“My mother carried me in 1978. She and my father would leave Gondola Wish that year. Our government lost its moral compass.”
“What the hell does any of that mean?” Wilcox snapped.
“Gondola Wish was one of the several names given the government psychic-weaponry research program,” Petty said. “You know it as the Stargate Project, the last iteration, the one the CIA supposedly terminated in 1995.”
“Elda Middleton was my mother’s close friend. Elda was the first remote viewer to see the bad people. She possessed the strongest precognitive skills—could see futures better than others. Elda knew first that one day the progeny of remote viewers would be hunted and—”
“—terminated,” Wilcox said flicking his butt in the fire. “Are you the one Elda saw? Are you the one hunting remote viewers?”
Keller ignored him. He knew self-doubt fed his anger and only Wilcox could fix it. “Most governments know remote viewing is the most advanced intelligence gathering tool in the modern age.”
“Intelligence gathering is not killing people,” Wilcox said under his breath.
“And they know psychic-weapons can be developed to kill,” Keller added.
“You lost me at intelligence gathering,” Wilcox said.
“I will explain. Imagine sitting in any meeting in the world whenever and wherever you wanted. You see and hear everyone and everything, and no one knows you are there. If you could do as I described, would you agree you would obtain accurate and detailed information?”
“Of course. That’s why we have spies, Keller. They do exactly what you said.”
“Remote viewing allows you to do what a spy does, but you are thousands of miles away from the meeting, you are invisible to your enemy, and you have no risk of compromise. RV intelligence gathering is more accurate than any existing espionage methodology. We can attend all meetings past, present, and future and no cost and with few people involved.”
“If I believed in that psychic mumbo-jumbo, I agree those would be benefits.”
“Governments understand the advantages of eliminating antiquated, complex, costly, and unsecured intelligence operations that expose them to the enemy,” Keller said.
“If remote viewing is as you say, it makes perfect sense our government would want to control it and take it underground,” Petty said. “The country possessing it would have a clear advantage in the world.”
“It’s fantasy,” Wilcox mumbled lighting a cigarette.
“My body is here, Mr. Wilcox, but my mind is on the balcony at your Mud Island condo.”
Wilcox blew a cloud into the conversation. “Parlor tricks, Keller. I’m not naive.”
“I am looking at the cracked glass on the table. You refuse to let it go. It’s the glass you threw across the room the night you returned from the Memphis Public Library. It was the night your partner—Alex Harris—was killed. You still blame yourself for his death.”
“Easy narrative, Keller. I’m sure you visited my balcony while in Memphis. You probably saw the cracked glass. The rest of your scenario is logical. Of course I feel responsible for Alex’s death. Every good cop who losses a partner feels they could have done something. All you’re doing is putting together obvious pieces of information to create your mesmerizing story.”
Keller ignored him. “Alex Harris was used, Detective Wilcox. You were returning from Cape Town, South Africa, a private jet owned by Albert Bell. You were returning from hunting for three very bad men. They were surviving board members, a secret society, Gilgamesh. You were under a church on Devil’s Peak—a secret fortress. Max, the man with you, is now dead. The three men escaped—they too would die later at the end of a serial killer’s knife. When you landed in Memphis, you got the call on the tarmac. The plane taxied to your car. You were instructed to go alone to the Memphis Public Library. Do I need to describe … ?”
“Stop,” Wilcox demanded staring at the popping fire. No one would know those details.
“I count 183 cigarette butts in the ceramic flower pot next to the railing,” Keller said. “You got the plant last year—October 15. It is a dried stick now. It never had a chance because you never watered it—you don’t take care of living things. But you kept it on your balcony, the place where you drink your scotch and smoke your Marlboros. The place where you try to make sense of a world filled with bad people—there are just too many. You think you are not making a difference, Detective Wilcox, but you are. Since the beginning you took bad people off the streets of Memphis. Your actions allowed 347 lives to continue. You need to know that.”
