"I'm telling you, Jean," he said around a mouthful of lasagna, "it was the strangest thing I've ever experienced. The damn car was there, and then it just wasn't. I fell right through the thing."
"It sounds like you were working too hard," she said, concern wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "It was pretty hot out there today, Scott. I want you healthy, sure, and you're starting to look really great, but I want you alive too."
"But you should have seen that woman's face, hon. She was terrified. And that guy had a knife; I'm sure of it. I saw him pull it back like he was going to cut her throat or something."
"Well, it's a good thing they disappeared before he had a chance," Jean smiled at him with good-humor. "I still think you're just working too hard."
"Maybe. I know I'll be sticking at four miles for a while, that much is certain."
And that was that. He didn't bring the subject up again, and there were no recurring "mirages" during his daily run. It would no doubt have slipped his mind completely, had it not been for their puppy, Yap.
Yap was a half-Chow, half-Labrador puppy that had wormed his way into their lives about a month earlier. He was a good dog, all in all, but he was not completely housebroken. In fact, his training had barely reached the point where he was leaving his nightly surprises on a sheet of newspaper just inside the door. Every night, Scott spread a new set of papers out in the hope that, come morning, he'd find that the pup had wised up.
It was the Saturday following his odd encounter on the roadside, in the middle of the afternoon—he was placing the newspaper early because the previous evening he'd forgotten—when he stumbled across an article that changed everything. It was on the front page of the paper, a page he didn't pay enough attention to, favoring instead the sports page and the comics.
The photo was of a car—the car—and it was parked right where he'd seen it, alongside that road. Replacing the front page with another section of the paper, Scott took the article back into the front room and sat down to read it.
VIOLENT MURDER LEAVES LOCAL POLICE BAFFLED, read the title. He read it quickly, his heart pounding faster and faster. A young woman, Eleanor Chandler, had been brutally murdered and left in the ditch beside the road. Cause of death: multiple stab wounds. The killer had escaped cleanly. The police were still searching, said the article, but had made no progress. Scott let the paper fall to his lap and stared at the wall.
"What is it?" Jean asked, looking up from her book. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
He stared at her dumbly. Without a word, he rose and brought her the newspaper, then stood beside her chair while she skimmed the article.
"I read this when it first came out," she said finally, looking up. "It is strange, but why does it bother you so?"
"That's the car I saw," he said slowly, "the other day while I was running. It's parked right where I saw it, and the man had a knife."
"Well," Jean said, brow furrowed in concentration, "is there any chance you read this, or saw the picture and then heard some friends discussing it? I mean, it is on the front page."
He thought hard. Of course it was possible, but it just didn't seem right. "I don't know," he said at last. "It didn't seem like I was seeing the car for the second time when I saw it on the road—not like it did when I saw this photo. And the two people I saw—they aren't in the photo."
Actually, the woman's face was smiling up from the newspaper. A small photo of her was included alongside the larger one of the crime scene. The man was what was missing.
"Honey," he said, a thought tickling at the back of his mind, "you read the paper every day. This was a week ago—have they caught this guy yet?"
Jean frowned. "I don't think so. I saw a little piece on it again last night. They had a couple of suspects, but nothing concrete. Why?"
"Don't you see," he answered earnestly, sitting down on the arm of her chair, "I saw this guy. He wasn't in the newspaper photo. I saw him do this. I saw her face." Still, he thought, the time frames were all screwy. The article said the coroner estimated the woman's time of death at between nine and eleven p.m. Thursday night. Scott's mysterious vision had occurred on his Friday run.
Jean wrapped her arms around him, concern in her voice, and said, "You know that's crazy."
"Yeah, I know," he replied, untangling himself, "but I'm going to have to prove that to myself. I think I'll go down to the club for a run."
"Now?" she said, voice bordering on exasperation. "Why?"
"I'm going to go that extra mile, maybe two," he said. "I'm going to run until I'm so tired that my eyes swim from it. Maybe I just hallucinated, or maybe it has something to do with those damned endorphins you told me about. Whatever, I need to get this out of my system."
