Mad Powers (Tapped In)

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  With a quick check of the knob, I found it was indeed locked. How do I get in? Then I remembered Jill had mentioned a broom closet. I shuffled down the corridor and found the door labeled Utility Closet. Luckily, this door was unlocked, so I let myself in, closed the door and, after searching in the dark for a few seconds, found the light switch. Just as I’d hoped—several rows of keys hung from little metal hooks screwed onto a plywood plank. Someone, presumably the maintenance person, had nicely handwritten the various names of rooms the keys belonged to. Here we go … Second row, third one over—the MECH ROOM key … I snatched it up and let myself back out to the corridor.

  I made my way back to the room. Someone was coming. I could hear low murmurs of a distant conversation getting closer. I inserted the key. Crap! Upside-down. The voices were mere feet away now from just around the corner. I tried the key again and the knob turned. Two nurses came into sight before I had a chance to duck inside, but, fortunately, they made a right turn down the opposite hallway and didn’t see me. Once inside I really didn’t know what I was looking for. Earlier, when walking with Jill, I had felt the pull … the undeniable hunger to reconnect with whatever I had tapped into on that accident-scarred highway three days ago. Even now, standing several feet from the large metal breaker cabinets, I could feel the energy.

  The song was there again, just faintly, but there just the same. The room was covered with wall-to-wall long gray metal breaker cabinets. One cabinet in particular was bigger, and the words High Voltage were stenciled above it. I found the release lever and pulled open the panel. My mind flooded, bonded, and merged with the energy. I needed more. I stepped in closer to the cabinet, letting my face come forward closer still. I rested my forehead against the cool metal surface and tapped in. The music filled my consciousness. It was like coming home, and then, just as quickly, I was spiraling up to new levels of consciousness; others were there with me—connecting to me at a personal, intimate level.

  * * *

  The police arrived in the morning. Two of them, both black and both all business. Like twins, they wore dark gray suits, white shirts, and thin, striped ties. One tie had blue and yellow stripes; the other one was blue and maroon. The only other discernible difference was that the cop closest to me, surprisingly, had light hazel eyes. They flashed me their badges and got right down to business. Hazel-eyes spoke first: “I’m Detective Whittier, and this is my partner, Detective Barns. Would it be all right if we asked you a few questions about the accident?”

  “Sure, go for it,” I replied without enthusiasm. I knew exactly what was on Whittier’s mind. My late night visit to the High Voltage Mechanical room had reignited my mind-reading capabilities again. Whittier was convinced I not only fell asleep at the wheel, but had also been drinking. He was angry, at a personal level—for reasons I hadn’t deciphered yet. He had every intention of bringing me to justice—at the minimum, for vehicular manslaughter. Meanwhile his partner Barns, on the other hand, was primarily thinking about a woman named Bambi. Apparently, when not swinging from a pole at Jerry’s All Nude Girls, Bambi wasn’t adverse to bumping and grinding in the back of his 2008 Chevy Malibu.

  “What can you tell us about the accident that occurred on Arizona State Highway Route 60, near Kingman, three days ago?”

  “Only that I woke up hugging a telephone pole and later witnessed a big rig careen into another car right in front of me. I really don’t remember anything prior to the accident. Although, I think my name may be Rob, if that helps …”

  “Don't you think it’s awfully convenient … you suffering from some sort of amnesia … not remembering what went down prior to the accident?” Whittier wasn't even trying to hide his distaste for me—or what I had done. And to be honest, I didn't blame him.

  But there was something Whittier wasn't telling me. Why? Or something else …

  He’s hiding the fact there weren't two fatalities at the scene, just the one—the truck driver.

  “Detective, can you tell me about the other accident victim, the minivan driver?”

  Whittier’s face flashed irritation at my question.

  “There’s very little left at the scene. Soon after you were transported, the truck’s fuel tank exploded, which in turn ignited the other two vehicles. It’s a miracle you caused no one else to be injured or killed. With that said, there wasn't a body in the minivan. In all likelihood, it had been abandoned there on the highway.”

