by Richard Bard
He looked up, and his green eyes locked on hers, as if measuring her. His gaze was unusual. It seemed to focus on who she was rather than what she looked like. She appreciated that, but for some reason, she found it a little unnerving. She braced herself and opened her senses to his emotions.
On the surface there was anger and frustration, ill portents for the conversation she needed to have with him. She dug deeper to cut through those superficial feelings. Her breath caught in her throat. This man was drowning in a well of hopelessness. There was an emptiness there that was overwhelming. It tugged at her heart.
And there was more—a uniqueness about him she couldn’t define.
Francesca blinked and looked away, quickly raising a barrier around her gift.
The attraction she felt toward him was primal. It frightened her.
Exhaling slowly, she steeled herself, hoping that the flush she felt was not obvious. Her blush always pinked her chest before reaching her cheeks, and she was suddenly very conscious of the fact that the V-neck of the blouse she wore under her belted jacket was cut fairly low. She tilted her head forward slightly and gave it a barely perceptible shake, hoping the bottom waves of her long hair would provide some cover. The manicured fingers of her left hand went up impulsively to touch the tiny gold cross dangling from her necklace, causing a clutch of thin silver bracelets to slide from her wrist to her forearm in a shimmering tangle.
He was still looking at her, absorbing her.
Ignoring the appraising stares from two young men behind the checkout counter, Francesca secured the shoulder strap of her Gucci briefcase and marched to the American’s table. The click of her heels on the tiled floor suddenly seemed loud.
He rose to meet her, uncharacteristically gallant for a beach boy. She extended her hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Bronson. My name is Francesca Fellini.”
He shook her hand. His crooked grin made her want to smile back. Lord, she felt like a smitten teenager around this man.
“Hi, Ms. Fellini. I know why you’re here.”
Francesca sat down opposite him. “Please call me Francesca.”
“Okay, Francesca.” He sat back down. “But like I said, I know why you’re here, and I’ll tell you right up front that I’m not interested. In fact, I’m getting pretty tired of all you doctors wanting to poke and prod me like I’m some sort of lab rat.”
Francesca bit off her disappointment at his blunt, if not rude, demeanor. After her unexpected reaction to meeting this man, more than a part of her had secretly hoped for something more. But she needed to focus on his feelings, not hers. This man was hurting.
She contemplated how to guide the conversation without opening her empathic senses to him again, refusing to risk an embarrassing repeat of her blushing response. She glanced at the books scattered around him. “Have you found the answers to your questions?”
“What questions?”
“Questions about what happened to you, why it’s happened to you, and how far-reaching it is.” She nodded at the books. With a raised eyebrow, she placed her fingers on one and spun it around so the title was facing her. Paranormal Realities.
He pulled the book back and flipped it upside down on the stack beside him. “I’ve learned quite a bit.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Do you really think you will get your answers this way, without professional help?”
“I’m willing to risk it. But not until you leave me alone so I can get back to it.”
It wasn’t what he said as much as how he said it that bothered her. He had followed his words with a look that said the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. After her long and tiresome trip, her frustration got the better of her. She picked up the book and shook it at him. “Your answers are not in here, Mr. Bronson.”
He wasn’t fazed, at least not on the outside. Instead, he needled her with a fake smile. “Please call me Jake.”
She waited a beat, biting her tongue. She put the book down so the title was facing him. “And what did you learn from this book?”
Jake leaned forward, glancing to both sides, as if to ensure that no one was eavesdropping. In a hushed and serious voice that appeared intentionally laced with melodrama, he said, “Well, I didn’t actually learn it from that particular book, but it opened my mind to testing the range of my new abilities since the accident. And one of the coolest things I discovered is that I have the ability to predict the future.”
Francesca sniffed. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Bronson.”
“I said, please call me Jake.”
He was maddening. “All right, Jake. I’ll play your silly little game.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands on her lap. “So, you can predict the future?”
The man looked hurt. He sank back in his chair, his face somber. “It’s not a game.”
Was he serious? Of course what he was saying was not possible, but that didn’t mean he didn’t believe it. She was tempted to open her senses to him, but even the thought of doing so made her shift uneasily in her chair. She remembered the report that Signor Battista’s staff had put together about this man’s terrible incident in the MRI. The report didn’t include his medical records, but Battista had assured her they would soon have a copy of those as well, though how they were able to obtain such confidential information was beyond her. In any case, this man had gone through a terrible experience, and he needed help.
The trained psychologist in her took over. She wanted to see where this would lead. “I’m so sorry, Jake. Please continue.”
Seemingly appeased, he kept his voice low. “It’s not like I can predict that there’s going to be an earthquake or what the stock market is going to do. It’s nothing like that. It’s limited to things that are going to happen in the immediate future.”
The poor man was completely delusional, but Francesca maintained eye contact with him, silently encouraging him to continue.
He said, “Do you want me to show you?”
