike the young robber whose left leg was splayed at an unnatural angle. He’d fallen poorly.

  Mabel slowly came up to me as the room emptied. Her face was red and she was swallowing hard. She had been closer to the odor of burning flesh. But she was a tough gal. She swallowed hard and fixed her green eyes on me.

  “Jack? What just happened? What, what did you do?”

  I shrugged. “I suspect their clothes were full of meth vials. If it’s liquid it is very flammable. Kind of like acetone. They just misjudged their timing.”

  She squinted. “Bullshit. My friend. That other guy did not hit the ceiling by jumping up to it. You did something. To all four of them. What did you do?”

  I glanced past her to the black dome above the café’s entry door. That was Lorenzo’s sole security camera. With a thought I told it to melt down, but not flame up.

  I reached out and gripped Mabel’s left shoulder. “You’re safe. Everyone is safe. And the café will reopen after the cops finish grabbing the young punk. That’s all that matters.”

  She gave me a half-smile. “Yeah, well, thanks Jack. I didn’t sign up to be slapped in front of customers.”

  “None of you did.”

  I grabbed my jacket, turned and joined the smaller crowd heading out the hallway to the back door. Behind me came my friends. Petros. Angelina. Carlos. I did not have to look back to know they were following me out. I could feel their personas now. Some side effect of perceiving auras, I guessed.

  “Jack,” whispered Petros. “Whatever you did, it was righteous.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Angelina as she brushed off the knees of her pantsuit as she walked slowly behind Petros. “You done good, Jack.”

  “You did indeed,” muttered Carlos. “Even if what happened violated every law of physics, you did good. Thank you, Jack.”

  It felt good to protect my friends, my buddies. Just as it had felt good to heal Stella’s scarred hand and Claudia’s burned hand.

  But I’d drawn attention to myself.

  While there would be no video of my actions, still, word would get out about a strange guy at the Café Loco who stopped an armed robbery. While the three dozen folks would each have a different story to share, still, they would all agree it was a guy with a white beard in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt who had confronted the four bad guys. I suspected SFPD detective Harold Warren would put two and two together. He might even hear about the pile of ash and burned gun someone likely found behind the Greyhound station in Albuquerque. Hopefully he would not review train video, looking for a geezer guy wearing khakis and sporting a white beard.

  Whatever. It was time for me to be elsewhere.

  The Railyard felt like a good place to be. Maybe I could catch a movie and forget what I’d just done, in public, in front of friends and strangers.

  Maybe.

  I sat at an interior table not far from the entry to the Second Street Brewery. While just across the tracks from the Violet Crown theater and bistro where Lawrence held sway, Second Street was very popular with the younger crowd who liked to check out the art displays, open air pavilions and casual foot traffic that was common in the Railyard. Outside was too people busy for me. So I sat inside, which was only a third full, it being early Thursday afternoon versus the weekend. I usually stayed away from the Railyard on weekends. Weekdays were passable. Most of the time. Looking up I saw a flat screen TV hanging above the beer and food service counter. While the sound was off the barkeep had activated the closed caption function. So I could read what people said. Which now showed a Breaking News banner from KRQE channel 13.

  Day anchor Kim Vallez suddenly appeared at her desk. Her long black hair swirled as she lifted her head from a paper held in her hands and faced the camera.

  “More fiery deaths have happened in Santa Fe,” she said, sounding urgent. “Our correspondent Rachel Knapp is on the northeast side of Santa Fe with the story. Rachel?”

  The young blond woman who had come to New Mexico from a news stint in Texas held a black microphone in one hand as she stood in the parking lot of Café Loco. Behind her were strings of yellow tape that blocked the entry to the café. On either side of her were black SFPD cruisers and what looked like a dozen cops moving around, looking nervous, while two suit-dressed officers talked to Mabel, the other two waitresses and to Lorenzo. At one side were gathered six or seven people, mostly the man-bun studs and matrons who had been in the café when the four robbers rushed in. A single officer was controlling them until they could be interviewed.

  “Kim, reports from custome
rs at Café Loco say four men in ski masks burst into the café during the noon hour, aimed guns and a shotgun at the crowd, and told the red-dressed waitress behind me to get cash out of the register.” Knapp glanced behind her, noticed that Mabel was now standing alone, looking anxious. She faced the camera. “That waitress is Mabel O’Halloran. She’s a long-time veteran at the café. According to a person who was eating lunch, strange things happened shortly after the boss robber slapped her in the face when the register did not open.” Knapp looked down at her smartphone, then up. Her eyebrows rose. “According to my witness, a customer stood up and told the boss robber not to hurt his friends. Then the customer, described as an elderly man with black hair and a white full beard, pointed a hand at the boss robber, then at two other robbers. All three were suddenly enveloped in flames. A fourth robber dropped his gun. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he flew up and smashed his head against the café ceiling, falling unconscious. He’s in an ambulance that just arrived. Kim?”

