Killer Geezer

by T. Jackson King

  I shook my head. “Sally would not fit in my suitcase. Good day.”

  He chuckled and turned to the door. Putting his hand on the knob, he turned it and pulled the door inward. “Of course. You traveled to Denver on Friday to have dinner with your ex-wife, wearing the same clothes as the day before, paid for your meal with large bills, then paid your parking ticket with a debit bank card, and went grocery shopping this morning wearing the same clothes as Thursday.”

  “So what?” I said testily.

  “So, I wonder if your acquisition of new clothing paid for with large bills has anything to do with your visit Thursday with a certain Ansgar Knutson of New York City? He is a very rich man who flew in Thursday and had lunch with you at the Second Street Brewery. According to airport records and video from the brewery security camera.”

  I followed Warren out my door and onto the landing outside. The man was getting ready to walk down the stairwell, but his hawk eyes were firmly fixed on me.

  I tilted my head, showing puzzlement as best I could. “Detective Warren, I understand your job is hard. I understand the mayor wants answers. But invading the privacy of a tax-paying citizen of Santa Fe the way you have invaded my privacy is wrong. Just wrong. I wonder if my local council member would think you had gone well beyond conducting a witness interview?”

  Calmness showed on Warren’s blocky face. Along with intent focus. “Thank you, Mr. Hansen, for your cooperation in my interview. I will let you know if further questioning is needed.”

  “Sure.” I watched as he slowly walked down the stairwell. “And the next time I see you, I will have a lawyer at my side.”

  “Good day,” he responded, waving to the two uniformed officers to join him as he walked out toward a black and white cruiser. It sat behind a blue, unmarked sedan that Warren headed for. Clearly it was his car. I would recognize it in the future, any time it was in my area. As I would spot the persona of a man who was dangerously interested in everything I had done this past week. Maybe I should give Ansgar a call and let him know about Warren’s poking into my travels. Including my lunch with him. While an interview with Fernando the limo driver would not tell him more than he could see on security video, or by talking to the waiter who’d brought us beer, still, Ansgar should know about this determined detective. He might have some advice for me. Now, what was the special way to contact him that he had told me to use?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sitting down on my recliner I picked up my Kyocera phone from where it sat on the end table. I pulled a cord to turn on the lamp. Then I pulled out the card Ansgar had given me at the brewery. The one with his address, email addy and phone number on it. And a few more details I had written down on its back during our drink aboard his plane. I tapped in his number.

  After two rings it was answered. “Hello?” came Ansgar’s tenor voice. “Who is calling?”

  “It’s me, Ansgar. Jack Hansen. I recall an item we discussed on your plane before you left town. It’s about an investment. It’s . . . it is urgent that I discuss it with you.”

  “Ahhh,” he mused calmly. “Jack, good to hear from you. Well, since it is about an investment I mentioned, best not to chat about it over the phone. Who knows who might be listening? Commercial spies are everywhere, you know. Send me a note by mail.”

  Now came the vital part. Ansgar had instructed me to use the investment wording when I asked him about contacting him on a serious matter. Some matter that worried me. He’d said no Transcendent trusted any public device, whether computer, phone and live TV link. Sending an actual paper letter was usually better than email or any other communication mode. Mostly because opening a letter required a court order in the U.S. and in a few other nations. The phrase ‘send me a note by mail’ meant for me to tell him what time I needed him to teleport to a secluded spot at the Santa Fe airport for us to meet in person. Since we both had been there and seen all the buildings, parking lots, trees and such, there were plenty of spots. But few of them were usable during the daytime. And I really wanted to talk to him now. The detective’s visit had me feeling rattled.

  “Ansgar, sure, I’ll write it down. But it is urgent.” I looked at my watch. It showed 11:43 a.m. “Do I send it to your Box 1155?”

  “You think this investment news is that urgent?”

  “I do.”

  A low sigh sounded over the phone. “Well, yes, mail your note to Box 1155. I will reply as soon as it arrives. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ll write you back as soon as I get your note. Take care, Jack.”

