Freaks of Nature (The Psion Chronicles)

by Wendy Brotherlin

  The guards halt the moment we step through a set of imposing steel doors. The morgue. I was here once before, when Captain Rivera wished to prove to me that he had indeed murdered a young woman in front of me. Her name was Isabela. She was fourteen years old. Her only crime was poverty.

  Throughout her torture, the captain had looked directly at me. “Just do what I ask and I will stop,” he had said as he ripped out her fingernails one by one.

  But I refused.

  Because I am no murderer.

  The captain steps up to a steel gurney where a body lay beneath a white sheet. “Look,” he instructs, and he sweeps back the sheet to reveal the young woman underneath.

  As soon as I see her face, I recognize her. Corina Castañeda. Captain Rivera’s faithful fifteen-year-old telepath. The same person who helped capture me in Chajul. She has been shot once through the middle of her forehead. The small, circular wound is no bigger than a five-centavos quetzal coin. Apparently, someone else had a problem with the way Corina chose to use her talent.

  May God bless her immortal soul.

  “Estuardo Ramirez had her assassinated. Do you know who he is?” the captain asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “He’s a Salvadorian drug czar who’s been trafficking his goods through my territory. I won’t be happy until he’s either dead or rotting in one of my cells.” And indeed, Captain Rivera does not look happy as he meets my gaze with his dark, penetrating eyes. “I need a new telepathic interrogator, and the only option I have right now is you.”

  My mouth falls open in stunned disbelief. After everything he has put me through—all of the suffering he has made me witness—he still believes that he can force me to use my powers to hurt and probably kill people.

  “I—I won’t do it,” I say, my voice hoarse from thirst.

  The captain’s eyes harden. “We’ll see about that.”

  He signals the guards, turns on his heel, and walks briskly out the door. I am again half-carried after him, my arms aching from the guards’ grip.

  We pass down a long, sterile corridor, and then I am whisked past yet another security checkpoint. Cutting to the right, I gasp when I recognize the interrogation block.

  Oh, no, no, no, no, no…not this place! Please, God, no! I begin to silently recite the Prayer to St. Michael, when I am brutally shoved through an open doorway and thrown to the concrete floor.

  A floor with a large drain in the middle of it—because a drain makes cleaning up all the blood after a grueling interrogation session that much easier.

  I really do not want to be here. I don’t think I can handle another interrogation session like Isabela’s.

  O my gracious and loving Father, I am but a simple young man, your humble servant. Please, do not ask this of me.

  Captain Rivera stands before me, scowling. “I’ll make this simple, Miguel.” He points to a still form lying on the floor, not more than ten paces away. It is a woman with graying black hair, probably in her mid-fifties, wearing a tattered red skirt and a long-sleeved blouse. “That woman’s a nun from America,” he continues. “And she’s been smuggling psions—my psions—across the border.” He points a thick finger at me. “I need you to get me the names of her compatriots. Do it now, or I’ll cut her to pieces before your very eyes.”

  I know that he means every word of what he says. He means to break me, no matter how many innocent people die in the process. But I’m not trained in my psionic discipline. I accidentally killed over a half-dozen armed guards the day the general shot my mother in the head. I don’t want to hurt anyone else ever again—especially a nun.

  But I don’t want her tortured to death because of me, either.

  It’s an impossible choice.

  My own death would be preferable.

  “Well, go on!” the captain shouts. “Read her mind! I want those names!”

  Rather than retreat into prayer, I somehow manage to rise to my feet and stagger over to the nun. I collapse beside her and look her over. It’s only after I struggle to my knees that I notice the rise and fall of her chest. She’s still breathing. Her hands cling to a small, worn Bible; a rosary is wound around her wrist.

  “Um, Sister?” I say softly.

  “Quit talking!” Captain Rivera shouts. “Just read her damn mind!”

  The problem with that is, I’m not quite sure how to actually read minds. Sure, I can hide in plain sight from baselines, but that’s not the same thing as actually trying to mentally reach out to someone’s inner being. Just the thought that I might actually harm a nun by touching her mind makes me want to vomit…but then something occurs to me. I am wearing a disruptor band on my right wrist. It will have to be removed in order for me to access my psionic powers.

  I turn to the captain. “Sir,” I say holding up my banded wrist. “You’ll have to remove this before I can begin.”

  The captain’s scowl deepens as he gestures to one of his men. “Get it off him.”

  The guard doesn’t hesitate. He approaches with a plastic key card and presses it to my disruptor band. The red light stops glowing as the metal band pops open. The guard pulls it roughly from my wrist and hurries back to his place by the door.

  “Okay,” says Captain Rivera. “Now get me those names.”

  “Forgive me, Sister,” I say softly, before closing my eyes in an attempt to buy myself more time. I try to appear as if I am doing something psionic by contorting my face through a series of determined grimaces. When I hear the guards stir, I tentatively reach out my fingertips and place them on the woman’s forehead, but I have no idea what I’m doing. It’s useless.

  I will not be forced to harm an innocent soul with my powers. I know I will kill this woman if I use my telepathy, just as surely as I know how to breathe.

