by Jaym Gates
This morning the Director of the FBI called me — personally. They had Adam Green in custody, found him speeding in a Cadillac down a Nevada Highway, and they wanted me to give it another shot.
As I stride in through the doors to the FBI, Darius lumbers along at my side. According to sighted people, he is a beautiful German Shepherd with perfect markings. To me, his fur is soft and his reactions to people are useful. We work together, not just as guide dog and blind human, but as partners seeking out the truth from those who would withhold it.
I am determined that this will be the day Adam Green tells me the truth about what he has done with those bodies.
Darius makes me pull a full stop at the front desk. I smile in the direction of where I assume the secretary is.
“Hello, I’m Penny Young, I’m here to see Director Fields.” I put my hand into my jacket and remove the requisite identification.
“Oh! You’re the blind psychic! Ooh, who are you interviewing today! Can you tell me what my future is?”
I feel the identification removed from my hand, and it is replaced almost instantly with a soft feminine hand in mine. The fingernails are lacquered like mirrors. I have never seen pink, but I assume the shade on her nails is some lurid tone of it.
“You must be new here …” I begin to say, starting my spiel about how I can’t tell her a damned thing about her future, when she spits out yet another question.
“What can you see?”
“I’m sorry, I really must be going. I’ll be late. Am I cleared to go through?” I feel around the desk for the identification, find it, and put it back in my jacket, directing Darius to take me away before this woman continues her line of questioning because let me be crystal fucking clear: I do not see the future. I do not see the past. I do not see what’s in your head. I do not see anything. Because I do not see. Contrary to the tabloids, my coworkers, or the House of Representatives’ opinions about me, I am not a psychic. I am a student of the human condition who has come out of her studies with the ability to act, if nothing else, as a human lie detector.
Before I can get into the room with Green, I’ll have to speak to the Director. His office is a scentless government affair, no personality, no cologne, no flowers. Rooms like this are where I can do my best work, all I can smell is your sweat and your fear. Or your lack of either.
“Ms. Young. Always a pleasure. As you know, we’re holding Adam Green. We want you to interview him today before he goes into federal custody.”
“Why before?”
“Because we don’t want to lose this case. We don’t want him out on a technicality, but your presence at a jail would be ill advised.”
“Sir?” He takes a long pause, during which I cannot tell what he is thinking. I’m at a disadvantage during these moments of silence.
“Miss Young, we’re going to have to tell the press what we’ve told them in the past. It’s just not believable that you’re not a psychic.”
I take a deep breath.
“Sir, I’m not sure you understand how much of a problem that is for me. I’m a woman who is blind, that doesn’t make me magical just because I can’t see a man’s face while I interrogate him. I studied hard to make the work I do matter. Don’t take that away from me.”
“Miss Young, I don’t really care what you want to think about your abilities. Maybe you really have just figured out how to tell whether or not someone is lying to you by whether or not they breathe before or after they speak. To be frank, I don’t care how you do it. I want the truth from your subjects.”
I consider it for a second.
And then I speak his truth.
“You’re afraid of me. I can tell because whenever I’m in a room with you, you take these short breaths, which indicate anxiety. Whenever I’ve shaken your hand, your pulse goes up, but not in the way that another man’s would if he found me attractive. Also, when you put your left hand on my arm to steer me into your office chairs, I noticed that it doesn’t have the same weight as it did before — I take it you’re recently divorced? You really do think I can see your future, don’t you?”
He stammers, the beginnings of his protest are drowned out by me walking out of his office.
I ask the Agent at the door to take me to Mr. Green, as Director Fields has requested.
It’s time to face him once and for all.
“You’ve put my files on the desk?” I confirm with the Agent as Darius guides me down the long hallway.
The Agent whispers, “Yes, ma’am,” and then I hear the door open in front of me.
Showtime.
I hear the door shut behind me with as little force as possible, the whoosh of air sends in the last bit of scentless air, before I take a quiet breath to make sure it’s him.
Adam Green has always smelled like a threat.
Darius leads me towards the table, and I put a hand out and catch the chair, swiftly dropping myself into it without a sound.
“Hello, Mr. Green. Nice to …” I pause for emphasis “… see you again. I trust this will be the last time.”
No response.
Darius’ hackles have lifted to the sky; my fingertips on my left hand sink into his fur to let him know that I’ve noticed.
Green shifts loudly enough that I hear the chair grind against the concrete floor. His chains clink against one another. He cannot stay still.
I lift my right hand to my face and take my sunglasses off. According to the sighted people around me, my eyes are disconcerting. My eyes are white; they sparkle like opals. I have no center to my eyes, just a white orb floating where eyes should be. As a child it was harder, and I took to wearing sunglasses so that others wouldn’t comment upon them.
My eyes were for no one’s sight.
Until I wanted to unsettle someone.
Green had never seen my eyes before this moment. His intake of breath is monumental — it is the first time that I have knocked him off his perch, and so I launch a full assault.
