He looked back at Sheldon. “I advise you to stay away from them as much as possible. If either of them approaches you, get away from them. They both have a history of school fights and have been in trouble before. Whoever administered that beating to Pickling, they came close to killing him. There was some bleeding in the brain, which could have proven fatal if that woman hadn’t warned them she’d called the police. If he lay there, unseen, and untreated for hours, possibly overnight, he might have died. Those two boys, Blanchard and Pickling, could be planning revenge if they’re faking their convenient memory loss.”
He stood, and before he made his exit, looked at Sheldon and told him, “If they threaten you, or try to force you into a fight, report it to your parents, or to your teacher or principal at your school.”
Sheldon rose also. “I’m not afraid of them, and I’m certain they won’t bother me again.” He sounded confident. That was because he knew it would be the other way around.
After the door had closed, his dad looked his son over with a skeptical eye. “I know you didn’t kick that kid’s ass, not even with a baseball bat. It was probably that Grub kid. Did you see him do it and he warned you to keep your mouth shut?”
“No, Sir.”
“How about if I march your butt over to his house after supper, and have you face him? I’ll be right behind you if he wants to fight. You obviously know where he lives.”
It was his dad trying to force him, as he always phrased it, “To man up.” It pissed him off.
He looked him in the eye and told him with mental force behind the actual words, “Just sit there and finish your drink, take a shower, then hit the sack early. You aren’t hungry anyway.”
Maddie couldn’t suppress her small gasp of fear, but Jethro took a swallow of his whiskey, and told her forcefully, “I ain’t hungry. That slop you made spoiled my appetite. I’ll get a good night’s sleep after I shower, and eat a big breakfast in the morning.”
It was Sheldon’s first effort to influence his father, and he’d been afraid of trying. It had been stupid to speak his thoughts aloud to him instead of just think the order, but it worked, just like it did for his mother and that cop. He wanted to eat supper early tonight, and get back to his research. He was looking for any references concerning mind control, telepathy, or other ESP abilities.
He had his mother make him a dinner tray to take to his room, and he ate there. He hadn’t found a description of what he was able to do, but there were plenty of things he couldn’t do, nor could anyone else, apparently.
Animals had ignored his commands, for example, as did insects and pet goldfish. He couldn’t mentally budge anything, like make one of his dad’s cigarettes roll on a table, or lift even a fleck of dust. He couldn’t levitate, teleport himself or any objects, and despite his new mental ability, he couldn’t read anyone else’s thoughts. They didn’t exactly seem to read his, as much as receive them when he sent them, and then obey them or behave or speak as if what he told them were their thoughts, behaving as if it was their own will causing their actions.
Depending on their inclination, or predispositions, some people would briefly try and sometimes succeed, in opposing his mental commands. Like Pickling struggling to talk when he’d been ordered to shut up. Three days ago, after Tommy’s teeth were knocked out, he’d tried to force a little girl of six, to pick up a bee on the playground, to see if it would sting her. She drew close to it and trembled, her hand hovering near, but she refused to touch it despite his even saying it aloud. He learned she was not merely afraid of stinging insects. That education occurred when her mother heard him tell her to pick up the bee.
She was angry and explained as she pulled her daughter away, that she could go into anaphylactic shock if stung, and might die without a shot. He’d been unable to make her risk her life. The woman told him he should feel ashamed of himself, but he didn’t even know how that felt.
Nor did he know what anaphylactic shock meant. The next two days, as he walked home from school, he stopped at a neighborhood public library to look up that term, and more personally important, started searching for information about his new ability. He took books home when he couldn’t finish reading there.
He knew he didn’t have a general form of ESP. It was specific and limited, but at the same time, it seemed to give him considerable power over other people. There were no reports, none that he could find anyway, that described anyone that could do what he did. He even read about mental disorders, glancing through a book on mental health. There, he found a description of a term he’d heard before, which proved not to be an official diagnosis, yet described what he honestly and frankly thought applied to himself.
It was the word sociopath, listed in an article about antisocial personality disorders. It said that such people had little sense of right and wrong, as either defined by or claimed by other people. It was someone who didn’t understand another person’s feelings. He thought that was a fair description of how he felt, such as when that mother told him he should be ashamed of trying to get her daughter stung by a bee.
He didn’t know she was allergic then and assumed a sting would be painful but harmless otherwise. However, he realized he still wasn’t affected once he knew her life was at risk. He did NOT feel ashamed, as the word’s definition, and synonyms, described how people would feel. He had only been interested in testing his control of her and didn’t care what happened to the girl if it didn’t cause him any trouble. In that case, he might be sorry for the trouble he was in, but not for her. The word sociopath and the traits listed for it seemed to fit him.
It’s difficult to know how he would have been affected at age thirteen, had he not stopped reading when he did, satisfied he’d found a description that fit his self-image. Although, it’s unlikely it would have mattered, because of what he truly was. Had he turned to the next page in that book, he would have found the description of a psychopath.
A key difference between the two personality types, was if the person had a conscience, an inner voice that would let them know if they were doing something that others would say is wrong. Sheldon would have instantly recognized there was no such voice in his mind.
