by Judith Price
Then Eric asked, “What is it, Jill?”
“Remember the White Chapel?” Jill queried.
No one said anything. Jill turned and looked back at the dumbfounded faces. “Hello, people … Jack the Ripper!” More blank stares waited for Jill to make her point. “The Ripper killed in the White Chapel area and only in that area. This led the police to believe he either lived or worked in that area. Don’t you guys read anything?” Jill turned and pressed her finger in the center of the digits that were on the map. The map zoomed in and then she zoomed out then back in again, zeroing in on the little town of Luray.
She looked back at the RV team and said, “I think we should focus our viewing session on this area. Like Agent Acker said,” she lifted her right eyebrow and smirked back in Jake’s direction. “They’re running out of time.”
Nine
The room was cold and seemed to have a life of its own. A small moth tapped at the window trying to escape. The RV team walked in and over to the open shelves, grabbed a wad of loose-leaf paper before settling in at their workspace.
“Okay, guys,” Eric said with excitement in his voice. “We’re going to have to work fast on this one. I know I don’t have to do this since you’re all seasoned viewers. But I want this viewing to work like a fine-tuned Swiss watch. Let’s catch this maniac.”
Jen piped in. “Maniac, he’s not a maniac. He’s one sick mo-fo.”
Eric looked at his team as they assembled the viewing ritual. “Let’s just do a quickie Cliff Notes of what we’ll be doing in the session. “Mitch, wait before you begin to zone down.” Mitch, who had already begun, blinked back to the present. “We don’t want any errors.” Malcolm’s eyes narrowed as if he were personally insulted. He wasn’t. Jill knew he had the same tunnel vision as her. Having this skill was like riding a speeding bobsled through all the energy waves—too fast for recognition as she tried to discover what she was missing. Normally, if she noticed something that clicked, the racing bobsled, through her intuitive tunnels, would stop short and a clear image would appear in her mind. Malcolm was the keener of the group. A true metaphysical geek. He impressed her when she missed the small details that somehow he seemed to be able to pull out of a viewing.
“Okay, you all know not to ‘call-the-target’. I know it may be a bit harder to not assume data based on their brief. Remember, don’t put in your own thoughts. What you see, feel, or perceive—write it down, harvest everything.”
Eric walked over to the large white board perched on two solid legs and flipped it over to the opposite side. “No budget, my ass. Did you see their board?” Miffed, he let out a sigh and continued. “A quick review before we begin.” Eric looked over at Malcolm. “Just go with it, okay.” He paused. “As you know, we’re going to imply our four-dimensional target into an eight-dimensional wave form.” He turned around and picked up several papers and handed them out, one by one. “Try not to focus on the gore.” He specifically looked at Jen. Jen smacked her gum. Eric stopped and stared back at her. She looked down, took out the gum, and tossed it into the trashcan beside her desk. Eric continued. “The target today, and the coordinates, will have you viewing the unsub’s surroundings. What it looks like, where he is.” Jill glanced at the grotesque condition of these women then back up to Eric, standing in front of the white board. “I’ll just briefly go through the viewing stages to help you focus more clearly.” Malcolm gave an annoyed sigh. Mitch began to trance. “Stage one,” Eric said. “The peephole—remember to establish your presence. Control. You know the drill. Open your viewing door and begin your journey.” Eric grabbed the marker off the ledge of the board and wrote the coordinates 17601. “To achieve optimum trajectory, you begin by placing your pens on the last digit—which is always the digit one. Lose yourself in it; numb your thoughts.” The process was sort of like a radio station signal drawing the viewer toward the target. The group meditation began with each member of the RV team hyper-attentive, focused on connecting to the target on an energy level, pens ready to record the viewing on paper.
As the viewers connected to the energy, they enter stage two and begin to write. First they record the sounds and smells. Then, tastes, textures, and feelings. Do the viewers feel afraid, mad, or sad? Everything is recorded in writing. When they begin to see colors and textures, and the viewing becomes more vivid, the viewer enters stage three—that’s when they sketch more accurate details. There’s no thinking involved; just recordings.