  He hung up. I tapped off my phone. I looked around my living room. While detective Warren might have left a sound bug somewhere on the couch, he had not touched anything else while visiting. Sooo, my bedroom should be safe as a place in which to disappear. I went there. Too little time to shower. Enough time to change clothes.

  I had twelve minutes before Ansgar would arrive next to the large tree that lay at one corner of the private home where the airport administrator lived. It was set apart from the airport terminal itself. At night we could have teleported to the top of the second floor of the terminal, right next to the large microwave dish that filled one side of the tower that gave staff a view of the several landing strips. But that spot would be in easy view of the private house and the separate airport equipment buildings that were next to the airport entry. And the walled courtyard of the private house did not have any trees within the yard that could shield us from inside viewers. So, it was the big tree at an outside corner of the stucco wall that surrounded the house. The trash dumpsters occupied most of that corner. And a crinkle in the home wall gave a space that was mostly sheltered from view. Hopefully no one was parked on that side of the house. Which I would soon know.

  I stripped off my dress clothes, pulled on blue jeans and a blue t-shirt festooned with the image of a sperm whale, pulled on my blue hoodie and sneakers, then returned to the living room. I zipped open the top of the suitcase, reached inside, and pulled out a pad of bills. Looking at them I saw they were all $20 bills, not $100s. Good. I stuffed them in my hoodie pockets. Later I would deposit them in my USAA account by using an ATM. While USAA had no bank branches in Santa Fe, they did accept cash deposits from any All Point ATM machine. And every Walgreens had such a machine in the store for folks to get ready cash. I went back to my bedroom and stood where I was out of sight of the bay window and the couch. I recalled the large tree spot next to the private home. I built its image clearly in my mind. Then I visualized myself standing on the gravel that surrounded the tree.

  “Whoosh!”

  “Pop!”

  I sucked in a breath of hot dusty air. And opened my eyes. I was there. The multiple trunks of the elm tree stood in front of me. To my right were the dumpsters. To my left was an open space that gave me a view of the five parking spots on this side of the house. At my back was the warmth of the house wall. I felt that heat as almost a living thing. Letting go my focus on normal sight, I expanded my psychic viewing to sense the house and the spaces nearby.

  A woman was present in the house, in the kitchen, preparing a lunch meal. Her husband sat at the table, perhaps chatting with her. No other persons were in the house. Beyond it were a half dozen cars parked in the spaces between the house and the terminal. I scanned the terminal. Three staff were inside doing things on computers or moving a luggage cart. No flights were expected until late this afternoon. All the morning flights of United and American had left before 10 a.m., as I recalled the posted flight schedules I’d seen online. No one was wandering around outside. Leastwise no human. I did spot the yellow-green glows of several mice, a fluffy-tail rabbit and a snake seeking shade on the far side of the terminal. And there were the yellow-green glows of the trees outside the house and across on the other side of the parking lot. Seeing life as yellow-green glows was nice. Hearing the chirping of a few sparrows was also nice. Smelling the bitter scent of distant cacti was fascinating. My hands curled, wanting to hold li
fe. Wanting to feel life. Wanting to give a kiss to Sally. Wanting—

  “Pop!”

  A gust of air brushed my face. I looked right. Standing between me and the green and blue dumpsters was Ansgar Knutson. He was wearing a shiny blue dressing robe atop shiny white pajama pants. The shine told me they were silk. The frown on his face told me he was not happy being pulled from relaxing in his top floor condo.

  “Speak. What is so urgent?”

  I licked my lips. I stood straighter. As if I was being braced by my high school math teacher. “A police detective visited me about an hour ago. He knew I’d traveled to Denver. He knew about the new clothes I’d bought with the money you gave me. He accused me of killing the three robbers in the café and doing the same to the gangbangers on Tuesday. Of course I denied all that. What do I do now?”

  Ansgar’s expression became thoughtful. “Well, you now know the cost of using your powers in public. It draws attention from official sources. Tell me more about this detective. What’s his name? How did he relate to you? What was his aura like?”

