Why shouldn't he? Dustin was smart—maybe he had all the logistics worked out. If he wanted to visit his girlfriend in Mexico, who had the right to stop him?
And if his girlfriend's engaged in some government brouhaha that doesn't bear close examination? Who draws the lines then?
Lawrence was in a bind. If he sent people in to bring Dustin back, it could alienate him from the man forever. That wasn't something Lawrence wanted to do. Not only did he consider Dusty a friend—he had a lot of respect for him, too. A token of that respect had been his own nonappearance at the hospital while Dustin was recuperating. That way, there could be no misinterpretation or misunderstanding. Lawrence had hoped he'd made it clear that noninterference was the new status quo. That help would only be forthcoming if Mallory wanted it.
In its own way, it was a fantasy, because Charles Smythe and Marc Jekkes were not about to allow Dustin or any of the others to wander around unprotected. They had too much to lose through a misstep—whether by their charges or to them. That was what was getting them now: Dustin had managed to lose his “protectors", too.
Which made the question of whether Lawrence Valterzar was going to Mexico merely an exercise in rhetoric. For all intents and purposes, he was already on his way.
* * * *
Dustin knew he had a major problem. He'd already run into two Olmecs and a couple of Santa Anna's men. He'd nearly been hit by a bus, because a steer had charged him somewhere in the centre of town. Now, he was in the middle of a square, surrounded by women in long dresses. So far, nothing out of the past had tackled him, but the present was a far greater threat. Usually, his episodes were intermittent. Today—probably due to the medication he was taking—he'd had three episodes in as many hours.
He'd never make it to wherever Ren was at this point. That was the other thing: he had no way of knowing exactly where she was. He'd somehow thought, given their natures, that some kind of “psychic beacon” would flare up in the muddle of his mind. It was obvious now that the painkillers had worn off—boy, had they worn off!—that he hadn't been thinking clearly. At the rate he was going, he'd be more likely to see what happened to her yesterday, than today...
Gooseflesh danced across his skin, and some of the weariness left his face. He'd never tried it, but it might just work. He grinned, and flagged down a taxi. Time to go back to the airport.
* * * *
“What do you see?” Ren asked him.
“Why are you whispering?” Josh asked. “Afraid a stray lizard might hear?”
“There's a man in there,” Ren explained, “so don't be cynical.”
Josh looked dubiously at the wreckage. The small cargo plane had slid along the desert floor, then ploughed into one of the sandstone mini mounts. It was more than a little crunched, and layered with sandy soil and rock. “He's not going to be too healthy,” Josh remarked unhappily.
“How's your first aid?”
“Probably on a par with yours.”
“You realise that doesn't say much. Can't you focus on a medical manual or something?”
He realised she was halfway serious. “No real focal point. What about you?” he asked hopefully. “Any chance of getting internet access on your phone, so we can get some ideas?”
She shook her head. “The best I could do is send out the emergency signal, and hope they hear it.”
Josh nodded, and started across the rubble. “They never leave us alone, and then the one time we'd really like to see them, they play hard to find.”
“Maybe they didn't expect us to wander so far away from where they'd sent us.”
The rocks crunched under Josh's feet, making each step uncomfortably loud. “Wish I could tiptoe,” he hissed. He squatted down and began to paw at the soil that was blocking the door. “Hotcha-la-lacha!” he complained. “And this is in the shade.”
“Why are you whispering?” Ren asked him. Josh shrugged. “I'll try the other side.” Her crunch, though quieter, was still too conspicuous. Why am I worried about it? she thought.
The answer filtered into her head the next second. She'd been interpreting the victim's mindset as indicative of pain, panic, terror. She'd just realised something else: this was not a “nice” man. He had murder on his mind.
Ren came tearing back around the fuselage, and ran smack into Josh, who'd been running back the other way. The thud stunned them both, and they splayed on the ground.
“Didn't your ‘telepathy’ tell you where I was?” Josh griped.