  Vallez frowned. “Rachel, that is an incredible story. Does anyone know how three robbers burst into flame? And who was the older man who confronted the robbers?”

  Knapp shrugged briefly. “Maybe and no we don’t. Word going around among the customers was that waitress O’Halloran said she thought vials of liquid meth carried by the robbers might have caught fire, killing them.” Knapp’s pale pink lips pursed tightly. “No one we’ve spoken to knows the name of the man who confronted the robbers. However, those customers I spoke agree that his intervention allowed everyone to escape out the back door of the café. Every customer and employee was unharmed.”

  “Well, that at least is good news,” Vallez said. “Santa Fe seems to be experiencing an uptick in gangbange attacks and robberies. Any word on why that is happening?”

  Knapp shook her head, blond curls swinging. “That is true. The attack on Tuesday and now today are the first to happen on the northeast side of town. Muggings have occurred in the core downtown and elsewhere in Santa Fe.”

  Vallez gave a quick nod. “Rachel, I see Detective Harold Warren over there. Has he made a statement yet?”

  “Not yet. No word on when that will happen.”

  The black-haired anchor woman glanced at her notes, then up. “Well, when you have a chance to talk to him, ask him if he thinks the people bursting into flames in Santa Fe may be connected to a case down in Albuquerque? The one near the Greyhound station, where a pile of black ash and a burned revolver were found by a bus customer.”

  Knapp nodded quickly, her expression eager. “Yes, yes, I will do just that. It’s pretty rare to hear of robbers, like the one earlier this week on Delgado Street and now three here, all burning up.” Knapp smiled quickly. “This being a very Catholic community, a few observers have suggested to me these might be cases of spontaneous human combustion caused by Godly anger.”

  Vallez did not laugh. But she did sigh. Briefly. “Well, people think of strange things when strange events happen. Keep us posted on what Detective Warren has to say.”

  “I will.”

  The image of Café Loco and Rachel Knapp disappeared, replaced by anchor Vallez. Who assumed a neutral expression.

  “That is the first Breaking News report on three robbers suddenly catching fire in Santa Fe. Check in with us at 4:30 when we hope to have further news. Thanks for watching Always On KRQE!”

  The news woman disappeared, to be replaced by an in-progress program called Doctors and Lovers. I focused on my glass of beer, a nice IPA from the Blue Moon brewery in Denver. I liked Blue Moon beers. They were almost as good as the Tuborg and Heineken I had drunk while a student at college in Paris, long, long ago.

  I put a dollar tip down on the table, stood up, grabbed the half-full beer and headed out of Second Street Brewery. Going through the glass doors, I noticed how bright the sun was. While still cool, it being early Spring, I turned left and walked to an empty table at the corner end of the overhead awning. Sitting down I put my glass on the metal table, folded my hands in my lap and looked at the elevated wooden tower that had Santa Fe Railyard written on it in large black letters. They stood out clearly against the light brown wood of what resembled a water tower. While no steam locomotives now visited the Railyard, still, the tower was a central fixture of what had become an entertainment, arts and eatery district. And staring at it distracted me from what I’d just seen on the TV.

  “Ahhh, there you are.”

  I looked left toward the voice that seemed aimed at me.

  It was a man. Middle-aged. Anglo in coloring. Like many locals he wore a black Van Dyke chin beard with mustache that curled up at either end. His eyes were . . . maybe hazel in color, as best as the bright daylight allowed me to see. He was bare-headed. A thick mop of black hair adorned his head, but stopped before it got below his ears. The expression on his partly shaven face was amiable, almost happy-looking. As if he were happy to see me.

  “Should I know you? I don’t recall ever meeting you,” I said, watching as he came to a stop about six feet from me. I didn’t feel or sense his persona as truly friendly.

  “Nope. We’ve never met,” he said in a low tenor voice. “But you are exactly the person I’ve been trying to find.”

  I unfocused my vision, wondering what kind of aura would show around this friendly behaving man.