“Is he close, Tony?” Petty asked. But Wilcox’s eyes were locked on Keller’s.
“The potted plant is the last thing your sister gave you. She died the day after sending it to you—a car accident in Boston. You had a friend investigate. You thought you were responsible. You thought Gilgamesh. The plant came with a note, her last words. She said she was sorry for the distance after your parents died. She said it hurt too much. She could not lose you too. She said she loved you always. You burned the note, but the ashes are in the pot. You look at them every time you sit on your balcony. And every time, you look up and wink at Bethany.”
Wilcox looked away. “You can stop now. I don’t know why you are doing this.”
“Because ‘you’ must believe in me, Anthony Wilcox. You must see the unexplainable is real. Like in your world there is good and there is evil.” As the glow of the fire seemed to gather around the small man, Petty and Wilcox stared in wonder.
Keller lifted his eyes from the dancing flames and met Wilcox’s cold eyes. They stared. Then Keller said, “The time will come when ‘only you’ can decide the outcome.”
“Why me?” Wilcox asked.
“I can only tell you what is and was and will be, not why.”
“This has always been about more than remote viewing. It’s about the lesions.” Petty said.
“I don’t know if I can explain in a way you can comprehend,” Keller said.
“You must try,” Petty said.
Keller took a deep breath. Sparks left the fire and a breeze lifted his hair as if another presence entered their circle. “Imagine you are being carried away in the jaws of a lion—alive.”
“Wonderful,” Wilcox scoffed. “Going to be eaten.” My worst nightmare.
“Yes. And more lions are coming. You are dinner for the pride. Soon they will tear your body apart. Your pain will be unimaginable. Your death is welcomed. If it was only up to your conscious brain, you would experience everything. But we have an unconscious process that takes over. We avoid the pain and experience on the way to death.”
“What he says is medically true, Tony. The body responds to stimuli all the time on its own. In the case he described, the body would respond without conscious thought—an adrenalin release, heart rate and blood pressure rise, shock, atrial fibrillation (erratic heart beat)—and then without intervention, cardiac arrest. We have no control over any of it.”
“Psychic manipulation of the amygdala creates unimaginable terror triggering the things Dr. Petty shared. The lesions on the amygdala are hidden. The visible signs you have seen—the eyes, and pale deformed faces, and rigid postures. These are all related to the terror experienced.”
“You explained it well, and you just made my case against you,” Wilcox said. “You’ve already demonstrated your psychic abilities. And you were at my crime scenes. I think you even tried to do it to me, but for some reason it did not work.”
“I stopped them,” Keller whispered.
“Tony, you said he pulled you from a burning car. Why would he try to kill you?”
“Did you pull me from my car, Keller?” Wilcox asked. “Or did you plant that thought in my brain?”
“You were heavy.”
“Why would you do that?”
The campfire flames washed over Keller’s boyish face. “They want to control it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Wilcox pressed.
<
br /> “Let him speak, Tony,” Petty demanded.
“They want to control psychic-weapons. They must eliminate remote viewers and people most likely to be their enemy in the future—descendants of remote viewers. When they came for you—an outsider—their plan moved to another level. I could not run or hide anymore. Attacking law enforcement and unsuspecting obstacles confirmed my worst fears. They are close to reaching their goals. No one is safe. They must be stopped.”
“Who are they,” Petty asked.
“Bad people,” Keller said as he cringed.
“Are you, or have you ever been, one of them?” Wilcox asked. The weight of the discussion was moving him. Is it possible Hunter Keller is simply telling the truth?
“I am alone. I am the problem.” Keller said. “I am the alpha. They are attempting to develop something that comes natural to me—my psychokinetic abilities.”
“Please educate us,” Dr. Petty said.
“Psychokinesis is the psychic ability to influence a physical system without physical interaction,” Keller said.