  My hand drops from the woman’s flesh and I sit back on my heels and pray.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”

  “You little runt!” The captain bellows as I bow my head over my clasped hands. He marches over to me. “I ought to blow your head off for such insubordination!”

  “Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.”

  “Look at me! Look at me, you little worm!”

  I do as he asks. And in that instant, I know I am not afraid to die. In fact, I would gladly embrace death if it was offered. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  Relief floods my soul the moment I find myself staring into the barrel of the captain’s gun, and an unbidden grin erupts on my face.

  “Forgive me, Father,” I say just before the deafening blast.

  “Ugh!” a girl’s voice screams at me. “You are such an idiot! How could you just sit there while that fat bastard shot you? Aw, come on! Open your eyes, Miguel; I’m talking to you!”

  Tentatively, I open one eye and then another…and I’m crestfallen to find that I am in my cell, once again choking on the foul stench of my own bodily waste. “No,” I gasp, my mind reeling. “I was dead.”

  “No, you weren’t. I hijacked your mind,” I hear the girl say. I squint into the shadows to see Corina Castañeda, Captain Rivera’s telepath, staring hard at me from a chair in the corner of the room.

  “I only made you believe that the guards had you dragged out of here for another round of torture on the orders of Captain Rivera.” She taps her temple twice with her index finger. “Telepathy is a hell of a thing once you know what you’re doing. Though I have to admit you didn’t need much convincing. Your fear did most of the work.”

  “You did all that?” I ask, stunned to still be breathing. “But why?”

  “Here.” She tosses a bottle of water to me and I catch it.

  “What’s this?” I ask, unsure of her intentions.

  “It’s called water. I suggest you drink it and shut up.” She sounds more irritated than angry with me.

  There’s no use arguing, so I open the bottle of water
. I don’t even pause to breathe as I chug the cool liquid down. Water has never tasted as refreshing as it does at this moment. It takes me less than a minute to drain the bottle.

  “You may want to ease up there, choirboy,” Corina says, rising from her chair. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” I watch as she picks up her chair and sets it right next to me.

  “The water tastes good,” I say with a smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She removes a second bottle of water from her satchel and hands it to me. “Just go easy on this one, okay?”

  “I will,” I say as I twist off the cap and take a sip. It takes a bit of willpower not to suck it all down at once. But I do my best to respect Corina’s wishes. “How were you able to hijack my mind?”

  Corina points to my right wrist. “Your disruptor band. Without access to your telepathy, you’re as helpless as a baseline.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “But why would Captain Rivera have you do that?”

  Corina’s eyes harden. “I no longer work for Captain Rivera.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Don’t think. Just listen,” she says sharply, and I fall silent.

  She stares off into the darkness for several long moments before she continues. “Do you know why you fry people’s minds whenever you use your telepathy?”

  I shake my head.

  “Because you’re insanely powerful,” she says. “More powerful than me, anyway. And I just thought—that maybe I could train you to use your telepathy, but I had to see for myself what you’d actually do with your powers when pushed.” Corina pauses to stare off into the darkness again. “I had no idea you’d actually embrace death over the chance of harming someone else.”

  “I am not a murderer,” I say softly.

  “Yes. I see that now.” Corina offers me a tiny smile, but it’s a sad smile, full of pain and regret. “That’s why instead of recruiting you, or killing you outright…I’m sending you to America.”

  “America!” I cry. “I don’t know anyone in America!”

  “Yes, you do.” Corina tosses a worn Bible and a rosary onto my lap. “The nun from America was real. Her name was Sister Mary Francis. She wasn’t smuggling psions out of Guatemala; she was here at Father Gálvez’s request to smuggle you out of Guatemala. So that you could get the proper training you needed.”

  I hardly know what to say as I pick up the Holy Bible and run my fingers across the worn leather binding. “Then Sister Mary Francis is dead?”

  Corina nods solemnly. “I’m sorry, Miguel.”

  I can feel the tears stinging my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. The one that gets away, I wipe off my cheek with the back of my hand. I am heartbroken over the news that Sister Mary Francis is dead, and miserable with the thought that I have indirectly caused the death of yet another human being. “Were—were you there when she died?”

  “Yes,” she says with downcast eyes. “The name and address of your American contact are hidden beneath the cover of the Sister’s Bible. I’m sure, with your ability to hide in plain sight, you’ll be able to cross the border without assistance.”

  “I can’t hide from cameras,” I say miserably.

  “Then cross in El Paso. Hop a tour bus, stick with a crowd of Americans.”

  I take a long drink of water, my mind stumbling over what Corina has just shared with me. But no matter how exciting the prospect of heading to America is, I am deeply troubled by Corina’s actions, and I find myself compelled to question her intentions. “You told me that you no longer work for Captain Rivera,” I say quietly and deliberately. “Why?”

  “The only reason I ever worked for that beast was because he held my mother and brother hostage in Mixco. Well, yesterday, my disruptor band was left off for a fraction of a second longer than it should have been, and I saw into the guard’s mind. He had taken part in my family’s brutal murder. Once I saw their deaths in his mind, I shut him down by putting him in a catatonic state. Then I shut them all down, Captain Rivera included.”