  Bright white light flared out from him, as if a cloud as big as a bus enveloped him. Under the thick white aura I saw, in descending layers, the colors of purple, light blue, light green and orange-red. My recollection of Stella’s talk to me gave meaning to those colors. This man was full of white transcendent power, with auras indicating a strong inner energy, a love of nature and the ability to cleanse and heal. Just like my own auras. This guy had zero blackness anywhere on his auras.

  Did this mean he was like me? Possessed of psychic powers? Internally I felt myself tighten up. And felt an invisible barrier rise up between myself and him.

  He frowned, then sighed. “Ahhh. You’ve seen my aura. And you are worried about what it means.” He gave a nonchalant wave of his left hand. “Don’t worry. I will not harm you. Or embarrass you. Or do anything negative to you.” He smiled big. “Though what I have to share may upset that burger and fries lunch you had earlier today.”

  I sat back, feeling the metal hardness of my chair bite into my back. Even through the brown coat I wore. How did this guy know what I’d eaten for lunch?

  “Who are you? And why were you seeking me out?”

  His black eyebrows rose slightly. “Ahhh, better. My working name is Ansgar Knutson. It’s Norwegian. The first name means Spear of God.”

  Unbidden I felt something press lightly against the barrier my instinct had raised between us.

  I gave the man a hard stare. “My name is Jack Hansen. Danish origin. My mom was a Van Wyck from the Netherlands. Why were you seeking me out?”

  Knutson looked around, seeming to notice finally the sparse scatter of other people walking through the Railyard, or seated at the far end of the Second Street’s group of outdoor tables. His gaze returned to me.

  “Nice place. Friendly feeling people. Nice to be in a place that feels happy.” He raised one eyebrow. “May I join you at your table? I do feel thirsty after my flight into your rather small airport.”

  This guy felt really powerful. But I saw no sign of anger, duplicity or darkness. Either in normal view or in unfocused view. He seemed to be a friendly guy who had a very powerful aura. And judging by the touch on my barrier I’d felt, likely some powerful psychic powers. Curiosity got the better of me.

  “Sure. Join me. Want a beer?”

  Knutson stepped over the low railing separating the outdoor tables from the foot traffic area of the Railyard. His legs were long, like mine. And covered in a shiny fabric that was not wool or cotton, but something else. Whatever it was, the fabric on his legs matched the fabric of his coat. Under the coat shone a light green shirt, with a green and yellow necktie in the middle. The tie had been loosened enough
to show his lower throat area. Clearly he was trying to look casual despite the richness of his clothing and his highly polished leather shoes. Those shoes held a threaded style that I’d never seen on any shoes I’d bought at the local Wal-Mart or Target. His right hand pulled out the metal chair opposite me. He sat down. Then he put both hands, strong hands with shiny black hair showing above the knuckles, on the table in front of him. His hazel eyes fixed on me. His pale brown lips curved upward.

  “May I have a taste?” he said, gesturing at my beer glass.

  The chance of catching any germs from this guy were non-existent. I nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

  His lips became a full smile. His right hand opened up as if to hold a glass.

  My beer slid toward him.

  It ended up in his grasp.

  Knutson took a sip of my beer. His eyes closed. He licked his lips. Then opened his eyes and put my beer down. Opening his hand, he pushed it toward me. The beer slid over the metal table into my left hand. All on its own.

  “Ahhh, that tasted good. Thanks!”

  Well, it was clear this guy could move stuff by telekinesis. Like I could. I looked around. No one was watching us. No one had noticed what had just happened as my beer slid across the table. Twice. I looked back toward the entrance to the brewery. Above the door a small black dome obviously held a security camera. Surely it had caught what had just happened.

  “Don’t worry,” Knutson said, his voice low and sounding very cultured. “I told its mechanism to take a rest for the few moments we shared a beer. It’s operating now. Just like normal.”

  This guy spotting me and coming to me was not normal. Him knowing about my lunch was not normal. And his possession of psychic powers told me the answer to something I’d wondered about after talking with Stella. There were other people like me. Or, at least one other. And where there are two of a type, there are always more.

  “Why were you seeking me out?” I asked for the third time.

  Knutson tilted his head to one side, his look still amiable. “Actually, I wasn’t looking for you, personally. I was looking for the white flare of transcendent power that suddenly flared in the American Southwest. In New Mexico, of all places, once I’d focused on it. I flew in this morning on my plane. Between detecting you and arriving here I Googled TV reports from your Albuquerque stations.” His expression suddenly went serious. “Seems you’ve been busy removing unpleasant people.”