He was observant and smart enough to pretend to act like others expected him to behave. That way he didn’t seem strange or dangerous, which might place him at a disadvantage when obtaining what he wanted from other people. He could pretend to have moral qualms, so when he lied about his honesty, he could steal from them by gaining their trust. Guilt was never a part of Sheldon Parker Stiles life.
Now, with his new power over people, which with use was growing stronger, he would have to pretend less often. He needed to learn how he could use his “talent” to achieve what he wanted. The girls at school were going to perceive an improved Parker, as he wanted people to call him. Puberty would be a lot less stressful now.
The next morning, fate helped accelerate his learning curve through the summer to come.
Jethro awakened hungry, and because he’d not been ordered to forget the events of yesterday evening, he remembered his son’s words and him staring him down, and that humiliated him. Sheldon had left for school early, not wishing to share the big breakfast his father had ordered the evening before. Maddie was the first to pay the price for his anger, already at the stove when he entered the kitchen. He beat her with his fists and left her on the kitchen floor, scalding hot fried eggs dumped on her. He drove his aging pickup truck to order a fast food breakfast before work started. He’d teach that smart-mouthed kid some real respect when he got home tonight.
The woman next door had heard the fight, his shouting, and Maddie’s screams, and after the truck left, went to check on her neighbor. She called for an ambulance when she found her moaning on the floor, clutching her stomach where she’d been punched or kicked, grease burns on her arm.
The hospital called Sheldon’s school when they were unable to reach her husband at an unknown job site, unaware that he was responsible for his
wife’s injuries. Pulled from class and notified, he instantly knew what had triggered his father’s sober, early morning rage, and what would await him this evening if he did nothing.
A counselor offered to drive him to the nearby hospital, but he declined, saying he would rather walk. They told him his mother would be OK. He wasn’t certain he could fully rely on his mental instructions to people to forget events because he wasn’t going near that hospital yet. Instead, he walked three times as far.
Sheldon reached the strip mall where his father would be working on a large new pet supply store under construction. It was close to noon by then, and he figured that without the usual packed lunch made for him by Maddie, that his dad would have to eat out.
Lounging where he could see the shell of the new building, he stayed within a hundred feet of his dad’s pickup truck. He had fifteen minutes to think, and to observe, spotting where there were places to eat. He decided the truck was an asset, even beat up as it was. His dad would have to walk. That meant he’d have to stay within a hundred feet or less of him, risking exposure if seen, and complicating his half-formed plan.
He was in front of a barbershop, and as a patron came out, he tested a new skill he’d tried at school a few times. He projected a false mental image of himself to the fat man with a fresh haircut and walked in front of him.
“Oops. Sorry, mam, I didn’t see you coming.” The man stepped around a small woman and passed behind the person that looked exactly like Maddie Stiles to him. Elated, Sheldon paid close attention to how the fat man looked and walked.
Soon, clusters of men started walking out of the future front doors of the pet store’s concrete block shell, some headed for their vehicles, others went to the store’s outside southern wall for the breeze and shade, to sit on stacks of plywood, opening lunch boxes. He saw his dad split away from two men that headed for a small Chinese restaurant in the strip mall. His dad didn’t like oriental food, and he was approaching his truck. If he’d liked Chinese food, Sheldon would have had to alter his plan to get his dad to walk alone to some other restaurant. He sent his thought instructions.
You should get a hot pizza for lunch. There’s a nice shop across the highway, a block to the left. Walking is good exercise and will save money on gas.
Jethro tipped the bill of his ball cap back, and looked left, across the six-lane thoroughfare. He was squinting in the sunlight and looked puzzled.
It has a red and blue sign. Walk closer.
He started cutting across the wide parking lot, still scanning for the sign. Sheldon followed, to keep the distance under a hundred feet, staying behind other parked vehicles. His dad’s suddenly increased walking pace and a more direct line proved he’d seen the sign.
Head directly for the sidewalk.
Jethro turned half to the right, towards the sidewalk. It would make the walk longer, but Sheldon needed the extra time to think, plan, and adapt.
The wide sidewalk was empty, except for a cyclist that passed him and then approached his dad from behind. The rider had politely called out a soft warning that he was about to pass him on the left as he went around, and Sheldon had glanced back. His dad might also look back, and see someone he wanted to beat to a pulp, triggering anger that might make controlling him difficult. But Sheldon was ready for that.
Jethro seemed startled when the bicycle drew near, and jumped aside and looked back when warned of the passing rider. Always in an uncharitable mood, he noticed there was a fat tub of a man walking well behind him. He hoped the man didn’t go to the same pizza parlor. That slob would spoil his appetite. He turned back and resumed his walk, a bit faster now since the breakfast sandwich hadn’t been very filling and that image of pizza had been made very appealing.
Sheldon felt frustrated because a traffic signal had held up traffic more than a block ahead, where crossing the busy highway to reach the pizza parlor would be logical, and frustratingly safe. Then the light changed, and three lanes of backed up traffic started into motion. It was the opportunity he’d needed.
Cross at mid-block, watch for a gap in the traffic at the edge of the road.