"Don't forget you agreed to go to that party with me tonight."
He had forgotten. Jean's friends were all health food nuts and there was some sort of "new age" feast scheduled for that evening. He knew it was important to her that they both show up. "I didn't forget," he lied. "I can be back in plenty of time to go eat health food. Besides, just think of the appetite I'll have worked up."
"It's not health food, Scott. I told you that."
"Uh, yeah, right."
"It's brain food, silly," she laughed. "You could probably use some. It's natural things like ephedra and caffeine, plus smart drugs like piracetam, vasopressin, and the like."
"Can't wait." He gave her a quick kiss. "I'll be back soon, okay?"
She got up from the chair. "No. I'm coming with you. If you're going to pass out along a road somewhere, I'm going to be there to haul you back. Besides, I could use a good run."
The sun was still high in the sky when they reached the club. The heat rose from the pavement like shimmers of steam above a boiling pot of water, and it wasn't long before Scott was completely drenched in sweat.
Jean trotted easily at his side, only the faintest traces of moisture near the nape of her neck and on her upper lip giving evidence of any undue exertion. He knew she would be running much faster if it weren't for him.
He ignored her, concentrating on keeping his own pace slightly above what he was used to. The blood was pounding through his veins, and his head was feeling lighter. He could sense the extra effort draining his reserves, but he could also feel his body responding—the exhilaration of the wind in his face and the smooth rippling of his leg muscles as he stretched them out heading into the final mile.
Endorphins, he recited from memory, having reviewed the subject in one of his books just before leaving the house, are similar in chemical structure to the analgesic morphine. In 1973, morphine was found to act on specific opiate receptors in the brain, spinal cord, and nerve endings. This discovery led to the identification of small protein molecules produced in the body that also act at opiate receptors. These morphine-like proteins were named endorphins—short for endogenous morphines. Endorphins are produced mainly in the pituitary and related regions of the hypothalamus. Endorphins act through the opiate receptors by modulating nerve impulses across the synapses.
Vaguely, as if from far away, he could hear Jean's voice. At first she just seemed to be talking, babbling, then the sound grew more insistent. He blocked her out, concentrating on the road ahead. He could feel the heat through the rubber soles of his shoes. His fatigue was gone, erased by a sudden flow of energy—his "second wind."
Suddenly it was there. It was exactly as he remembered it, the car, the man and the woman in the ditch. It was like watching a tape he'd shoved into his VCR. He concentrated as he neared the two, moving slightly to the side of the road. He couldn't quite make out the man's face. He kept straining to get a look, a glimpse.
He could sense Jean moving up next to him, and he pushed himself a little harder, pulling away and moving further down the hillside into the ditch. He couldn't hear her, though he had the vague notion that she was screaming at him. He moved in a dreamy haze, carefully concentrating on keeping his balance as he ran over the uneven ground.
The man's hand began its plunge, and Scott had a clear view of the fear in the woman's eyes. She didn't beseech Scott's help—she didn't even seem to be aware that he was rushing down on them at reckless speed. She was not blonde . . . ?
He saw the knife, a curved blade, like the ones used by carpet layers. He saw clearly in that instant the image of a green dragon on the man's forearm. It twined nearly all the way around his wrist and back up toward his elbow, fangs gaping.
And then he was on them. He cried out, reaching up to stop the plunging blade, staggering and pitching headlong. His last view was that of the blade, plummeting toward his chest, and of green eyes, glittering with malice as they stared through and beyond him. Then it was dark—dark and silent.
The cool brush of damp cloth across his forehead brought him back to bright light and searing pain. He heard the murmur of voices, Jean's and one other, and he tried to push himself upright, regretting the rashness of this movement almost instantly.
"Wha . . ." he stammered, his voice dry and sluggish. "What happened? Jean?"
"I'm right here," she replied, her voice tight with concern. "You're going to be fine. Good sized lump on your head, but otherwise you're intact. Just what the hell did you think you were doing out there, anyway?"