Jill quickly pulled open the top drawer of her desk and pulled out her pouch. Somehow she found that using the clay numbers served as a better tool than just writing. She untied the worn leather pouch and dumped the rectangle shaped tiles onto the desk. The pouch—the pouch.
Jill’s Grams always carried a pouch of earth from the sacred mountains of their homeland, next to the Navajo reserve. She had told Jill many stories of the pouch’s power. “All things are equal and everything has a spirit,” she would tell her. She was a singer, a healer, and she taught Jill that she, too, might have inherited her clairvoyance. And she was excited today to have a target other than a structure.
Eric stopped, turned briefly, and waited for Jill to arrange the numbers correctly. She felt his stare but they had been over Jill’s process several times. It wasn’t standard protocol. But he didn’t care since Jill’s viewings were the top of the group. Somehow Jill had the ability to almost put herself into the viewings—to feel, see, almost touch the targets. She produced results and that is what mattered. Besides, all four of the team had their quirks.
Eric turned back and continued. “Once you’ve finished your zone down period—and no sleeping on this one—” Eric eyed Mitch, “make sure you write down any advance visual or impressions you may have on the target. Then write down any of your feelings or senses you may have. Physical or otherwise. Do you feel hot or cold? Do you feel any emotions such as anger or sadness? Write down everything. Okay, ready … let’s begin.”
Ten
Jill
Eric always affects me when he looks at me that way. As if I were a child playing a magical game. But even with this daunting task trying to target a serial killer, he doesn’t seem even close to being rattled. I need to focus, but what the hell was that all about with Jake? It’s not like we did the nasty. It’s not like we got naked. It’s not like I’d ever thought I’d see him again. What’s a few strokes and grinds? I got off. I was happy. Well, I suppose I do need to practice pacing myself. But booze for the most part turns me off. I like my glass of wine when cooking and eating dinner or to help me sleep. But what the hell, we could all let our hair down once in a while. Jill glanced over at Jen.
“Jill, you ready?” Eric probed. I guess he can see I was a bit distracted. You’d be distracted, too, Eric, Jill thought, if you were an alpha female in front of Mr. Hotty. She smiled, pushed her ear buds into her ears, clicked on her iPod, pressed ‘rain and sea’, closed her eyes, and began her zone down.
I need to push out the thoughts of Jake and that goddamn smoky bar and ride the wave form. With that, I begin. I ebb with each sea wave I hear, flow like the rain that falls. I feel myself sway only slightly. I am there now. I am ready.
When I reach my realm of calm, I open my eyes, turn off the sound-maker, and pull out the ear buds. After a beat, I pick up my pen and place the tip on the dot on the page. I look at my clay numbers and write the coordinates next to the dot and wait. Looking but not seeing, I need to feel it first. Need to feel the energy, plug myself into the energy wave. Then it happens: my hand moves fast in one stroke from left to right. I looked down at what looks like a drawing of a radio wave. Just a simple squiggly line on the page. The ideogram. I know that every time my pen hits the page, now in the session, that an electrical signal will enter the matrix of my mind. I trace the ideogram over and over and over. Then as it always happens when I view, I abruptly stop. At the right side of the ideogram I write the capital letter A. I am tapped on the shoulder by some non-existent energy form. It i
s happening now. I am ready.
I again begin to trace the ideogram—that wave line. I start by placing the top of my pen on the last digit of the coordinates. The digit one—the target mass. I softly trace the line, first with my eyes open. Then by memory with them closed. I know I have to feel now. I know my choices. Solidity. Liquidity. Energetic. Airiness. Temperature. I’m humming now in silence. Humming. And then there it is. I open my eyes and immediately write three words underneath the capital letter A. Solid. Sharp. Cold. Wet. Okay, the fourth word is a feeling I have as I began to write the first three.
I write the capital letter B below these words. I need to probe now. I need to figure out one of two choices. It is part of the ritual during probing to only be able to write one word. My pen is back now on the digit one. I tap the tip fast, then lift my pen and move the tip about a quarter of an inch along the wave and tap it down. I continue this over and over, inch by inch, until I am at the end of the line. I can see that it is just an ink line on a piece of paper. But I know what it really is. I’ve been here before. I recall the first time I tapped into the eight-dimensional wave form. I couldn’t see anything, just sensed it. I could feel the difference in energy. The charge.
