by Roy Johansen
“Healer?”
“Afraid not.”
“Then what are you?”
“Police detective. My name's Joe Bailey.”
“Ah. Skeptic.”
“My reputation precedes me.”
“You could say that.”
Joe knew that he was probably the single most despised person by the parapsychology program's faculty and students. The head of the humanities department, Daryl Reisman, was a fellow skeptic, and he often hired Joe to debunk the group's findings. Reisman felt that the parapsychology program was an embarrassment to the university, but the group was protected by a wealthy benefactor, Roland Ness, who provided not only most of the program's funding but also many of the university's other endowments. Any movement to abolish the program would certainly be quashed by a board of regents eager to keep Ness's cash rolling in.
Nothing like a little reality to piss everybody off.
The testing room door opened, and the program members filed out smiling, chattering, and gesticulating wildly, as if they had just ridden the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland. The only one who wasn't positively glowing was the medium herself, Suzanne Morrison. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, and it was Joe's experience that attractive people made the best mediums for the same reason they made the best con artists: Dupes trusted attractive people. Joe had witnessed one of Suzanne's séances the week before, and although it had been the most impressive display he'd ever seen, he had no doubt that he would expose her trickery after another session or two.
“Congratulations,” Joe said. “It looks like you just gave them an E-ticket ride.”
“What?” She stared blankly at him.
Joe suddenly felt old. Suzanne was in her late twenties, too young to have ever fussed with the old Disneyland ride tickets.
“Arcane reference. Consider it officially dropped from my vocabulary. It looks like you really wowed them. Of course, you're preaching to the choir.”
“Aren't there bad guys out there who need to be caught, Detective?”
“How do you know the bad guys aren't here? How do you know I'm not talking to one of them right now?”
She flashed him a radiant smile. “Are you here to arrest me, Mr. Bailey?”
“Messengers to the hereafter can call me Joe.”
“Does that mean I've made a believer of you?”
“It means that you can call me Joe. And that I'm scheduled to attend another séance of yours next week and I fully intend to expose you.”
“Promises, promises.”
“You don't think I can do it?”
“I think you can try.”
“I've never failed yet.”
She shrugged. “There's a first time for everything.”
She walked down the hall.
Joe smiled. He admired her nerve and sense of humor. Suzanne Morrison didn't take herself as seriously as most others in her profession.
“I'm telling you, Bailey, she's the real thing,” Dr. Gregory Kellner said as he walked toward him. Kellner was a small, balding man whose face was always flushed red, as if he had just been trying to blow up a balloon that wouldn't inflate.
“We'll see about that. I'm here on official business today, Kellner.”
Kellner nodded. “Is this about Nelson?”
“Yes.”
“Since when are you a homicide cop?”
“Since a murder was made to look as if it had been caused by telekinetic means.”
“Do you have proof it wasn't?”
“It doesn't work that way. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof.”
“I take it you've discovered a more likely method.”
“Not yet, but I will.”
Kellner smirked, as he always did when Joe appeared to be stumped by some reputed psychic phenomenon. “I already spoke to Detective Howe about Nelson.”
“I'm more interested in the boy. You were studying Jesse Randall, weren't you?”
“He was primarily Nelson's case, but yes, we ran some tests here.”
“Why wasn't I called in?”
“Our testing hadn't progressed that far yet. We didn't want to inhibit Jesse by introducing a foreign element.”
“A ‘foreign element’? I've never been called that before.”
“A nonbeliever's presence can severely inhibit psychic activity. It's been well documented.”
“Uh-huh.”
Kellner sighed. “What would you like to know?”
“In your opinion, is Jesse Randall a true teleki-netic?”
“Not that my opinion has ever mattered to you, but yes, I believe he is. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. He was subjected to rigorous testing at a paranormal studies conference in Dallas, and he made a believer out of everyone there.”
“I understand that Jesse and Nelson had a falling-out. Was Jesse's experience in Dallas part of the reason for that?”
Kellner considered the question. “Jesse wasn't happy. He wasn't used to that kind of scientific testing, and, I admit, it was quite invasive. But when you find someone with a gift as astonishing as Jesse's, you have a responsibility to study every variable you can, while you can. Children often outgrow psychic powers, and we needed to quickly glean whatever information we could.”
“Is that why Nelson wanted him to go to Switzerland?”
“Yes. I know Jesse didn't want to go, but for him to spend six months at the Lindstrom Institute for Paranormal Studies would have been a tremendous opportunity.”
“Opportunity for whom?”
Kellner didn't answer.
Joe nodded. Just what he thought. “Do you really think, even if Jesse had been psychically capable of it, he would have murdered Nelson?”
Kellner vigorously shook his head. “Not consciously. I think Jesse was fond of Nelson, but he was upset with him, and that anger and resentment manifested itself in a series of disturbing dreams.”
“And you believe that those dreams caused these so-called shadow storms, including the one that killed Nelson?”
“I do.”
Joe nodded. “All right. I need to take all of the Jesse Randall session videotapes shot here, in Dallas, and anywhere else you may have tested him.”