"What do you mean?" he asked. He remembered the run, the car, and the woman's eyes in a sudden rush. Nausea nearly brought his breakfast back for a return engagement.
He opened his eyes carefully, squinting into the bright light of the health club's lobby and his wife's face. She was still covered in a light sheen of sweat, her hair slightly mussed and her eyes wide with emotion. Beautiful, he thought.
"You went running down into that ditch all of a sudden," she said, "screaming like a banshee and raising your arm over your head like some sort of damned super hero. You were really moving, too. Lucky you didn't smack your head on a rock or something when you fell."
Somehow he pulled his thoughts together quickly enough not to say anything just then. He managed a sheepish smile, raising a hand to gingerly probe the growing knot on his head. Carol was standing behind Jean with a bored sneer on her face that showed clearly how much respect she had for a man who'd been carried in by his wife.
"Let's just get home," he said quickly, swinging his feet off the bench where they'd laid him and rising slowly.
"Home and straight to bed," Jean agreed. "You need to sleep this one off."
"But your party—"
"Forget the party," she interrupted. "I really don't want to go anyway."
"You're a piss poor liar, Jean."
"No, really, I—"
"You've been talking about this damn shindig for the last two weeks, hon. Soon as I get a shower—" he touched his forehead again, grinning "—and maybe a Band-Aid, we're going to that party."
"But—"
"No buts. We're going. Case closed."
Percy Simms was a complete bore. What's more, he was an educated bore—Harvard Med and all—which made it twice as annoying to be around the old fart because not only did he rattle on and on about meaningless drivel, his drivel was of the sort that made you realize how ignorant you were. Scott tolerated the retired physician because he'd been Jean's family doctor going way back to her diaper and teething years, but the man's parties were guaranteed sleepers.
Scott took another sip of the drink Percy had handed him and made a face. "Tastes like Tang. Sour Tang." He had to speak up to be heard over the crowd. As a result, Jean heard what he'd intended only for the doctor.
She punched him on the arm. "It's called a think drink, Scott."
"Vitamins, fructose, choline, phenylalanine, ephedra, and caffeine," Percy explained, taking a long pull from his own glass.
"Needs some vodka," muttered Scott.
"You've slaughtered quite enough brain cells already," Jean scolded.
"This drink," explained Percy, "is intended to heighten your mental faculties—"
"What little you have," Jean slipped in playfully.
"—not anesthetize them."
"Okay, okay. I know what fructose and caffeine are, of course, but what about the others? Jean mentioned ephedra this afternoon."
"Ephedra's an herb. Phenylaline and choline are amino acids. Like caffeine, they're stimulants."
"But not the kind you get from a can of soda pop, eh?"
Percy smiled. "We're not into anything illegal yet, Scott. Everything in that drink can be bought at a health food store. Think drinks improve memory, concentration, alertness, problem solving abilities . . . they even delay the cognitive effects of aging."
"And a mind is a terrible thing to waste," Scott joked, but he was thinking about his present problem. Twice now, he had watched a woman being murdered. And twice he'd been incapable of stopping it. He'd bet his last dollar that tomorrow's newspaper would confirm what he had seen that afternoon. The problem, as he saw it, was two-fold—two barriers actually. He needed to overcome the barriers of place and time. Somehow he needed to "break through" so that he could save the next victim. And somehow he needed to do it retroactively since it appeared that he was witnessing the events after they happened. The think drink was certainly in order. He'd need a "cognitive boost" if he was going to solve this one.
"Percy's into nootropics," Jean explained.
Scott blinked. "New who?"
"Nootropics," Percy answered, "pharmaceuticals for cognitive enhancement."
Scott did a quick count in his head: five words, 15 syllables. That had to be a record, even for Percy.
"Let me show you."