  Jill came in and handed Whittier a clipboard. His brow furrowed as he read. Jill and I watched him in silence. Eventually, Jill turned to leave, but not before giving me a little wink and a smile. I knew what Whittier was going to say before he said it.

  “It seems your alcohol levels were well within legal driving parameters. Good news for you. Truth is, we were prepared to have you transported to lockup just as soon as you were released from here.”

  “The other car, the minivan. Can you tell which side of the road it was on?”

  Detective Barns, who had been watching Road Runner cartoons on the TV, had his interest back on his partner. Visibly irritated, Whittier continued, “Our techs are still piecing things together.”

  Jill was back checking my I.V., smiling and not hiding the fact she had done her part to show I was innocent of drunk-driving charges. I had avoided reading her thoughts. Not sure why, perhaps the gentlemanly thing to do … not sure. An interesting aspect of my mind reading capability—it gave me the choice to peer into someone’s thoughts or not. That and they needed to be fairly close. Once someone left the room, such as the stocky orderly who had delivered the two detectives to my room, their thoughts became harder to read. Whittier was looking at me, studying my face, and obviously saw my relief at knowing I hadn’t been the cause of that trucker’s death. In fact, I may have been as much a victim of circumstances as he’d been.

  I said, “So, like the truck driver, when my car rose above that dip in the highway, I too had to swerve to avoid hitting the minivan?”

  The detective shrugged. “It will take us some time to determine fault. We’ll see.” Whittier let the corners of his mouth turn up.

  “By the way, any idea who I am? Was there anything in that car—”

  It was Barns, this time, who cut me off. “No, man, that car’s toast. Can’t even get a valid VIN number from it.”

  Whittier took one more look around the room. The detectives were done here. Walking out the door, Whittier looked back over his shoulder.

  “Listen, come on by the station when you get out of here. I’ll take your prints; maybe you’re in the database.”

  I nodded and they left. Whittier still wasn’t convinced I was totally innocent, but I really didn’t care what he thought. The middle-aged guy next to me was awake and seemed to be upset about something. With a quick look into his thoughts, I discovered the TV was on the wrong channel. He was missing the Road Runner marathon. I picked up my remote and changed the channel for him.

  * * *

  The rest of the day was primarily spent with brain trauma specialist Dr. Adams, who seemed to have no clue when my memories would return—if ever. Jill and I took another lap around the floor. By this point I didn’t need her arm around me to hold me up, but I think she enjoyed the close physical contact as much as I did. As before, crossing in front of the high-voltage room prompted the same feeling of longing—an urgent need to connect to the raw power waiting just inside.

  “What is it with you and that room, anyway?” Jill asked, seeing my attention on the door. “Maybe you were an electrician or something? Does that ring any bells, or bring back anything?”

  I just smiled and shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my fixation with high-voltage power lines, nor reveal to her my mind-reading capabilities. I’d be transferred to a mental ward before I knew it. One thing for sure, I’d be making another late-night visit back there later on. I’d come to rely on my new ability to read minds, and even to make mental suggestions. But the condition was temp
orary—fading as time passed. My guess was the effects lasted about twenty-four hours before I’d need to tap in again.

  Jill and I stood off to the side, letting an orderly with a patient on a gurney move past. I looked down at the bald-headed patient, his face bruised black and blue and covered with a myriad of scrapes and deep lacerations. One heavily-bandaged hand lay across his chest. His eyes lazily opened as he turned his head in our direction. As if he was startled, his eyes widened. He moved to sit up, but then seemed to fall back into an unconscious state.

  “You know him?” Jill asked.

  “Not that I remember. I wasn’t sure if he was looking at me or you,” I answered.

  Truth was, my pulse had doubled—I felt anxious, and I didn’t know why. I felt his hatred. At some level, I knew this man. I also knew I needed to get far away from him as soon as possible. I continued to watch until he was gone, rolled down a perpendicular corridor. His thoughts had merged with those of hundreds of others.