Ren was panting in the heat, and she jerked her hands away from the burning soil. “He's a bad guy, you jerk!” she hissed to Josh.
He nodded, rubbing his head where it had hit the metal. “And he has a gun,” Josh replied. He looked warily at the bent fuselage. “What the hell are we going to do now?”
* * * *
He'd never tried “directing” it before. He'd never had a reason to. The closest he'd come had been that time with Josh, when he'd tried hunting for his dinosaur.
Should that be a warning? Was that what had gone wrong? Had he been concentrating so hard that he'd not only brought part of the past into his head—he'd brought part of himself into the past?
Not the happiest conclusion, but it might be one he could live with. As long as he didn't willingly call events forth, they might remain what they were before: a glimpse, a scene, a small enactment of the past.
Sooner or later, I'm going to have to test it out.
It sounded like a good excuse for doing exactly what he wanted to do. Common sense told him he'd be a lot better off running his “tests” in a less public location, with a suitable back-up. That plan had several marks against it, though: the only ones who would really tolerate the “testing” were the very people who might interfere with it. And, if his back-up included someone like Valterzar, any feedback would soon be in a report on somebody else's desk.
If it's me, all by my lonesome, who caused this—his hand pressed the sore spot on his thigh—then it was on a “need to know” basis only. In Dusty's mind, the only people who needed to know were Josh and Ren. Josh, so he wouldn't have to worry about himself any more, and Ren because she needed to make an informed decision. If necessary, he'd inform her, tell her he'd try like hell not to do it again, and see if she'd take him on, flaws and all.
It sounded good—almost enough to excuse his present bout of stupidity. Besides, what was one more botch? Dusty smirked. He'd created a climate for himself—an atmosphere of freedom. Dependency be damned. I can do this.
If he could just focus, on Ren or Josh...
Obviously, it'd be easiest to pick up on Ren. All the rest of his body was focussed on her. Why not that part of his brain, too?
They would have picked up a rental car. Dustin headed for the rental desks.
He was a little surprised at his own enthusiasm.
Don't get cocky.
Remember what happened last time...
But it did little to daunt him. His excitement was building. This was only the second time in his entire life he'd actively summoned a “vision", and the last time it had been a “roaring” success. He grinned. “Roaring” in all aspects of the word.
He realised this was also one of the few times he'd actually felt free. The freedom he'd gained at the hospital, or even by leaving it—was a farce. He'd spent his life working around his retrocognition; trying to survive the episodes; trying to hide how much he was haunted by the past from everyone around him in the present. He'd played the bumbling fool who tripped and fell and was laughed at or pitied, for a clumsiness he didn't possess. He'd been crippled by his loss of focus on this world because he was grasping the next. Was it really possible he could control it?
If I can focus enough to bring it in, logic suggests I can control an episode—make it on my terms. He knew better than to think he could stop them. When they came, it was like something opening inside that burst into being.
But if I can control the “when” and the “where", then I really will be free. Goosefle
sh rode his skin once more, and his eyes glinted with excitement.
He sat down on a bench, and watched the rental desk. The more he considered it, the less risky it seemed. Hell, the world hadn't changed much in the last three days. He should be able to manoeuvre all right, too, if he needed to follow them.
He rubbed his hands together. History, and none of it ancient...
It was all a matter of mindset. The feeling was easy to recognise. Most of the time when he felt it, he was trying to avoid a “lapse". Right now, he'd welcome one.
Ren. His Kitten.
He wondered, if they went their separate ways, if he'd just vegetate, using any newfound control to replay the scenes with her, again and again...
Focus, Dustin.
It sometimes made him sick—almost like motion sickness—at the sudden transition of time and place. It was something he'd begun to emulate in his graphics work, but some customers had complained. Too much vertigo, they'd claimed. Throws the viewer off-balance.
If they only knew the number of times he'd ended up on his knees...