And the next thing Scott knew, Percy had his arm and was weaving him through the other guests, touring him about the room and pointing out party tables which might normally have sported margueritas, daiquiris, finger sandwiches and crunchy treats, but were now covered with blenders, fruit and vegetable drinks, and colorful bowls of drugs. Jean was left behind to mingle with the other health food nuts.
"Here you've got your tyrosine, lecithin, ginseng, and Ginkgo biloba. Over here your Hydergine, vasopressin, Lucidril, choline, and Deaner. There, piracetam."
Looking on the sea of pills and powders, punch bowls and glasses, Scott had a sudden intuition. "I don't understand," he lied. "What are they all for?"
Percy smiled patiently. "Well, take the piracetam for example. As you know, the left and right sides of the brain act like two computers linked by a data bus." (Jean had obviously explained to Percy that Scott worked with computers.) "This link is called the corpus callosum. Piracetam tablets speed up the data transfer rate of the corpus callosum. Smart pharmaceuticals like piracetam are prescribed in Europe, Japan, and China for victims of stroke and memory impairment."
"No shit? What about these?"
"This is a homemade phenylaline-choline derivative—"
"Homemade?"
"As Jean said, I've taken an interest in nootropics, even going so far as developing some of my own. This is a simple one."
"How does it work?"
"The brain's supply of neurotransmitters, particularly dopamine, serotonin, acetylcholine, and norepinephrine—" He broke into a grin suddenly, and for the first time Scott thought that the old guy might be more than a bothersome bore. "Don't worry, Scott, there won't be a test afterwards."
Scott laughed. "It's a good thing."
"Anyway, these neurotransmitters can be restored with their precursors, amino acids such as these. Phenylaline and choline, for example, combine in the brain to produce norepinephrine and acetylcholine. Amino acids also eliminate age accelerating agents known as free radicals."
"And you've been making your own versions of these drugs?"
Percy was on a roll now. "These and more. Let me tell you, Scott, the real frontier of nootropics is NGFs, nerve growth factors. NGFs not only regenerate old neurons, they actually stimulate the growth of new ones!"
"Incredible." And he meant it. As boggled as he was by the barrage of multi-syllable words, he could imagine what NGFs would mea
n to Alzheimer's and stroke victims. Good God, he thought, NGFs might be capable of eradicating senility! But at the same time he was thinking about something else entirely. He was wondering what effect such cognitive enhancers would have on a brain already high on endorphins.
"The problem pharmacologists are wrestling with is getting these agents into the brain. You see, NGFs are incapable of crossing the blood-brain barrier. Several approaches have been tried with various success: attaching the NGF to a blood-brain permeable molecule and injecting it into the bloodstream, using neural transplants from fetal brain cells, and injecting genetically engineered cells that produce NGFs directly into the brain. But—" and here Percy's eyes positively glowed "—I think I've developed the first over-the-counter, workable solution, an NGF you take as easily as aspirin."
Scott smiled. "Please, show me."
Six thirty, Sunday morning. The rising sun was broiling off Saturday night's dew, cloaking ponds and low lying ground in a mantle of translucent gauze. The day promised to be another scorcher. The thermometer had already topped eighty.
Scott hit the streets, the right front pocket of his sweats bulging with pills he'd stolen from Percy Simms. His stride was measured and certain. He was planning a long run this morning.
He'd left his wife a note:
Jean,
Didn't want to wake you. I've gone for an early run.
I don't quite know how to explain this, so I'll just write it as simply as possible. I know that what I saw while running that day was real. Somehow (hell, not SOMEHOW, it's the endorphins high, I'm sure of it) during my run I stepped outside the "here and now" as we know it. I know that sounds crazy, but I've no other way to explain it. I didn't tell you, but it happened again yesterday when you and I went running, just before I fell and blacked out.
I saw him kill another woman.
ANOTHER woman, Jean. If there was any doubt, I had only to see this morning's newspaper. Check the paper yourself after you read this. Front page. Same M.O. Same vicinity. She drove the same kind of car as the last victim. She was murdered late Friday night. The police have acknowledged that it's a serial killer.
Intermusings Page 26