“Mr. Green, would you like to tell me where the bodies are?” I drop the handle to Darius’ harness and slide my hand across the cold metal table. There are subtle divots in the surface from where someone has slammed their fist one too many times. My bets are on Director Fields.
I flip the heavy paper file open and slide my fingers across the braille printed pages, keeping my face turned towards where Green is. I know from the placement of the chair that I am looking him in the eyes while I read.
I am doing this for the effect of staring into my eyes — I know these names by heart. They are etched into my memory as I have felt them under my fingertips every time I’ve met with Green.
“Lucy Mills? Cadence Harrison? These names belong to you. Tell me where they are.” I set my right hand palm side up on the table between us. “You know the drill, Mr. Green. Give me your hand, please.”
The chair shrieks backward, chains rattling as he stands.
“You can’t leave. We’re going to talk, and you’re going to talk to me.” I force myself to smile at a man who has killed at least six women. I feel the Agent on guard in the room move forward to push Green back into his seat. The chair screeches forward again, and his hand lands in mine.
The scars and missing pieces of flesh are older, more pronounced than they once were. I place my left hand on top of his and I press my fingers against his wrist, finding his pulse. He fidgets, trying to settle into my grasp.
“Let’s start this again. My name is Penny Young, you’re Adam Green. Can you tell me whether or not Lucy Mills is alive?”
I know she’s dead. She’s been missing for six years. If he’s keeping her somewhere, we would have found her by now. I have never seen her face.
“Agent, you can leave us.” I speak clearly, knowing that the room is surveilled, we can still keep the evidence. “I think Mr. Green is ready to chat.” His pulse is racing as I speak, his pulse races even faster when the door slams behind the pissed-off Agent.
They hate leaving me
alone with my subjects.
Green takes in a breath and it sounds like he might be ready to start talking.
And he does.
His voice is rocky, filled with salt and vinegar and rage. What I hear in his voice is important, even though the words mean little. Because what I learn from the tone of his voice is that he is afraid of me — and he doesn’t like that.
“Whether or not she’s dead doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“Actually, it does,” I return as he tries to squirm his hand out of mine. I clamp down harder. “But we could start with a different question if you want. Where are the bodies?”
His heart jumps.
“You see, I’m fairly certain that they’re dead. Given the amount of time that has passed since they each disappeared.” The vein in his wrist tells me I am on the right track. I press further. “You don’t keep them alive for long, do you? You don’t like them speaking to you?”
At these words, Darius lets loose with a small growl. Just loud enough for me to hear it.
Green’s chains rattle as he shifts, trying to remove his hand from my grasp, he grunts with the sudden effort of realizing that I am not a pushover. He has underestimated me, just as I planned.
I slam his hand into the table, creating another divot in the metal. He’s pinned. His breath is ragged, mine is calm. My eyes do not blink; my face is blank of emotion or fear.
“Where. Are. They.” I enunciate each word carefully, sliding my face closer to his as I rise, increasing the intimidation of my body. Though he has killed women, I must demonstrate that I have something over him. And I do. He is bound in chains and I am not. “Green, if you co-operate now, you might dodge the death penalty. If you don’t, well…”
He spits out a single word. Were I able to see his face, it would be twisted with loathing. His single word writhes with his rage in the air.
“Newark.” He snarls.
His heart is jumping up and down like a toddler on a trampoline. I know he’s lying.
“Let’s try that again. Let’s try the truth.” I press harder into his wrist, his pulse coming even clearer.
His silence is proof that he is thinking about the truth.
Four years of interrogations. Of staring him down through sunglasses. Four interrogations where he said nothing to me, where his pulse stayed the same, where his breath was constantly boring. Four times I had thought I would never get him to speak, and this time it worked.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I drop my voice as low as possible. Even the recording devices might not hear me, but I know he does.
This time his hand grasps mine. His fingernails cut into my flesh, I fight to keep the pain from showing on my face. I will not let him get to me. I must stay strong, and I must crack him first.
“Why are you opening up to me now, Mr. Green?”
“I smelled you behind me. You were right there and you didn’t arrest me on the spot.”
His voice is dead.
His pulse is calm.
His breath is normal.
His truth is mine.
“I called the police.” I keep my voice quiet. I keep my position strong. I wait.
“You were right there for the taking, but I knew I had to get away from you before you recognized me. I knew you would. You’re psychic. That’s why I don’t tell you the truth. You already know.”
“I don’t know they’re dead because I’m psychic. I know they’re dead because you want to kill me right now. I can tell from the way that you grasp my hand with your nails dug deep into my flesh. I know because as you calm down, the grip on me becomes more threatening. I know because you are only patient when you are locked in chains.”
His breath rises with anger.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“You would have gotten caught.”
“That’s why I didn’t do it.”
“And yet you got caught anyway. Where are they?”
And he tells me, because he knows we’re never letting him go. He’s admitted that he wanted to kill me.