Jethro stepped to the curb and looked at the traffic picking up speed.
Sheldon saw what he needed, and the driver would soon be in his mental range.
To his dad, he thought, plenty of time, they’re starting slow, check on the traffic coming from your right on the other side, and start walking to the median.
To the semi driver in the right lane, better make up some time, and step on the gas. Check your mirror for that patrol car behind you.
His dad had started walking too fast, but at least he was looking to his front right. Stop and face to your right, Sheldon is on the sidewalk.
He turned, looking in confusion until he saw his son instead of the fat man he expected, and the little snot gave him the finger. His face turned ugly as he opened his mouth, shouting something and he took a half step.
Sheldon couldn’t hear what he yelled, because it was drowned out by the revving engine of the massive red, semi-truck, directly behind Jethro.
His angry expression changed to surprise as the left fender, and high bumper slammed into his thighs and back, throwing him forward to the pavement. He had stopped when he was nearly across the first lane, so his body was in line with the truck’s left front wheel. The impact wasn’t high speed and had he been in the center of the lane the wheels would have straddled his prone form, as the high chassis passed over him, injured but probably survivable.
Instead, the cab bounced slightly as the front left wheel passed over the length of his body. Then the next four wheels slightly bounced as they passed over the object. When the rear wheels of the heavily loaded trailer passed over the broken body, there was scarcely a ripple of movement along the big rig’s trailer. The automobile driver behind the truck saw an object on the roadway as the truck moved on, and managed to screech to a stop, the front tire coming to rest on the man’s crushed ass. There it stayed until an ambulance and a fire rescue unit arrived in under five minutes. Not that the victim felt the final insult to his body, or resented the time it took to remove the pressure.
Sheldon watched the impact and subsequent crushing of his father with impassivity. There wasn’t even much of a sense of satisfaction or accomplishment because the act was so easy for him. He'd almost allowed him to cross the right lane before the truck reached him. Never having driven, he had misjudged the acceleration of a heavy truck. He would do better the next time if he ever needed to engineer another traffic accident.
As a last detail, to confuse the scene and witnesses, and divert the police, Sheldon made sure the trucker stayed ignorant of what had happened. The big rig kept going on its way towards an interstate a half mile ahead. It proved to be an inadvertent benefit for Maddie’s future lawsuit against the trucking company’s insurance company. The driver would be accused of a hit and run when police discovered his destination was a local grocery store, just the other side of the interstate overpass. Sheldon had sent him South, over an Ohio River bridge towards Louisville, Kentucky.
With a sigh, Sheldon started the long walk home, wondering what he’d do for supper. Then he remembered he’d have to stop to see his mother. Another sigh, but he still needed her, so he should at least stop for a short visit. He might even wait until the police showed up to report the accident to his mom, and they could give him a ride home. It might be good for appearances for them to see him with her. Besides, he only had school lunch money with him, so he could probably eat her hospital dinner meal when it came.
That caused him to think of cash for the first time. He should ask his mother where they would get money now, because the pay from his dad’s job would stop. He’d be sure to ask his mom if they had any savings or insurance. He’d never given finances a single thought in his life.
The eventual insurance claim for his father’s death helped guide some his decisions about future sources of revenue, but that came later.
H
e was about to learn it wasn’t a free world. At least not yet for him. But it would become one, just as soon as he figured out how to make the world pay him what it owed him. It would eventually pay him more than it was possible for him to even dream at age thirteen. But, events would educate him, and his brain’s new organ would grow larger and stronger, as did a muscle used often and energetically.
Sheldon wondered if anyone else had his ability to control people. He was unaware that he was one of the strongest having Mind Control, and perhaps the only one with a psychopathic personality.
Free will of anyone near him was soon to come under assault.
Chapter 2: Investigators are Mortal
Friday, October 6, 2017, Louisville, Kentucky. Local events combine to draw attention to Stiles, now twenty-seven, who recently expanded his sphere of influence beyond his previous narrow comfort zone. It was that old comfort zone of local crime that brought him scrutiny, not his newly widened contacts with organized crime.
****
Dan Grayson, of Grayson Fraud Investigations, informed his two junior partners that he was taking a half day off. “Gil, Roger, you two are on your own until Monday. Barb has my afternoon planned out with Honey-Do stuff at home.”
Gilbert Anderson and Roger Billings, like Grayson, were former cops, and both were disabled to some extent from on the job injuries.
Roger had a proposal. “I’ll be back from my Jeffersonville research before dinner time. How about Sandy and I meet you and Barb for steak and beers at Harvey’s? Gil and Maureen are always there on weekends. If we go, we’d better avoid talk of investigative work. That pisses the wives off when we do that, and even Maureen gets bored.”
Harvey’s was owned by a retired Louisville Metro Police Department captain and was an eatery and bar, with live music, a small dance floor, and was a hangout for many current and former officers, which included the three men. Maureen was a uniformed patrol officer, and Gil had moved in with her after his wife divorced him for infidelity. There was no point pretending his marriage had not been on the rocks for years, and he’d needed a place to crash. The hours and the nature of the job often took a toll on police marriages.
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