“Through psychic manipulation, the lesions are produced on the amygdala launching the emotion of unbridled terror,” Petty reviewed. “That in turn triggers the cardiac arrest and leads to death. But Hunter, you said they are attempting to develop this psychokinetic ability. That means it is not mastered. This explains the stabbing and strangulation of our victims with lesions.”
Wilcox sat in silence staring at the mystery in the hoodie by the fire.
“I see the future,” Keller said. “I knew Dr. Proust would be attacked tonight. I did not stop it. I am responsible for many deaths. Detective Wilcox is right. I’m a part of this nightmare.”
Wilcox pitched his butt in the fire. “Proust died with no one touching him. I think this Cankor guy has mastered this psychokinetics. If I’m right, they don’t need you anymore, Keller. They don’t need the alpha. Your days are numbered.”
“Seeing the future does not make you responsible for the future, Hunter,” Petty said.
“I feel responsible.”
“You can’t save the world,” Wilcox said under his breath as he wrapped his head around the possibility Hunter Keller was as much of a victim as any of his cold cases.
“Your psychokinetic skills are genetic,” Petty said. “Cankor’s are learned. Inherited traits are stronger and more adaptive, genetic based. They evolve. Major Cankor would need to continually educate himself. That would require dedicated time and discipline to reproduce a genetic strength. But you still can’t learn to be a Picasso. You must be born Picasso.”
Keller nodded. “Major Cankor is much older than me. He does have natural physical and mental limitations that would present some limitations.”
“That would explain why he ran from Dewar. When I asked Hunter who he was, the distraction was enough for him to break free,” Petty said. “Your focus makes you stronger.”
“Bone said they needed my DNA. I was the future of psychokinetic weaponry.”
“This is about genetic engineering psychic-weapons, Tony. The U.S. Government is attempting to control the genetic aspects of psychokinetics. This explains Mr. Baldwin’s involvement. Major Cankor must work for Baldwin.”
The three stared at the glowing embers. Wilcox still struggled. The concepts went against everything he knew. It went against his instincts, too. He would have to choose.
Parapsychology research is progressing—albeit fringe science, Petty thought. We use such a small portion of our brain—I guess it’s possible. Why did Alfred Baldwin tell me they were working on levitation? How is that connected?
A cold blast of air slithered through the pines. Wilcox watched a trail of sparks from the small fire snake into the night. “Keller, don’t move,” he said as he reached for his gun.
“What’re you doing,” Petty asked as she touched his moving arm. “You’re not going to shoot him?”
Petty looked up. The glow of the fire fell on an enormous stag standing directly behind Keller. The bull elk was over five feet at its muscular shoulders. He had a three-foot rack. Seven-hundred pounds of wild animal stood a few feet behind Hunter Keller.
“He is one big buck,” Wilcox muttered as he raised his gun. But he did not have a clear shot. The bull’s head stayed behind Keller’s torso. “If he’s spooked, one sweep of those antlers will tear Keller to shreds.”
They sat still. Wilcox cocked the gun and waited for an opening. Then the bull elk stepped even closer. He nosed the back of Keller’s head. Wilcox had to shoot soon. He only needed a few inches right or left.
Without taking his eyes off the fire, Keller reached back and rubbed the thick neck of the bull elk. They watched the enormous animal bob its head and snort. It backed away and trotted into the woods where a herd of a dozen more took shape in the shadows. They melted into the trees and were gone.
“Ah—what just happened?” Wilcox asked.
“Animals like me,” Keller said.
“Animals like you?” Wilcox left the picnic table to inspect the surrounding woods. “I know elk are in Arkansas, but I did not know they were so damn big.” He approached Keller staring at the fire. “That bull wandered into our camp. They don’t do those things, Keller. Bull elk avoid people. I guess their curious out here, this wildlife reserve. You’re lucky he decided to leave.”
Petty changed the subject. “When did you know you were different?”