It was happening now and Dustin clung to the bench; glad to see that it, at least, was remaining the same. The people, the luggage, even some of the signs, did a fast-whirring fade-out that made him giddy. Dustin was beginning to realise that a total transition was easier on his equilibrium than this half-assed skipping he'd somehow initiated. He closed his eyes and focussed on Ren. Any more jouncing and bouncing and he'd toss his cookies—right here in the middle of the airport.
He counted to three and opened his eyes—and she was there.
* * * *
“We can't just ‘leave him to it'!” Ren complained. “He's a human being—despite his warped personality.”
“He's an armed human being,” Josh retorted. “Armed and alarmed do not a good combination make.”
“Wish we had Jamie here.”
Josh snorted. “What do you expect? Him to whip that gun right out of the creep's hand?”
Ren flared. “Or something else, to distract him—”
“You're nuts!” Josh told her. “You can't stop a bullet with good intentions!”
“At least I have ‘good intentions'! ‘So gather your fungus and let them come get him',” she mimicked. “What kind of compassion is that?”
“I don't need to show compassion for someone trying to kill—”
Their argument was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot. It was muffled by the fuselage, but still loud enough to make them both jump back.
A voice rose plaintively from inside the plane. "Will you shut up?!" it shouted. “Or the next one's through my head—so this ‘creep’ can put his ‘warped personality’ out of its misery!”
* * * *
He tried to remember that she wasn't seeing him the way he was seeing her. In some ways, it made him feel like a sicko—as though he was some perverted voyeur watching homespun movies. To rid himself of the less than virtuous thoughts that were suddenly running through his head, he studiously ignored the curve of her breasts, the way her butt looked in those jeans—
Stop it!
He switched his eyes to Josh's face, and it brought a smile to his own. Apparently, Josh and Ren had been arguing again. Now, it was over who was going to drive.
“I've driven desert roads before!” Josh was saying. “Do it all the t—”
“'Deserted', I'd trust you on. Curved, I won't,” she interrupted.
Dustin could feel his grasp slipping slightly. He came in closer and tripped over something he couldn't see. His slipped on his dark glasses. He'd learned a long time ago people would forgive a blind man any degree of clumsiness. One on crutches they'd do their best to avoid.
Where are you going? Say something...
They wouldn't want to, because it was supposed to be hush-hush.
That didn't bother Josh. “Where do you think Chihuahua is?” he asked angrily. “Why do you have to be so damned difficult?”
“I'm being reasonable—”
Dustin couldn't resist. He leaned forward, and brushed a kiss across those agitated lips.
Ren froze, mid-word.
“What?” Josh asked, a little alarmed at her expression. “What is it?”
“Dusty,” she replied. In that instant, she looked right at him. “Are you okay?” she asked.
All Dustin had time for was a smile. In the next moment, she and Josh and that brief glimpse of history, were gone.
Chapter Five
Josh looked from the dented fuselage to Ren and smirked. “Don't we feel stupid!” he said.
“Speak for yourself, Joshua." She smiled at him irritatingly.
“Shut up, Kithren." He yelled to the guy inside, “Where's the best place to get in?”
“Why did they send stupid people?” the man complained in response.
“I think that means he wants us to use the door,” Ren said. She grabbed a piece of debris, wrapped it with her shirttail and started digging.
It took them nearly an hour to clear the door enough to open it. By that time, the sun was beating down on their backs. They were both soaked in sweat with blistered hands. Ren didn't know if the blisters were more from the work or the heat.
“What's taking so long?” the man asked. “It's like an oven in here.”
“You're lucky there's a door left to clear,” Josh retorted. “And as to that ‘stupid people’ comment? We weren't the ones flying the plane.”
“Good one, Josh,” Ren said.
“I have my moments,” he said.
* * * *
His world spun back in another violent swirl of colour and noise. This kind of purposeful retrocognition seemed to wobble his brain. Even after a glimpse of his surroundings told him he was back where he'd started, the vertigo continued. Dustin stood there, eyes closed, leaning on the crutches. He remained still, trying to tune out the anxious inquires around him. He shook his head, which only made it worse.