I continue to probe the line. Then, without notice it hits me. I open my eyes and write the word ‘Natural’ underneath the capital letter B. I have two choices: ‘man-made’ or ‘natural’. Normally, remote viewers will view structures and use these structures as clues to the task at hand. The question at this stage of the viewing is either one of the two.
My heart rate is moving faster now. I quickly write the capital letter C. I need to determine structure. I needed to feel the data in the wave. Need to feel. I place my pen back on the digit one and begin again. I concentrate. The signal has to feed me the data I will receive. Tap, land. Tap, water. Tap, structure. Tap, life-form. Tap, mountain. Tap, mountain. Tap, mountain. I open my eyes and write below the capital letter C. Mountain. I don’t have time to assess what I have written. No time. I move the paper to the top of my desk and write down the original coordinates that Eric gave us on a blank page. I need to find the next signal. The stronger one. I repeat stage one, and it only takes a few seconds to see a new ideogram on the page. Open wider, I tell myself. Feel. I can feel myself zooming in. Zooming in, but not seeing. And like clouds parting to see a rainbow, it begins. First, the colors. Orange. Brown. Then, the textures. Spiky. Sharp. Glass. The sensation of smell hits my nose. Dirt. Mold. I can taste water. Ice. I feel myself shiver from the cold. The dampness. And then I hear something. What is it? It sounds like an old organ echoing. Music.
I feel my body being pulled quickly along a corridor. A black tunnel. I am in the tunnels now. It feels like my hair is being blown back as my mind speeds along. I am in the bobsled now, on the energy wave in my mind. And it is going fast. Too fast. Then a flash of light and I sketch. As if I am not in my body. I have no control of my drawing. I am blinded by the light. I am always apprehensive at this stage as I don’t know what to expect when my mind sleigh pierces the darkness, shooting into the scene. My heart is racing—the thumping throbs in my ears. I’m excited. Or am I scared? The unknown. The thumping. Thump. Thump. My hand is sketching madly. My pen feels like it is going to rip through the pages with the pressure I sense. What is it? What is it? When I break through I feel it. I’ve never felt this before. Rage. Terror… evil. I scream inside. I need to get out. I need to get out now. Out!
Eleven
Eric looked at Jill. She was breathing hard. Her face flushed as she looked down at her sketches. Her notes. She grabbed them fast in disarray and gave Eric a look. The others were still in stage three, the part of the viewing that Jill had just left. Jill stood fast and ran out of the RV room. A look of concern brushed over Eric’s face and he followed.
Across the drab gray hall, Eric closed the door behind him. Jill was breathing hard when he asked. “We’re only half-way through our session, Jill. What happened?” He picked up her viewing notes. Jill looked past them and out the window. Clouds formed into a dark cast of rain showers. When he got to the page with her sketch he sucked in a fast breath.
On the page he saw what looked to be a dark shaded version of a winter wonderland. Large icicles hung down like jagged teeth. Jill had also sketched these same icicles protruding from the bottom of the sketch almost kissing the tips that hung down. A reflection. The jagged-tooth square framed the silhouette of a man. He sat on a stool, visible only from behind. Above him hung a thick chain. It disappeared up behind the giant icicles. Attached to the chain, just above the man’s head hung a four-by-four-thick piece of wood. Two hands appeared bound, tied at the wrists. The person in the sketch hung from the wooden rail. The arms dangled and were blocked from the elbows onward. The silhouette of the man seemed full of movement. Drops of what could be blood flew through the air as he gripped an ice pick with his right hand as if ready to smash it down hard.
Jill looked solemnly at Eric. “What is it, Jill? I think you have found the target. It seems pretty clear to me. I’ll call the VCU.”
“Wait.” Jill reached for Eric arm and paused. “I saw something else Eric. I didn’t draw it but, I saw it.”
“What?” Eric looked confused.
“Behind the rail I saw a mirror. And in the mirror … well … it was a familiar face. It, um … it was my mother’s face.” Jill grimaced. “She was smiling as if she were enjoying what the Iceman was doing. She had crow-like dead eyes. But she was smiling.”