“When I was ten-years old the headaches started. I saw things. At first I thought they were dreams. Then they turned into nightmares—I saw terrible things. I didn’t talk about it until Bone. I trusted him. He listened and tried to help me understand. My parents tried to help too, but I guess like most kids I did not want to listen to them until it was too late.”
“Help us understand. What do you see?” Petty asked.
“I see everything. It is like a movie theater without walls, hundreds of screens. Now I can move them around, shuffle them like cards. I can stop on any one I want, and watch that movie. It can be from the past, present, or future. When I was young it was confusing. There were too many. They never stopped. I had no control.”
“How did Bone Jackson help you?” Petty asked.
“Sorting the movies in my head. How to focus. How to turn it off.”
“Did you know your parents were going to be killed?” Wilcox asked.
“No.” Keller took a deep breath. “I avoided those movies. Death is eminent.”
“Were you the reason people were killed on Dewar?” Petty asked.
“They came for me. The killing was to send a message. It would not stop.”
“They want more than your DNA,” Petty muttered.
“Slow down,” Wilcox said. “You keep saying they. Are you talkin’ about Cankor and his people, or the government—Baldwin and Swenson—or a covert operation, or the Russians?”
Keller straightened up. “We need to leave immediately!”
On Keller’s last word bobbing lights broke over a hill a half mile away. Wilcox poured coffee on the fire as the lights moved between the trees getting brighter, and the racing engine and grinding gears got louder.
“They’re here for me,” Keller said as they jumped into the car.
“Can we talk to them?” Wilcox asked.
“No. They will kill you and Dr. Petty. No negotiation.”
Wilcox shoved the key into the ignition. The battery clicked and went silent. “What’s happening? I didn’t have a battery problem before.”
The lights neared. “They’re doing it,” Keller said.
Thirty-One
“I would rather trust a woman’s instinct than a man’s reason.”
Stanley Baldwin
*
Nashville, Tennessee
*
The light under her door poured six inches into the dark hotel room until someone stopped and tried the lock. They found her.
Abby Patterson checked into the Drury Inn because she saw a silver Tahoe in the lot. After a
n hour of waiting back at the parking garage, her tail had found her empty car—their subject had gotten away.
Abby had turned the tables. For the next eight hours she tailed her tail. They pulled into the Drury. Abby went inside wearing her black wig and baseball cap, no longer the blonde. She blended into the crowd and observed. Then she got a room.
The shadow lingered at her door, and she considered her options. She could leap off the balcony into the pool three floors down, but the twelve-foot distance from the building made it a bad option. If the Russians stormed the room, they had her cold.
Watching the crack under her door, she pressed her cell to her head. Marybeth, pick up.
“Hi sweetheart,” bubbled into her ear. “I’ve been thinking about you. Thought we were going drinking tonight. You never called.”
“I’m in a little situation—kinda tied up at the moment. I need your help, honey.”
“Are you on surveillance, another cheater?”
“In a way, dear. Right now I have some bad people looking for me.”
“Oh God, Abby. Looking for you? Why would they be looking for you?”
She changed hands reaching for a cigarette. “I need you to focus, Marybeth. There are a couple of Russian guys looking for me. I’ll explain later. These are the kind of people who beat you and take you away for a long time. I’m at the Drury in Nashville, room 307. I need you to get over here right now. Bring me an outfit and the red wig I left at your place.”
“It’s after midnight. Are we going out afterwards? Should I get dressed up?”
“Have you heard a thing I’ve said, girl?”
“Well yes, but I need to know if I should change into something more appropriate.”
“Marybeth, just forget I called. This is too dangerous. I’m gonna do something else.”
“I’m getting in my car now. I’m turning the key. I’m coming. I have your outfit and the red wig in a bag in my backseat. I was going to give it to you the next time anyway. This is no problem. I’m five minutes away. Don’t worry, I’m not drunk. Well, I only had a few.”
“Are you sure you can do this?” Abby asked watching her door.
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