Controller

by Stephen W Bennett

  Thinking about this, Anderson asked himself, how did he know when to accelerate? If the limo had not stopped at the center of the intersection, it would have been all but impossible to hit that target in the narrow time interval as it crossed the street.

  He was missing something. Almost with a slap on his forehead, he knew what, or rather who it was. The mystery thin man had to be nearby. He focused for thirty minutes on looking at the people he could see at the intersection of the future crash but didn’t spot the thin man. Then, he looked at the cross-street camera that looked back towards where Dayton’s truck would be parked. He watched as it pulled to the curb at mid-block to wait, and the cars behind the truck continued up the street. He was stunned when the second car behind the cement truck was a sleek black luxury sports car, which he had seen on the earlier recording.

  He watched the black car approach the intersection, and it parked next to a fireplug, several car lengths from the corner. The fireplug assured there would be no cars parked there, and there was a pair of No Parking signs from there to the intersection. The mystery man had an unobstructed view. He’d see the funeral procession coming from his left, and the scheduled time of the procession was available at the funeral home. Even so, the timing was still questionable. That truck needed to pull into traffic and accelerate, then the limo needed to stop and sit there. How many damned people did the thin man pay to help him execute this overly complex plan? The limo driver and the funeral director were both injured, so they were unlikely participants.

  But he’d forgotten one detail of the accident report. The limo had stopped because of a fender bender in front of the procession. The number of co-conspirators kept increasing.

  When the funeral came into view and approached the intersection, emergency lights flashing along the line of cars, magnetic flags waving, he watched with increasing intensity and anxiety. Just after the lead black sedan, followed by the hearse passed through the intersection, two cars the sedan happened to be behind suddenly smacked bumpers and came to a sudden stop. The entire procession came to a halt with the limousine just behind the hearse sitting in the intersection.

  He was so focused on that scene that he was startled when the truck came in from the side of that frame to smash into the limo. There were time stamps, so he noted the time when the limo was forced to stop, and then played the image of the cement truck pulling out to speed up until the time of the impact. He saw the truck had started moving before the fender bender had happened, nearly sideswiping another car that had to make way for the truck as it cut it off by pulling into traffic. That meant the fender bender was planned, and coordinated with the cement truck’s movement. That made this as carefully a coordinated and orchestrated scene as in some spy movie or crime film. However, seldom in the real world did things work out so smoothly. It was so impressive that it might be difficult to convince a judge or jury that all these were planned actions, and not some fateful coincidence simply because it was so complex.

  It was late in the afternoon, and he had enough information to use for expanding his investigation. He needed to find out who owned that sports car, which would surely be the thin man.

  He found Arleen, paid her for a small flash drive they offered for sale and had her enter her password to enable the USB port to make the file copies he wanted. At less than twenty dollars, it was dirt cheap.

  He signed the form that listed the files he copied with their case numbers, and dates, and carried that to the clerk that took his payment. As he left, the clerk entered the transaction in a computer and typed in what data he’d received, and the name of the person on the receipt. Before Anderson was out of the building, the clerk used her cell phone to make a personal phone call. A powerful imperative, somewhat like one of the fabled posthypnotic suggestions was triggered, causing her to call a number and to report the transaction to a voice at the other end. Not every file copy triggered her to make the call. Just for the handful of case numbers or dates that the voice on the phone wanted to track. She was paid a modest sum each time she did this, to reinforce the implanted compulsion.

  ****

  Stiles hated the tedium of housekeeping. That’s how he thought of cleaning up human debris, eliminating defective Shields, and tossing out worn out or broken Tools. In his nomenclature, a Tool was someone like Sheffield, and Collier was a Shield.

  He used Tools to accomplish the technical work of the contracts he acquired from his clients. He could mentally exploit a Tool’s criminal predilections to do illegal things for his clients, even when the Tool didn’t particularly want to do them. He would use them repeatedly until worn out, or compromised. Sheffield was in the latter category, and thus it was time for his disposal.

  Dallas Collier, one of his longest-serving Shields had demonstrated again why he’d attained that longevity. He found new Tools for Stiles via his “talent searches,” and like today, reported when they’d outlived their usefulness. Dallas had been a good middleman back when local Jeffersonville clients needed inexpensive illegal services. He had helped Stiles expand his services across the river to Louisville, but the man didn’t have the social skills, intellect, or contacts in the larger city to find clients such as Arnold. He’d always been good at acquiring the small-time clients that wanted the lower cost services that Stiles had provided in his early years. Now, Stiles used lawyers and politicians to help him identify potential wealthy clients for higher priced services, such as major insurance fraud, or to generate dead competitors. Shares of insurance claim payoffs had been his early sources of income as a teen. Breaking away from that easy money was hard.

  Tools and Shields; in fact, everyone he’d ever met, were what his research from years ago led him to call Susceptibles, and as far as he knew, he was the only Controller. He used Shields as his buffers from the Tools he controlled at a distance if needed, and as isolation from his clients.