She laced the fingers of her hands together and placed them on the table. She leaned forward. “Yes, please.”
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and released it slowly through his mouth. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and said, “First, you are going to tell me how special I am. Then you’re going to realize that no matter what you say, I’m still not going to allow you to make me your lab rat. Then you’re going to stand up, all in a huff, sling the strap of that fancy briefcase over your shoulder, and storm out of here, never looking back.” He crossed his arms on his chest and flashed a steely gaze.
The man was intentionally trying to make her angry. And he was doing a good job of it.
In slim control of her temper, she recognized the web page on his laptop as the home page of the institute’s site. She grabbed the top of the screen and slammed the laptop shut. “So, you know all about me then, is that it?”
His façade was gone now, his desire to be rid of her all too clear. A trace of exasperation colored his words. “Well, I know about the institute, about its research. I’ve learned enough to know that to you I’m just a tool, an anomaly to be studied for your own ends.”
“But did you also know that we saved the lives of two autistic children last year as a result of our work?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Did you know that autism is the fastest-growing developmental disability on the planet right now, growing at a rate of nearly seventeen percent each year?”
“I—”
“Did you learn from your scientific scan of our website that we are on the verge of not only finding a way to stem this tide, but to actually cure these children of the debilitating side effects of their syndrome, allowing them to function in our world as normal members of society rather than outcasts?”
Jake uncrossed his arms. “Not exactly, no.”
Her frustration flowing, Francesca continued. “We’re close to finding a way to unlock the amazi
ng creative abilities often found in autistic savants, abilities not unlike the ones you seem to have developed so miraculously. Not just in autistic children, but in anyone, and an examination of what happened to you, a little selflessness on your part, might be the key to unlocking the riddle, the final piece of the puzzle, to help countless people, perhaps even change the world.”
As she rose to her feet, she added, “No, Jake. You surely have more important things to do, like winning trivia contests at the local bar. We wouldn’t want to keep you from that, would we? And as far as your remarkable ability to tell the future, on that score you are amazing because I am most definitely going to storm out of here, and I won’t be looking back!”
She grabbed her briefcase roughly by the handle, taking care not to use the shoulder strap as he had predicted. She looked down her nose at him and said, “And whatever a huff is, I am most definitely not wearing one!”
Francesca spun on her heel and stormed toward the door.
***
Jake felt awful as he watched her hurry away. It didn’t matter what was going on in his life; there was still no excuse for treating her that way. She didn’t deserve it. She had flown halfway around the world to talk to him.
He felt a strong urge to rush after her, but the reality of his bleak situation drained him and held him back. He slumped back in his chair and watched as she pushed through the glass doors and turned onto the sidewalk. Only then did he appreciate how truly lovely she was.
I’m so sorry.
She stopped midstride and looked back in his direction.
Chapter 7
Redondo Beach, California
FRANCESCA HEFTED HER ROLLER BAG into the trunk of the rental car. She still had four hours until her 7:00 p.m. flight departed LAX. Enough time for another meeting with Mr. Bronson.
She was still angry with herself. Her emotions had gotten the better of her yesterday. She’d stormed out of the library like an angry teenager. She was a trained psychologist, for God’s sake! How did she let that happen?
Signor Battista was right about this man. There was something special about him. She flushed as his image flashed across her mind.
No, not special like that. O Dio…
She remembered what happened after she stepped out of the library. It was almost as if he entered her mind. The words “I’m sorry” were as plain as if he were standing beside her. She was shocked when she turned around to find that he wasn’t there.
It reminded her of another time.
As a child, Francesca had problems connecting with people. Sure, she could read their emotions, sense their feelings, even calm them down. But the uniqueness of that connection made it impossible for her to relate to people in a normal way. Her friends often came to her for advice. But they kept her at arm’s length, never letting her in completely.
She dreamed of the day when she could leave home and be among strangers who knew nothing about her past. She would hide her talent.
She wanted so badly to be just like everyone else.
Her academic scholarship to the university in Firenze was her opportunity to start fresh, to close her mind to the emotional signals radiating from those around her, and to pretend they didn’t exist. She struggled at first, but she was determined to succeed. She made new friends at school. In spite of the temptation, she refused to read them. By the time she completed her first semester, her talent was in full hibernation, sleeping peacefully in the dark caverns of her mind. For the first time in years, Francesca was content.
Midway through her second year at school, she met Filippo. He came from a wonderful family and courted her in the style of a true young gentleman. Within a few short weeks, she became convinced that he was to be her one true love, her soul mate forever.
As he slowly undressed her on the first night she intended to give herself to him, she finally reopened her empathic gift, eager to share the depth of his feelings.