  “You didn’t kill them?” I ask, knowing that I am pushing for information that I may not like the answer to.

  A deadly smile unfolds across her face. “No, not yet. But soon. I wanted to come and see if I could enlist your aid first.”

  “Me?” I say, startled by the revelation. “Why me?”

  “Because I naively thought that you might help me start a little war. But one look inside your head and I knew that would never happen, San Miguelito.” She says that last bit with reverence, as if she believes there is something to my saintly moniker. But I am merely a humble servant of the Lord God, nothing more. Though I sense that Corina means well, the reference to Saint Michael embarrasses me, so I change the subject.

  “You could come with me,” I offer, but Corina shakes her head.

  “My place is here. With my family.”

  “But you said they were dead.”

  “That’s right.” Corina picks up her satchel and searches for something inside.

  “But you cannot fight a war on your own,” I say in an effort to convince her to reconsider her plans.

  “I won’t be alone,” she states matter-of-factly as she removes a plastic key card from her bag. She takes my hand and touches the key card to my disruptor band. “I’ll have the angels on my side.”

  The disruptor band falls to the floor between us with a metallic clank.

  Corina levels her gaze at me. “Now would be a good time to disappear, Miguel. Before I change my mind.”

  “Is there anything I can say that will persuade you to set aside your revenge?”

  “There is nothing more to say, Miguel. My mind is made up.”

  “This is a war that you cannot hope to win.”

  “Perhaps not,” she says gravely. “But it is what I must do.”

  Looking deep into her eyes, I catch a glimpse of the loss that torments her soul. And I realize that, no matter how much I beg her to reconsider, she will not listen. She is determined to see her little war through to its conclusion.

  There is only one last thing for me to say.

  “May God be with you, Corina.”

  She wearily smiles at me. “You too, kid. Now get the hell out of here.”

  I gather my power around me like a shroud, and the moment her eyes blindly sweep the floor for my presence, I know that I have vanished before her eyes.

  “Oh, by the way,” she says over her shoulder as she heads to the open cell door. “I left you some money tucked inside the pages of that Bible. Try not to spend it all in one place.”

  As she disappears down the hallway, I open the holy book and gasp when I remove dozens of banknotes in large denominations—Guatemalan quetzals, Mexican pesos and American dollars—from between the pages. It is more money than I have seen in my entire life.

  After drinking the rest of the water, I set the Bible carefully on the chair. Then I wrap Sister Mary Francis’s rosary securely around my wrist before attempting to stand. I pray for strength from Saint Alban as I rise unsteadily to my feet, using Corina’s chair for support.

  Once I am standing, I am amazed by how much better I feel. And I suddenly cannot wait to get out of this horrible place and into the sunshine. I pick up the Bible and take a tentative first step toward the open door. When I don’t immediately fall on my face, I take another step and then another, until I am well on my way down the hallway and headed for the outside.

  It’s bound to be a long walk all the way to America, but I know that God will see me though this like He does all things.

  In His own way.

  In His own time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  DEVON was surprised by the gentle return to his senses. There had been no extreme cycloning or stomach-churning cartwheels at warp speed, no painful molecular stretching or brain-seizing brightness. All in all, it was a most benign return to his body, one that left him wondering if his previous heave-worthy excursions were Bai Lee’s little
way of reminding him who was in charge.

  But that was only a theory, and Devon wasn’t about to bring it up. Especially with his own unavoidable replay drawing near. No, he’d have to assume that Miguel’s fear of hurting others with his telepathy had something to do with Devon’s ease of mental transportation.

  After all, there weren’t many people out there who would choose death for oneself over harming another. In that regard, the Guatemalan telepath had earned Devon’s fullest respect. He had experienced firsthand how comfortable Miguel had been with his decision not to use his telepathy to torture others. Miguel’s faith had filled his spirit to such a degree that the fourteen-year-old had never once felt abandoned and alone.

  Devon wished that he had Miguel’s inner peace, but without his family Devon found that he couldn’t help feeling adrift and hollow. After all, wasn’t that why he helped Colton form his escape plans in the first place? Devon desperately wanted his family back.

  “Miguel, are you okay?” Nevada asked as she stood and made her way to the wooden lounge. Vahn, too, was on his feet and headed over to check on the waking telepath.

  “Yes, Nevada,” Miguel said softly. “I am fine.”

  Nevada grinned. “Thank God!”

  Miguel looked over at her, a tranquil smile gracing his face. “But of course,” he said, his eyes bright with mischief. “We should always give thanks to the Lord God.”

  Nevada rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant, and you know it.”

  Miguel chuckled. “Yes, I know.”

  The tree branches slowly untwined themselves from around Miguel’s body. As the delicate tendrils retreated, Nevada and Vahn reached out to Miguel and helped him scoot to the edge of the wooden lounge and sit up.

  Devon thought Miguel looked whipped as the young man set his feet on the ground. The Guatemalan telepath paused then and simply breathed, and Devon wondered how in the heck he had ever allowed Alya to partake in Bai Lee’s little replay session. The process looked incredibly taxing.

  “So, how long did it take you to get to America?” Alek asked.