  He often used members of the public as impromptu and unwitting Tools for his purposes. He could implant false images and thoughts that fooled them for long enough to do what he wanted, while they believed they were doing something that seemed reasonable. Or, he could use brute mental force to make them do what he wanted, which required his direct participation.

  That was how he managed to get drivers to swerve and accelerate towards a target when he wanted, provided they were close enough to him. In range as he thought of his ability. From years of experience, he knew he could manipulate anyone in some fashion. He couldn’t normally trick someone, such as a nun or priest, into killing someone for example. He’d tried that, with limited success. However, if they believed they were defending themselves or say a child, they might strike out at another person with what they thought was a rolled-up magazine. The shock of seeing a knife in someone’s chest snapped many people out of his control, even though he could reestablish it shortly. Forced Control required him to be nearby, which wasn’t always practical.

  Tonight, he had a full schedule of cleanup, which could last well into the morning. Sheffield would be first, a Tool that he knew where to find him. He wouldn’t try to use his Tool’s arson skill set to eliminate either of the two insurance investigators, who he’d discovered had gotten too close to some of his previous jobs. He also didn’t want to try the indirect methods he’d employed for Habersham. That fiasco had now led to a bigger cleanup when his Tools in Louisville had been less effective than if he’d been in more direct control. Additional suspicious fires and traffic accidents might attract more outside attention. Although, it wasn’t that he couldn’t cut all the loose ends that might lead to himself.

  After moving to his nice new home in Louisville’s Eastern suburbs, he didn’t want to stir up the waters here on his new home turf, not when he was expanding to more important clients on a national scale. These local crimes would become things of the past.

  Stiles drove a less ostentatious car for this evenings work than his Aston Martin. Driving that car had been a careless concession to his feelings of invulnerabili
ty. Its use had led to both of his cleanups tonight. One of his Shields had conducted a full background check on the men he wanted to eliminate, and they were both former police officers of the LMPD, supplementing their disability benefits as part-time insurance investigators. Allowing some Tool to do a clumsy job this time might stir up some powerful emotions among their former friends still on the force. Their deaths shouldn’t look like deliberate hits, and certainly not from fires or from being run down in traffic accidents.

  Stiles pulled up to the Blue Grass Mobile Home park close to Shively, just outside of Louisville, where Sheffield had lived since his release from prison. He had been waiting out his three years of probation while working at a building supply business, recently using arson for pay to supplement his income. The latter was a sideline Stiles had mentally pushed the reformed arsonist into resuming when he had lunch with Collier in this very trailer. An offer of money to pay in full for the unit was all that was needed to set up the lunch. After that, his love of fires and fire trucks was the weakness that Stiles exploited. That was just after Garth Arnold had learned his failing business had a savior that could sell his whiskey, and help him collect the insurance if it appeared to have burned. Sheffield was a convenient Tool with the right skills and predisposition, who needed only slight mental manipulation and no direct control by Stiles.

  Parking on the road next to the trailer park, where Stiles had waited before when Collier was here for the interview, the aging single-wide trailer was only twenty feet the other side of the peeling white paint of the ranch-style fence. It was just after sunset, and the lights were on inside the trailer. There was a 500-gallon propane tank near the end of the trailer that he remembered from the previous visit. He seldom needed to be so directly involved in clean up, but for expediency tonight he would get his hands dirty.

  He saw movements inside half-open curtains of the trailers on lots to either side of Sheffield’s. He projected a general instruction to every mind within his range.

  Turn on your TV. There is an emergency weather broadcast of a local tornado warning area. You are at risk. Wait for the announcement.

  That would keep them occupied and not looking out the windows. The fact that the sky was only partly cloudy wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t see when Stiles climbed over the five-foot fence.

  When he reached the door of the trailer, he looked through the window to see the man sitting on a couch and staring at his TV, waiting for the weather announcement. Thinking towards Sheffield only, he thought, take a nap, sleep deep and ignore the sounds you hear, the wind is picking up, but the storm isn’t close.

  The man slumped back, raised his legs onto the couch and rested his head on the padded arm and closed his eyes. Stiles didn’t even wait. He opened the door softly and ignored the squeak of the hinges. He’d done things like this many times, and even if the man opened his eyes, he’d tell him he couldn’t move, and he’d stay where he was. Unless he grasped that his life was in danger, he couldn’t break free of that instruction. Even then he could be controlled.

  If only he’d learned a means to force someone to have a heart attack or a stroke. He’d tried, but people didn’t have that level of control over their autonomic nervous system. They would hold their breath until they passed out, but then they resumed breathing. He’d tormented Pickling like that for the better part of a year at school in his freshman year, never letting him know it was him causing his distress. Willing him to die never worked, so eventually, he spoofed him into going onto the roof of the three-story building, and he dove off the edge into a non-existent pool.