What she discovered shocked her. There were no feelings of love there, or caring, or understanding, only an overwhelming sense of victory, lust, and selfishness. She recoiled, pushing him away. Ashamed, Francesca was mystified at the total disconnect between the veneer of his loving countenance and the ugly emotions that boiled beneath the surface. She knew instantly that everything between them had been a lie. She fled back to her dormitory, embracing her gift like a lost puppy returned home. She learned then that she needed all her senses to survive in this world. In fact, she felt sorry for those who had to rely on the façades that people so carefully constructed to hide their true feelings.
Since that day she’d put her unique ability to good use, letting it fuel her studies and later her career as a successful child psychologist.
Her gift wasn’t infallible. Her experience with autistic children had taught her that if people didn’t believe in their hearts that what they were doing was wrong—if they didn’t feel guilt about hitting a playmate—her gift was useless in identifying that child as inherently bad or ill-intended. One of the most endearing children she’d ever encountered had emitted nothing but a sense of warmth and caring—right after he had dropped a helpless kitten from a fourth-floor balcony.
How would her gift help her with Jake Bronson?
She entered his address into the car’s navigation system.
***
Crows. Why did nature make their squawks so damn annoying? And why the hell did they insist on roosting just outside his bedroom window?
Jake tugged the bed pillow over his head to block out the noise. Each screech seemed to reverberate in his throbbing skull.
Too many beers.
After he left the library last night, he’d gone to Pat’s Cocktails, a small neighborhood bar a couple of blocks from his home. He couldn’t go to Sammy’s. Too many people knew his face now.
The crows wouldn’t stop. The pillow squashed against his ears didn’t help. He threw it at the window. It hit the nightstand lamp instead, sending it to the floor. The bulb shattered with a small concussive pop.
Crap.
He sat up and put his feet to the floor, nearly losing it when the room spun around him. His head swirled from dehydration caused by too much alcohol. He needed coffee.
Rubbing the grit from his eyes, he slipped on his Reef flip-flops—the ones with the bottle opener embedded in the bottom—and trudged toward the kitchen, side-kicking an empty beer bottle from his path. He wore his smiley-face boxers—a birthday gift from his daughter two years ago—but nothing else. A cool ocean breeze flowed through the open windows of the house. It felt good on his bare skin.
Last night was a blur. He vaguely remembered leaving the bar around two in the morning. By himself. He’d walked home along the Strand and popped a Fat Tire as soon as he got in the door.
Based on the five or six dead soldiers scattered around the front room, he obviously hadn’t stopped at one.
There were a couple dozen books stacked on the couch and coffee table—the full extent of his home library. Most of them were about flying. But there was also a Joy of Cooking that his mom had given him when he left for college, and an American Heritage History of World War II that had been Dad’s.
Jake closed his eyes, pulling up a quote from memory. Page 110 read, A New Breed of Warrior: The RAF pilot was a new kind of fighting man, born of a new type of warfare. His appearance was studiedly unmilitary; the cloth crown of his officer’s cap flopped loosely, and he often wore a neck scarf to thumb his nose at military convention…
Jake hadn’t been able to sleep when he first got home. He kept thinking about that woman at the library—Francesca. What an ass he’d been. It was so unlike him and not justified no matter what he was going through. Jake wondered if he would have acted like that if she hadn’t been so damn attractive. He hadn’t noticed that in a woman in a long time. Not since Angel. But something about Francesca had gotten to him. In a good way. It disturbed him because he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
N
ot in this life.
He’d spent all night drinking and paging through each of his books. He remembered every page. Incredible.
Even though his research yesterday revealed case after case of similar things happening to other people following head trauma, he still could not believe it had happened to him. He knew in his gut that somehow his situation was different. Like the connection he had made with the baby in the library or his uncanny speed at the bar. Maybe it was God’s way of squeezing a lifetime of memories into his few remaining months.
When he stepped into the kitchen, Jake felt the crunch of glass under his feet. One corner of the Spanish-tiled floor was littered with broken beer mugs. He snorted as he recalled what happened. He had tried to reproduce the speed he exhibited at Sammy’s. It hadn’t worked.
Jake picked up one of the two remaining unbroken mugs on the counter. He held it chest-high in front him. He could do this—grab the glass before it hit the floor. He took two quick breaths, released the mug, and spun around on the balls of his Reefs.
The mug shattered on the floor before he was even halfway around. The room twirled like a merry-go-round, and he nearly lost his balance. He steadied himself against the counter.
Mental checklist: Superhuman speed not sparked by a lack of sleep or a hangover. Or when sort of drunk, very drunk, shit-faced, or just pissed off at the world, he thought, remembering his efforts the previous night.
He shook a shard of glass off his foot and upended the bag of coffee over the grinder. Three lonely coffee beans spilled out.
Figures…
Splashing some water on his face from the kitchen faucet, Jake took a long drink from the stream. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his cell phone on the counter, turned off. Everybody wanted a piece of him.
The doorbell chimed.
It was too early for Marsh or Tony. Another reporter?
He moved toward the door, careful to avoid any jarring steps that would aggravate the serious ache at the back of his skull. Just part of the hangover? Or something else?