“Your mother is dead right?” Eric queried, wondering if this part of Jill’s viewing was relevant.
“Yeah, my grandparents told me that she was killed by a drunk driver. I think I was around six years old. I don’t remember much of her.” Instinctively Jill’s gut flinched as if she told a lie. She hadn’t thought of her mother since her Grams had passed. They didn’t talk much about her. They only had one picture of her, which was tucked away in an old shoebox that had contained Gram’s pouch. Jill’s pouch.
“And your father?”
Jill looked up at Eric and shrugged. “Don’t know, guess he wasn’t in her life.
“Maybe a bi-location, you know, a recollection of a memory? Let’s call over to VCU. Think about it Jill, it should come back to you. But I highly doubt your mother’s death has anything to do with this case.”
Twelve
The gray clouds hugged the sun through the hallway windows. The hallway had a dreary presence as if it had something to say, but no voice to say it with.
Jill and Eric rushed towards the elevator. “She’s coming over to you now.” Eric huffed. “I have to get back to the viewing session. Jill has some good insights to get you started. I’ll call you when the team is finished.” Eric closed the phone and looked over to Jill as she punched the elevator button. “Tracy’s not there, but Jake is expecting you.” He said as the door of the elevator closed.
Jill stood wondering what the hell just happened. She thought about her sketch. She thought about the location. She thought about her mother. She pressed the file folder to her chest, closed her eyes, and tried to recall anything she may have missed. What was she feeling and why did it scare the hell out of her? She had her usual goose bumps from knowing that she had found a target. Hit the target. Adrenaline filled her veins and the jab in her stomach was already traveling up her spine standing the hairs on the back of her neck. It had to be the 'Iceman', she thought just as the elevator doors opened to Jake’s wide smile. He angled his head. “Agent Oliver, or can I call you Jill?” he purred. Jill pushed past him bumping into his side before reaching the boardroom table.
“We have to review these documents. I think they tell us where your unsub is.” Jake turned and followed Jill into the briefing room. Inside, Jill laid down the folder and without sitting, flipped it open. Jake looked down and picked up the sketch.
“What is this?” He queried.
“It’s the sketch from my viewing session. The others are still in the view, but I had to sto
p.” Jill looked Jake straight in the eyes and paused. She wondered how much she should tell him about the viewing, about her feelings. Would he think she was a nut job? This uncertainty about herself pissed her off. Jake broke the eye-lock and then looked back to the sketch. “I’ll give you the short and curlies,” she said as she picked the other pages from the folder, and pushed past her apprehension. “In my viewing, I felt these sensations. For the most part, they were normal. Then I was pulled further into the tunnels.” Jake immediately looked back at Jill and tilted his head to the right. Jill paused again. A look of disbelief draped Jake’s face. “Err, never-mind. Anyway, when I arrived on target, this is what I viewed.” Her finger tapped on the sketch.
“This looks like a person, white male perhaps.” He winked at Jill. “A person sitting in the mouth of a whale or something. You read Moby Dick, Agent?” Jill looked like she was going to punch him in the side of his head. “I really can’t imagine this to be that accurate. No oceans around here,” he mocked.
Jill stomped over to the large screen and tapped it. The map still glowed as it pulled itself out of a deep sleep. She stood and studied it. Jake sighed, walked over, and stood beside her. “It’s not that simple,” Jill exclaimed. “The victims were found in this area. Is there a way to see terrain, you know like a satellite image instead of a street map?
“Like I said, Jill, not too many whales in the Shenandoah Mountains.”
“Mountains … yes, see.” Jill flipped to a different page in the folder. “See what I wrote—the sensations I had. See? It’s not a goddamn whale,” she snatched the page from his hands, looked back to the folder and read. “Mountain and the colors. Orange. Brown. Then the textures. Spiky. Sharp. Glass. Dirt. Mold. I could taste water. Ice. I felt myself shiver from the cold. The dampness.” She was reading fast. “Wait, I also heard something. Like music from an old organ. The kind that would be played in an old black-and-white horror movie. Except it echoed.” Jill trailed off. “It was very faint. But definitely there.” She leaned in close and looked at the sketch then back to the map. Jake moved in closer.