  Jill was talking again. “Listen, you’ll be released soon. Physically, you’re in pretty good shape. But I’m worried about you. What you’ll do without your memory. I’ve been doing some research online, you know, on others who have gone through this sort of mental trauma. Truth is, you’ll basically be homeless, with no job history and no recalled skills to fall back on.”

  “Are you just trying to cheer me up, or are you always this motivational?” I was making light of what she said, but I’d been thinking the same thing: What would I do when I left here?

  “Rob, I don’t know you all that well; in fact, you may have been a rapist or axe murderer, but I think you’re OK—a good guy … I hope you are. Anyway, you can stay with me for a while, if you want? You know—just until you get your memory back. I have a spare bedroom …”

  I was walking without her help now, thinking about what she was offering. I was unprepared for her kindness. In fact, I found it difficult to believe someone would be willing to do such a thing for someone who was, virtually, a near-total stranger. I also felt something else: a feeling that I needed to make it on my own—to do everything possible to figure out my identity. I could be involved with someone, even married … and the note: Okay, I’ll wait for you … Who was waiting for me?

  “You know,” I said, smiling down at her, “I might just take you up on that offer, in time. But I think I need to try working things out on my own for a while.” She nodded, but kept the same expression of concern on her face.

  * * *

  Still uneasy about the bald-headed man, I was anxious to get moving. But I had several parting gifts waiting for me in the morning—the first was an itemized bill for $32,589. Even without any legal identification, someone was responsible for the care and treatment I’d received over the last five days, and I was expected to be the person who’d make good on the debt—one way or another. Jill walked in while I was still looking over the bill. Smiling, she plopped several department store shopping bags onto my lap.

  “I think I guessed your sizes right.” She gestured towards the bathroom. “Go try them on.”

  I plucked up the bags and disappeared into the bathroom. Everything fit fine, although the shoes were a bit snug at the toes. All in all, not bad! I looked at myself in the mirror—still not recognizing the person’s reflection. I was easily over six feet tall, blue eyes, longish dark hair. The bandage around my head had been replaced with a smaller band-aid and there were numerous scrapes, scratches and bruises on my face. I guess I wasn’t a bad looking guy, considering, and … whoever I was in my previous life, I’d taken good care of myself. Flat belly, toned muscles … but more than a few older scars and what looked like two bullet wound scars on my chest. Clearly, I had a violent past. I quickly shaved and brushed my teeth. I was ready for the world. When I emerged from the bathroom, Jill was waiting for me. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, tilted her head and gave me a once-over.

  “So tell me, can I shop or what?” She smiled up at me and, as if she’d forgotten something, reached into her scrubs pocket and pulled out a small bundle of bills. “I want you to take this; it’s not much but—” her voice trailed off and she shrugged.

  “You’ve been very kind, Jill. I won’t forget it. Well, I hope I won’t, my memory being what it is.”

  At that moment, I let myself peer into her thoughts and discovered, surprisingly, her strong feelings towards me. I leaned down and kissed her. She closed her eyes and kissed me back, even more passionately. We were interrupted by a stocky nurse’s aide positioning a wheelchair by the door. I took one last look around the room and noticed the little envelope still on the nightstand. Once I’d retrieved it, I eased myself down into the wheelchair. Jill walked with us part of the way, but was waylaid by a doctor in the corridor. I waved a silent goodbye as we rolled towards the exit.

  Chapter 6

  Once outside, the cool morning air felt good on my skin. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the bills Jill had given me. $350. Somehow, I needed to survive on that—at least until I could remember who I was. On my way out, I’d removed a Xeroxed copy of a Kingman city map tacked to a bulletin board. Intended for waiting room inhabitants, it indicated the area’s major locations of interest: hotels, restaurants, bus and train stations, city parks, and the police station. I was about eight blocks from the police station—my legs, not used to this much walking, were already starting to stiffen up. I took another look at the map and spotted a bus stop just a block south. I headed off in that direction.