  He turned off the pilot lights on the water heater, stove, and furnace, and opened the feed to a burner that had a pan containing cold canned stew waiting to become dinner. The empty can was on the counter. Stiles heard the hiss of gas and smelled the slight rotten egg odor added to make a leak noticeable. He went to close the doors to the two bedrooms and bathroom to help the gas accumulate faster in the combined kitchen and living room. He closed a kitchen window he saw was half opened, and saw a pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table, with a lighter. He moved them to the coffee table by the couch. It was ironic. Of course, a firebug liked to smoke.

  He turned off all the lights and the TV before easing out of the trailer. Returning to his car, he drove down the road about seventy-five feet, staying within his mental range. He waited, using his educated estimate of when the fumes would reach a mix of about 5%. At below 2% and above 10%, there was a good probability of no ignition, and he didn’t want the man to suffocate quietly. He wanted a mess.

  When he decided there had been enough time, he mentally sent, Wake-up Sheffield. You need a cigarette, and your fart stinks.

  He drove down the road further, chuckling. He’d used the fart suggestion because once on a previous occasion, for another propane “accident,” the smell was obvious and made the victim suspicious. He’d had to suggest to that victim to close the door and go back inside, and then sent him into paralysis for a much slower asphyxiation. Tonight, he wanted the odor explained to his victim. An arsonist might notice and be alarmed, resisting a control suggestion for several minutes.

  Inside, Sheffield stirred on the couch and wondered at the darkness. The power must be off, he thought.

  Apparently, the storm had passed close by while he napped. Now he was hungry and wanted a cigarette. He recalled his smokes were on the kitchen table, but he banged his shins on the coffee table in the dark as he stood up, and when his hands pressed down to catch himself, he mashed the pack and felt his lighter there. Cursing at possibly crushing his only pack, he fumbled inside the flip top pack for one. It felt intact, but in the dark, he wasn’t sure. No point in trying the lamp on the end table. It was already on before the power failed.

  He was also hungry since he’d been preparing a pan of stew before the weather advisory came. At least the gas stove didn’t require electrical power, and he could warm that up if he could see. Just before he flicked his lighter for its illumination, the scent of his fart attracted his attention. If he’d not eaten, why had his crummy digestion produced its typical response to greasy food? Had he eaten and just forgot? He saw a glow from next door and wondered why they had power, and he didn’t. He flicked the lighter to see his way to the stove, which permanently ruined his appetite.

  Stiles couldn’t read thoughts, just send his to others, so there was no way to know if the spark came from a light being switched on or the flick of the lighter. In either case, there was a bright flash, and the boom of the blast proved the gas had reached an explosive mixture. The sides and roof of the flimsy trailer flew away in large fragments as the windows blew out in finer shrapnel. A few flames remained after the initial explosion, and the couch was on fire, with the wreckage of a body lying across it in the small yard. Even the units on each side looked severely damaged, and now there were shouts and screams of pain. Not that Stiles cared.

  Next, he had to travel halfway to the other side of Louisville for his second cleanup task. There was no rush; he wanted to get to the Billings house after bedtime when the family of three should be asleep. He used his GPS to find the address. He wasn’t as familiar with the area, having spent all but the last year living in Jeffersonville. He had moved into his new territory a year after his mother’s suicide.

  He’d not felt any particular grief or attachment to her, or to the bigger house where he’d moved them both when his and her fortunes improved before he graduated high school. He had her total devotion, and she still spoiled him with his favorite foods, but she was also a moral woman, and she gradually became aware of the number of people that he came into contact with that experienced grief or death, or did what he told them with nearly slavish devotion.

  Her Shelly went through a steady string of girls and young women that acted as if he was Adonis when they were with him but seemed repulsed at other times. She assumed he was paying them for their attention and sexual favors. He harshly and cruelly rejected her comments to him, but
for some reason, she was unable to criticize him after that. The words wouldn’t come to her. She finally recognized that he didn’t love her but kept her around out of his adolescent habits, and he was outgrowing those.

  Neither of them had grieved for his father, and both were pleased with the results of the lawsuit his mother’s ambulance chasing attorney won for them. Then, he learned from his mother how the lawyer had bilked her out of more money than he was entitled to keep, claiming excessive expenses and fees, and he reported a large loss in an investment he’d urged her to make for Shelly’s future.

  A high school Sophmore by then, Stiles cut the lawyer’s career short and managed to recover some of the money in an unusual secret cash payment to the teen, on the same day he died by driving off an embankment into the Ohio River.

  After his mother had hanged herself two years ago, it altered his years of inertia of living the mildly profitable life he’d been living in Jeffersonville. It was obvious there was a bigger playground in the larger city on the other side of the river. He discovered he had ambitions. He’d been making what he thought was a lot of money with his scams in Jeffersonville, but he decided to search for new clients in Louisville. After he had recruited two new Shields there, they both independently told him they could find him richer clientele, and more of them. Because neither one knew about the other and couldn’t have conspired, he took their advice and made a move. It was the start of his ever-widening horizons.