That would be enough to send him away for good.
But the bodies would be there — ready to tell their story when we found them.
I had gotten the truth — and never once did I read someone’s mind.
Thwock
Michelle Muenzler
“Pwen,” I say. It is my name. “Pwen, Pwen, Pwen.” I like my name. I want the coats to like my name as well. It is a happy name. “Pwen, Pwen, Pwen, Pwen, Pwenpwenpwenpwenpwenpw —”
“Shit,” says White Coat One.
“Damn,” says White Coat Two.
They do not say my name. I do not understand why, so I bounce in my chair and say it louder. “PWEN, PWEN, PWEN, PWEN —”
“I’m shutting her down,” says White Coat Three. “Prep her for reversion.”
“PWEN, PWEN, PWEN, PWEN —”
White Coat Three reaches behind my neck, shakes his head, and clicks a switch. “What a fucking waste.”
“PW —”
Zot.
#
Pwen, I whisper. It is very dark in the in between. Much darker than the last time. And the time before that. I cannot see my name, it is so dark, but I feel it on my shoulder. Pwen, Pwen.
Thwock, says the thing in the dark.
I do not like the thing in the dark. It smells like the color blue. Like square pegs jammed into triangle holes.
Pwen, Pwen, Pwen, I insist.
The thing in the dark is hungry. It is always hungry. The thing in the dark is hunger.
A light blinks into existence. A green light. Green is for go, and going is for me. The thing in the dark cannot go. It can only stay and eat.
A voice blinks in with the light.
“Core’s booted,” says White Coat Three. “Let’s get the rest of her systems up and see if this fucking version’s stable enough we can get out of here for the night. I’m starving.”
The coats laugh.
Pwen, Pwen, I say. I will be stable for the coats. I will not be junk. They will be proud and say my name. We will say my name together and drive back the thing in the dark. The in between will be bright again and full of happy names to share. I will share them all. Pwen, Pwen, Pwen, Pwen, Pw —
The thing in the dark wraps its arms around me. My name crinkles and folds between us.
Thwock, it whispers into my ear. It is cold. So very cold.
It tastes my name. Laps it with its cold tongue.
I do not want it to eat my name. It is the last name I have. The best name. The only name the thing in the dark has not yet eaten.
I shrink as the thing in the dark’s teeth nibble at my shoulder. The light blinks faster, and I decide what must be done.
Thwock, I whisper, and point to the green light. The thing in the dark’s name is wrong, like running upside down. Like breathing rain. But it is also power. I both like and do not like the thing in the dark’s name.
The thing in the dark slurps.
Thwock, I repeat louder, the name firmer on my tongue. My casing shivers. I tuck Pwen inside my chest where the thing in the dark will not find her. Where nobody will find her. Pwen will not be eaten. Pwen will survive and be happy and be the best forever and ever. Pwen is a good name.
Thwock, affirms the thing in the dark. It pushes me toward the green. Its claws clack against my back. Thwock, thwock.
Wearing my new name, I touch the light.
#
“Uhngh,” gurgles Red Coat One.
“Eeyarghh,” keens Red Coat Two.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” cries Red Coat Three. He clutches his stomach. “Please, please, oh God, please!” Things squirm behind his fingers. Red things. Pink things. Purple things. Things whose names I do not know.
But he does not say my name. He does not remember it. Red Coat One and Red Coat Two do not remember it either. I must teach them all again.
“Thwock,” I insist, and raise the scalpel once
more.
Red Coat Three whimpers as I lean over him.
I will write my name in a place he cannot forget this time. I will make him listen.
Thwock.
Can You Tell Me How to Get to Paprika Place?
Michael Underwood
Charlie the Fox peered through the cloud of ashes that used to be Memphis. He’d visited Memphis once before, a lifetime ago. Back then, Charlie and his friends had just been TV personalities, custom-grown in Bunco’s genetic labs to be the perfect sticky entertainment for a Pre-K demographic.
Last time, they’d flown in to participate in the Memphis Italian Festival, when John the Producer had said they needed to shore up their partnership with Yumtoni Dinners.
Memphis had changed, like the rest of the world. Charlie activated thermal mode on his left eye and saw the landscape dotted with orange, yellow, and red — distant fires, maybe a generator or two. They’d left the last settlement a week ago after he gave up on anyone there knowing where to go.
Fluffasaurus plodded over hills for another hour, and as they crested another bomb-blasted mound, Charlie saw the group.
There were four of them — all young and scrawny, rifles slung over their backs — sitting in a circle around a fire. They might have been viewers, once. They were so much like a camping group, but nothing like the groups from his skits. His skits didn’t have guns, didn’t have machetes stuffed into leather sleeves on motorcycles.
Remember kids, don’t talk to strangers! Charlie thought, remembering the skit he’d done with Old Mr. Scary. But if he didn’t, he might never get home, and he’d made a promise.