  I got off the bus on Andy Devine Avenue in front of a Denny’s. I was three blocks from the police station. I looked down the street and then back at the big yellow Denny’s sign. My stomach was grumbling. Over the last five days I hadn’t eaten much of the bland, over-processed hospital food. I went inside and sat at the counter. There was a feeling of decrepitude about the place: cottage-cheese acoustic ceilings turned gray after years of greasy, smoke-filled air; vinyl booths patched by similar, but slightly-off colored tape. Well-worn carpeting led to the kitchen.

  “What can I get you, hon?” An ample-bosomed, middle-aged waitress with a Lucille Ball hairstyle stood in front of me—pen poised—with a faded Brenda embossed on a well-worn name tag.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest you look at the menu, then let me know when I get back.” She poured me a cup of coffee, slapped a syrup-spotted menu in front of me, and waddled off. Before I could pick it up, another hand plucked it from the counter. At the counter to my right, three guys were seated next to me. The one closest to me seemed to be the leader and the largest of the three. He easily had four inches on me and a hundred pounds. He liked being noticed. His sleeves were torn away to expose large tattooed biceps. A long ratty ponytail fell down his back, partially covering a circular diagram patch of a cigar-smoking bulldog riding a motorcycle. The monogram Silent Guardians was written above it. Definitely bikers—probably ex-cons.

  A mixture of tobacco, engine oil and sour body odor permeated the air around him. His two friends were similarly dressed, just smaller versions of the same … tattoos, bad smells, exceptionally low IQs. Each one a proud gang member. I wondered if they were the total extent of the gang or if they were part of some larger organization, such as the Hell’s Angels. Brenda was back and handing out more menus and filling coffee cups. My stomach rumbled again and I let her know I wanted the three-egg omelet, toast and bacon. The big biker’s head jerked in my direction.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, scowling—opening and closing his fist for extra impact.

  “Ordering my breakfast … three-egg omelet, toast and bacon …” I turned to the waitress: “Oh, and Brenda? Can you add a large OJ to that order?” I looked back at him—bored and unimpressed.

  “You stepped on my order, man,” he bellowed, ensuring everyone within earshot could hear him. “Unless you have some sort of death wish, I suggest you make this right.”

  The big biker turned and looked over at his two friends—b
oth smiled back and nodded their heads in unison.

  “So you’ll be buying me and my two friends breakfast today.”

  They both leaned forward over the counter to watch my reaction. Denny’s was hopping. I noticed there had been a morning rush; the restaurant’s tables along the front window and the seats at the counter were nearly all filled.

  Heads swung in our direction, the noisy patron chit-chat had turned quiet. Expressionless, I used my napkin to clean my knife and fork. I inspected them for more water spots, all the while peering into his mind. He was amped up on something. Lots of anger there—his thoughts a virtual powder keg ready to blow. He certainly didn’t like me ignoring him. No one ignores me! He wanted me to know just how dangerous he was—I’m a very dangerous man. He stood, moved his imposing bulk in close. Close enough for me to smell his hot, foul breath.

  “I’m going to hurt you,” he said, just loud enough for the others at the counter to hear.

  This was as good a time as any to see if I really did have powers of suggestion. Had that even been real? Probably not. But what the hell … As a test, maybe I could have him say something—something a bit more interesting.

  “And … I wear pretty pink panties!” he blurted out, not realizing what he’d actually just said.

  Everyone around us went quiet. Confused at what had just spilled from his mouth, he surveyed the restaurant with steely eyes—challenging anyone to make a joke. Louder this time, he tried again.

  “I’m going to hurt you—and I wear pretty pink panties!”

  Low murmurs erupted from the other patrons—which soon turned to giggles—and eventually to out-and-out laughter. Humiliated, he turned to see his two cohorts had joined in with the laughter. This earned the closest one a backhand to the mouth. The big biker stood up, confused. He was the center of attention all right, but also a laughing stock. He pulled the two by their collars right off their stools. With a shove to each, they hurried towards the exit. I read his thoughts as he passed outside the front window. Sure enough, he was convinced I had, somehow, caused this humiliation. He was right. My order arrived and I ate in relative quiet. I paid with several bills of Jill’s money—leaving a little extra for Brenda.