“I'm sorry. I'd need a court order for that.”
Joe reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of tan papers. “One court order. How did I know I'd need this?”
“How does he do it?”
Nikki was on the floor in front of the television, mesmerized by Jesse's demonstrations. She and Joe had been watching session tapes for the better part of the evening, captivated as small objects shook and rolled across tabletops, papers sailed across testing rooms, and pieces of metal bent and broke in Jesse's hands. Almost every test was accompanied by pulsating rap music, which Jesse claimed he needed to concentrate.
Joe shook his head. “I can't say for sure how he does it until I see him do these things in the flesh.”
“Maybe he does have special powers,” Nikki said. Her eyes twinkled the way they did whenever she teased her father.
“Maybe you have special powers,” Joe said.
“If I did, my math teacher's hair would have caught on fire ten times already.”
“Hmm. Is that your way of warning me about your next report card?”
She grinned. “You'll just have to wait and see.”
“I can't wait. Let's do a little experiment here. Do you still have your fork?”
Nikki picked up her fork, which was still sticky from the bread pudding she had eaten in front of the television.
Joe held her wrist and looked at the utensil. “Okay, honey. I want you to hold that handle and concentrate. I want you to imagine the molecules in the center of this fork dissolving away, turning to mush. Can you picture that?”
Nikki gave him a doubtful look. “Yeah….”
“Do it. Look at this fork and imagine those molecules breaking to pieces, making this metal weaker, weaker, weaker….”
Joe light
ly rubbed the lower handle between his thumb and forefinger, just as Jesse had rubbed silverware and other metal strips on the videos. “The metal is breaking down. I can feel it. Whatever you're doing, it's working. Look!”
The fork suddenly bent.
Nikki's eyes widened.
“Keep it up,” Joe said. “Let's see how far you can take this.”
As he lightly rubbed it, the fork bent even farther, until the end was at a ninety-degree angle. The end wobbled, then completely broke off.
Joe sat back. “Wow. I guess your math teacher had better watch out.”
Nikki made a face and tossed the fork handle at him. “Okay, how did you do it?”
“Probably the same way Jesse did. I'll show you.” Joe picked up his own fork. “I really shouldn't be destroying more of our flatware, but we'll chalk this up as a valuable learning experience for you.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Joe held the fork in both hands and bent the handle. “See how easy that was?”
Nikki crossed her arms in front of her. “That's not the way you did it before.”
“Didn't I? If the subject can get to the objects before the tests, there are all kinds of things he can do to them.” Joe bent the fork back and forth. “Every time I do this, the bend gets a little weaker. Of course, you don't want it to be too weak, so you have to find just the right touch.” Joe slowed down and showed Nikki the handle's back side. “Look here. See the bend? Let me know when it becomes a thin crack, okay?”
Nikki nodded.
“This takes some practice, because if you let the crack appear on the top side, the jig is up.”
“There! I see a crack!” Nikki shouted.
Joe stopped bending. “Okay, here's where it gets verrrry delicate. We bend just two or three more times to deepen the crack, and voilà! It's a psychic miracle waiting to happen.”
He showed her the fork, and from the top it looked perfectly normal. Even from the bottom the hairline crack was barely visible.
“Go ahead and rub it between your thumb and finger. See if you can make it bend.”
Nikki rubbed the handle until it bent and fell apart. She smiled. “Cool!”
“You were getting a little too impressed with Jesse, so I took the fork off your plate while we were watching the last tape. I worked it over and put it back.”
She put the fork's remains on the coffee table. “But what about the other things he can do?”
“I can't say. Metalworks demonstrations are one thing, but those moving objects put him in a class by himself. However he does it, he's incredible. I need to see him do this stuff in front of me.”
“Do you think Vince can do those tricks?”
Joe smiled. As usual, the conversation had come around to Vince. She had a monster crush on him, even if she refused to admit it.
“There aren't many people in the world who can do those tricks, honey.”
Nikki turned back to the screen, where Jesse was waiting for another test to be set up.
“You know, I think I'd like him,” Nikki said, still staring at the screen. “But he looks sad.”
Joe studied Jesse's face. When he was performing his bits of wizardry, he wore the same intense expression he'd had in his bedroom. But in between setups, his eyes drooped and his mouth fell into a frown.
“See what I mean?” Nikki said.
“He may have been uncomfortable with all those people looking at him. He's only eight.”
“He probably wishes they would all leave him alone. I bet he wishes his life would get back to normal.”
Joe put his arm around Nikki. After Angela's death, his daughter had endured a parade of well-meaning friends and relatives, each trying to fill the hole in her life by taking her on rollerskating outings, movie parties, and an endless succession of picnics. The teachers at school had briefed Nikki's classmates on how to behave with her, even offering them a laughable illustrated booklet titled “Barbara's Mommy Went Away.”
“Does Jesse have any friends?” she asked.
“I'm sure he does.”
“I don't know. He looks really sad.”
He motioned toward the screen. “Would you like to meet him sometime?”
“Sure.”