The truth was, he was terrified to move. He'd never had vertigo like this before.
He was going to lose it. He knew it right now and there was nothing he could do. His flesh had that ice-cold feel and his stomach was churning. The next moment, there was a hand under his arm, holding him up. “Take the crutches,” someone said. Then, whoever it was held a bag while Dustin heaved his guts out. It was mortifying, damn weakening, and it seemed to take forever. At the end of it, he couldn't even stand.
There were bodies on either side of him now, hauling him out of the airport, and a familiar voice said, “Way to be discreet, Dusty.”
The next second Merrie's despair cut through his distress. She sounded shocked—appalled, even. Horror-stricken. "Zar!" she gasped. “Josh—Ren!”
They halted, and Dustin realised it was Valterzar on his right. He could feel his muscles tense.
“What about them?” Valterzar asked worriedly. But this was Merrie talking, and they already knew. Even Dustin knew—but until she said the words, there was still hope.
No hope. She'd started sobbing; rough, choking gasps that came from deep inside. “Josh and Ren—they-they're dead.”
At her words, Dustin opened his eyes. He tried to focus on her, and for a brief moment, their eyes locked. Then, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he sagged into their arms.
* * * *
They were gone. All of them. It took Erik only a few minutes to realise that what he was feeling was panic.
It was stupid. Old friends, yeah, but he could live without ‘em. He'd been practising that very thing for the last four years. Practised it so well, in fact, that he'd alienated Dusty and James. Josh thought his showmanship was amusing, but Ren—the only one he really cared about impressing—was disgusted with him. She thought he should be doing it for free. Merrie didn't make judgment calls, but then, she had too much other shit to deal with to worry about minor matters like ingratitude and greed.
Erik went to visit her a lot. Despite his claims to the contrary, it gave him a good feeling to think he could a
bsolve a failure at her door. A friend to tell him it was okay—that failures came in the life and death business both.
Even if you're getting paid well for your successes...
Merrie's specialties were in distractions for the living and the dead. She, like he, was caught somewhere in-between. Between his guilt, his efforts for people that sometimes left him feeling soiled, and his occasional losses, Erik needed all the distractions he could get.
There'd been a time two years ago when his ego had gotten out of line. He'd found he was beginning to hate some of the people he was working on, and believed he could pick and choose—selectively heal. For a kid who'd grown up with a staunch religious upbringing—which had become even stauncher once his parents realised what he could do—his healing had seemed like some kind of gift from God. He'd healed scraped knees on the playground, bloody noses and papercuts. Only, he couldn't heal his own. His efforts were frequently repaid with fists in the face—with punches and pounding and kicks in the butt. Then there'd come the day when one of the persecutors had scraped a knee. He'd looked at Erik expectantly: Heal me, you little dickweed. Erik couldn't refuse him—his religious upbringing wouldn't allow it. “Turn the other cheek.” But, something had gone wrong.
The scrape hadn't crusted and healed over—it had begun to bleed and bleed, the ripped portion spreading halfway down the bully's calf. Erik jerked his hands away, but by that time, both he and the bully were screaming.
They'd moved him to a special school after that. Very special, but he'd met the best friends he'd ever had. People who were troubled by phenomena, just as he was. He could relax and be himself.
It was only when he'd tried to be more than himself that he'd run into trouble again. His success had led him to think of his former allies as failures. Worse than that: fools. He wanted to leave them behind to wallow in whatever subjugation Symtech put on them, while he moved on to bigger things. He'd become so sure of himself and his own abilities that he'd opted to up his prices and deselect the undeserving.
He'd had two incidents that he'd never forget. He'd made a woman's tumour grow by mistake, and occluded a man's arteries. He'd tried to think of it as a bad week, when cosmic forces were somehow aligned against him, but he knew the next time, as his hands hovered over a diamond-studded beltbuckle, that it wasn't anything external.
Vision Page 6