  I told him all that, while keeping one ear alert to the approach of footsteps. No doubt Ansgar was being similarly alert. He put his strong, black-haired hands in the pockets of his rich evening robe.

  “Well, you are now a suspect in a police investigation. Not just a witness. As I am sure you realize.”

  “I do. What should I do now? Or not do?”

  Ansgar reached up and ran a finger along his handlebar mustache, as if to make it more publicly presentable. “Well, I could use my money to get this Detective Harold Warren pulled off the case. Or use my money to create a domestic scandal for him. But no, I suspect either option would just motivate him to dig in his heals and work harder at proving your involvement in six deaths.” He paused, looked me over, gave a sniff of the air, then fixed his hazel eyes on me. The look was musing. “Are you interested in moving to Denver? Perhaps to spend more time with your ex-wife? Leaving Santa Fe is the simplest solution to this encounter.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Nada. I like this town. I like my breakfast buddies. I like my apartment. And I like hanging around the Railyard.” I grit my teeth. “And I am damn determined to not let anyone, any human, force me to do something I do not want to do!”

  Ansgar gave me a half-smile. “Stubborn you are. Well, how you feel is what we deal with. Do you want Warren dead? That is the next easiest solution.”

  Shock hit me. Doing cold-blooded murder had never entered my mind. Now, to have it suggested to me, and to realize I could kill Warren with a thought, without touching him or leaving any evidence of what I’d done, that hit me hard. Inside my gut churned. And not just from hunger thanks to the energy used in teleporting to the airport. “No. Double no. And I will never murder someone who is not threatening my life. Or the lives of my friends. Or innocent passers-by. Period.”

  He nodded slowly, his expression showing a brief look of approval. “Good. You have some ethics. And basic morals. I prefer dealing with Transcendents who have both assets.” Ansgar moved aside to rest his butt against the lid of a dumpster. “There are some simple steps you can take. Make a donation to the local Fraternal Order of Police fund for maintaining their meeting hall. Sponsor a kid for one of those Birthday With A Cop events. Research Warren’s family. If he has young kids, show up and cheer at their baseball or soccer event. He’ll see you. You will ignore him, not even look his way. In short, begin creating an image of yourself contrary to his ‘deadly guy’ assumption of you.” Ansgar looked down at his slippered feet, then up, his mood becoming intense. “Explain your sudden wealth as a gift from me. Say I am a benefactor who heard about your stand against robbers at the café.” He looked me over. “Buy higher quality clothes. You can still wear your street casual stuff. But dress fancy now and then. Go to your local opera. Attend art gallery benefits. Build an image of you as someone who cares about the arts, culture and creative people. That image would surely fit in here. Santa Fe is well-known as a hub for those types of activities.”

  I felt my heart beat slow down. I felt less anxious. Ansgar had centuries of experience coping with being a Transcendent, and with surviving the public gaze of normal humans. I liked his suggestions. But a realization hit me. “Ansgar, what do I do if some gangbanger mugs me? Tries to shoot me? Or I happen on a violent robbery?”

  His eyes went laser intent. “Do not again use your pyrokinesis! Leastwise, not in Santa Fe. If you must, kill with your mind. Do not point at someone, then have them fly up and hit the ceiling of a café. Think what you want to have happen. And focus the thought at the offender. They will be affected.” His expression went musing. “You know, heart attacks are one of the main killers in this world.” His eyes caught mine. “If you look at an offender, hold your hand up, think of it gripping his heart, then squeeze your hand and hold it squeezed, that person’s heart will collapse in on itself and stop beating. Any autopsy afterwards will indicate a heart attack. Period. No poison needed. No melting down needed. No fireballing needed. Understand?”

  I nodded. “I understand. Sounds deadly. And effective. And it, it . . . astonishes me to realize that a thought by me can result in someone dying.”

  Ansgar’s expression showed empathy. “Being able to kill with a directed thought is one of the hardest adjustments any Transcendent has to make. If they choose to keep on living. A few have not.”