Jesse slowly opened the creaky screen door, careful to avoid waking his mother. The door seemed to make so much more noise at a quarter after six in the morning. He'd decided to go to school early, using his own special shortcuts, so the reporters wouldn't bother him again. Mama didn't want him leaving the house without her, but he knew he'd have a better chance of sneaking out on his own.
He crawled toward his skateboard, which was parked at the edge of the porch. Lying flat on his belly on the skateboard's rough surface, he pushed away and slowly rolled down the concrete walkway to the back gate. He grabbed the gate's thin metal frame, pushed it open, and rolled into the redbrick alley. He looked around.
So far, so good.
He reached for brick after brick, pulling himself down the alley as the news crews waited on the other side of the houses. He'd never noticed how loud his wheels were on the bricks.
Clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter-clatter …
He finally reached the end of the block. No reporters in sight. He picked up the skateboard, slung his knapsack over his shoulder, and walked down Edgewood Avenue toward the school.
He was halfway there, when he felt a sharp jab on his left shoulder.
“Are you gonna kill me, dickweed?”
Jesse didn't have to turn to know that it was Al Whatley, a kid who was twice as big as any other kid in the neighborhood and twice as stupid. Whatley went to Willingham, a school for students with disciplinary problems, which meant that he had to get up early to catch his crosstown bus.
Jesse kept walking, but he felt another jab. And another. And another.
Two strong hands gripped his shoulders and spun him around. It was Whatley all right, and he had two buddies, Matthew and Josh, with him.
“Look at me when I'm talking to you!” Whatley's face was marred by a myriad of cuts and bruises.
Jesse backed away. “I gotta get to school.”
“Everybody says you're a killer,” Whatley said. “But I think you're just a little wuss. You think you can hurt me? Let's see you try!”
He pushed hard against Jesse's chest. Jesse turned to run, but Whatley's buddies grabbed him.
“I knew it,” Whatley said. “You're just a scared little wussy boy!” He smiled through his chapped lips and punched Jesse in the stomach.
Matthew and Josh twisted his arms behind him until he was sure his limbs would break. He could feel his eyes stinging.
Please, please don't let me cry, Jesse thought. If that happens, they'll really cut loose.
A tear ran down his cheek.
“Aw, look at baby Jesse!” Matthew said.
“Whatsamatter, baby?” Whatley taunted.
Jesse raised his head and glared at Whatley. He could feel his heart beating faster and the rage coursing through his entire body.
Whatley stopped laughing.
The next moment Jesse's glasses flew off his face and struck Whatley's chest. The glasses clattered to the ground.
Matthew and Josh released Jesse and stepped away.
Whatley appeared to be shaken up, but he tried to shrug it off. “It's just a trick,” he said.
Jesse was still glaring at him.
The cigarette tucked behind Whatley's ear suddenly flew away. “It—it was the wind,” he said, as if trying to convince himself.
Jesse turned and stepped toward Josh.
Josh backed away. “We were just kidding, Jesse. We were just having some fun.”
Jesse continued toward Josh, staring straight at him.
“We didn't mean nothing by it.”
Josh was clutching his notebook against his chest. Suddenly the papers began to flap and wave under his chin. Josh screamed, dropped the notebook, and ran. Matthew was right behind him.
Je
sse turned back toward Whatley, who nervously licked his lips. “My dad says it's all bullshit. You can't hurt me.”
Jesse said nothing.
“I'm not afraid of you,” Whatley said.
Jesse nodded.
Whatley stepped over to where Jesse's glasses lay on the sidewalk. He cast a glance back at Jesse and placed his foot over the wire-rimmed spectacles.
Still Jesse did not move.
Whatley took a deep breath and slowly lowered his foot. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a large hand gripped him by the neck and lifted him into the air.
Jesse gasped. He'd never seen such a strong, powerful man. He looked like a character in a video game.
“What do you think you're doing?” the man said with soft menace.
Whatley made a gurgling noise from the back of his throat.
The man cocked his head toward Jesse. “Stupid, don't you know that little kid could splatter you against that garage door? Just like I'm going to do.”
The boy started crying.
Jesse backed away. He wanted to run, but he couldn't take his eyes off the giant.
Still holding Whatley up by the neck, the man slammed his head against the garage door.
“A little piece of rat shit like you isn't fit to walk the same planet as this boy.”
Whatley's head was bleeding. He began to sob.
The man looked like he was about to slam Whatley's head again, but the voices of a group of joggers coming around the corner stopped him. He gave a low curse and dropped Whatley in a heap to the ground. He turned toward Jesse. “Come with me.”
Before Jesse could respond, the man scooped him up and carried him around the corner to a pickup truck. He threw Jesse into the passenger seat, then climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
“Everything's going to be okay.”
Jesse frantically reached for the door handle, but it wouldn't work. The childproof locks had been activated.
“Let me out!”
“Don't worry. You're safe now, Jesse.”
“How do you know my name?” Jesse said.
The man stared at him in disappointment. “You don't know who I am?”
“How could I? I've never seen you before.”
“But I thought sure you'd be able to—that's all right. You can call me Lyles. We'll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”