  Curiosity poked at me. “How did those Transcendents kill themselves?”

  “Total destruction of the brain will do it. Healing energies cannot fix a flame-broiled brain. Or a brain cut in half. Or similar destruction.” Soberness filled his face. “Your healing energies can repair nearly any injury below your brain. Which is why we live so long. And be careful using your Healing powers.”

  Puzzlement filled me. “Careful? Why?”

  “To date you have healed the Stella woman and the Claudia woman. Anyone else?”

  “Yes. My ex-wife Sally. I Healed her rheumatoid arthritis. Just that. She does not know I can levitate or do other things.”

  “Three,” he sighed. “Well, you are very new at using your powers. Instinct leads you to help others. Which is a fine instinct most of the time. But think, Jack, how many people are these three women connected to? How many spouses, children, relatives, close friends? What is to keep them from telling a lover with cancer that you can cure them?”

  Guilt flooded through me. I had not thought of the connections. A giant spider-web image flashed through my mind. Me at the center. Sally, Stella and Claudia as three spots next to me. And linkages radiating outward from them. I had wondered early on if I could do more than kill. I found I could Heal. And it felt good to Heal. But now, I must rein in my good impulses every much as I must rein in my deadly reactions. Crap. Or shit to be blunter. In truth it felt like a load of shit had just fallen on me.

  “Well, I told all three to keep silent about my ability. But I see your point. I hate it, though.”

  He laughed softly. “So did I, centuries ago. Aside from the fact that none of us Transcendents can channel enough inner energy to Heal a world population of nearly eight billion, doing public Healings that are confirmed to be real would draw the attention of powerful humans. Both private and public persons. None of us wish to be experimented upon. And while we can defeat most any enemy or device, we cannot defend ourselves if we are unconscious. As in shot with a strong tranquilizer drug. Better to be rich do-gooders, than be known as persons with the power to displace the titans of industry and politics. Humans, including us, fight nasty when our status is put in jeopardy.”

  My study of anthropology decades ago confirmed what he was telling me. As did my work as a government archaeologist. Yes, I had incredible psychic powers. Yes, I could both kill and Heal. I could teleport and thereby escape most any trap. But being public, or being recorded doing stuff like that, well, that would result in me being hunted down, thanks to facial recognition software. Which led to a final question.

  “A
nsgar, can a Transcendent change their facial appearance? Look like someone other than who we are?”

  He grimaced. “Yes, over time measured in years, a Transcendent can change their facial features. Lower their cheekbones. Make bushy their eyebrows. Make perfect their teeth. Grow a beard or become beardless naturally. We cannot change our genders or the outward signs of our gender. Nor can we change our DNA. Sooo, any residue of ourselves that we leave behind will result in identifying us, according to our current public ID.” He sighed. “Much better to be seen as a harmless richie do-gooder, than as a social revolutionary. Which is one reason I spend time with fellow super-millionaires and a few billionaires. And why I and others visit casinos. It’s protective camouflage.”

  I’d never wanted to be rich. Much less be ostentatiously rich. A show-off. But it seemed wise to become a semi-rich arts donor and aficionado. Certainly being public that way would dilute the suspicions of detective Warren. “Okay. I see your point on the need to appear rich but harmless. I’ll work on it. Can you give me the location of a few other money shredders? I don’t think it would be good to return to the Denver shredder.”

  Ansgar smiled easily. “Sure. Scan my mind.”

  Despite feeling hesitant I sent my awareness over to Ansgar, imaging myself as a red-tailed hawk going in for a sight-seeing swoop over new terrain. I got the locations, addresses and delivery times on the first pass. I also learned just below the data that Ansgar was expecting a female friend to come by this afternoon for drinks, a catered meal and exotic sex play well into the evening. With a blink I pulled my mind away from his. “Thank you for the locations.”

  He gave a shrug. “You also saw my upcoming visit with Melody. She is a normal human friend who shares many of my passions. We enjoy each other’s company. May you also find someone as agreeable. Now, I leave.”