Collateral Damage

by Steve Beaulieu

  He looked at the screen and blinked a few times. Maybe he wasn't seeing it right. He read it again. And one more time. Nothing wrong with the financial end of it. The customer, going by the name Brushstroke, was offering him enough money to reach the goal he’d set when he started his “finder” business. But the item. Could it be found, even with his mindhopper abilities?

  I want Johannes Vermeer's painting, The Concert.

  Let me know if you will take the assignment.

  Yours affectionately,

  Brushstroke

  This was no mere Mickey Mantle rookie baseball card. Jake was familiar with the painting and knew the value was astronomical. He'd been hired for two stolen painting jobs in his five years of working the Deep Web. But nothing on this scale.

  Yeah. He'd take the assignment. Both the money and the challenge were totally worth it.

  • • •

  Jake was struggling to stay awake as he ordered a coffee from the beverage cart rolling down the aisle. He'd stayed up late, reading as much as he could about the painting, and was able to catch an early afternoon flight to Boston. He hated falling asleep on airplanes and risking the chance he'd become one of "those" people who end up with their head on your shoulder, drooling. Yet the flight didn't seem that long, and shortly after, Rodney, his Uber driver, dropped him off in front of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the last known location of The Concert.

  One of Jake’s personal rules of being a finder was to not bring attention to himself—at least until he’d scoped out the situation and had a solid plan. He paid his $15 admission and tried to blend in with other visitors, keeping an eye out for the curator. Once he saw her on the floor, he'd backtrack to her office, wait there, and mindhop into her after she came in the door, gaining every bit of knowledge she had on the 1990 heist. Even if she couldn't recall the information, his abilities allowed him to pull up everything. Names, dates, places, and other contacts or experts on the subject. This assignment could end up being very tedious, and take longer than most, but the payout Brushstroke offered made it worth every penny. Jake hoped she had a nice, soft couch in her office—or at least some plush carpet. Sometimes when he mindhopped, he'd come back in his body to discover some nasty bruises or pounding headaches.

  • • •

  Though the mindhop into the curator was successful, and Jake was able to gather a lot of information that may or may not be useful in locating the painting, he found himself beyond disturbed and went back to his hotel room after picking up some takeout food.

  He tried distracting himself by watching some television, but just turning on the set reminded him of his mother, and he didn’t want to think about her right now. This wasn’t at all like him. Jake didn’t like or care about people, so why was this mindhop stressing him out so much? After what felt like forever, he drifted off to a sleep marked with lots of tossing and turning, eventually sitting up and knowing he’d get no more rest tonight.

  Three people who'd been working at the museum during the time of the robbery all died within the last week. Even stranger, they'd jumped to their deaths. All three. Two from high-rise apartment building rooftops, and one from the fifth-floor balcony of his apartment. The first two jumpers were retired, but the other had still been working at the museum. No surprise that the curator was an emotional mess about it, and it took Jake a little longer than usual to absorb all the information he could regarding the theft. But something else kept nagging at him. It seemed as if the curator had a hole in her memory. At least that's the way Jake interpreted it. There was a gap. A place where there should be memories from earlier in the week was just gone. It wasn't a long period, perhaps just 15 minutes to a half hour. But he’d never experienced something like this before.

  It seemed ridiculous that he could even know such a thing. But then again, it seemed ridiculous that he could mindhop.

  Jake threw the covers to the side and sat up, checking the time on his phone, then gave a quick stroke to a small plastic frog he'd put on the nightstand. His travel frog. How could it already be a quarter to four in the morning?

  Pacing back and forth now, he tried to recall every thought, every sensation, while in the curator's head. He'd never experienced something like this before. It was almost as if...as if...someone else had mindhopped into her.

  Could there be others like him? He'd never heard of anyone else having these abilities. But he'd never told anyone what he could do, so he supposed others, if they could mindhop, might keep it secret also. He really didn't know what to think about this, the idea that he might not be alone when it came to mindhopping.

  Jake didn't like to go into the Deep Web when he wasn't home, in his mom's basement, where he had multiple servers and relays—beyond the piggybacking the Tor browser provided—that seemed to be doing a good job of keeping him hidden. He'd heard there were newer ways to access Darknet sites, and maybe he'd have to check them out later. Or maybe sooner, since something weird seemed to be going on. He walked into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and started up the cheap little in-room coffee maker. Then he sat back down and signed in to his Darknet site. There was a message, so he ran his translation software, and saw it was from his client, Brushstroke.

  Dear Mr. Connally,

  Don't be too shocked that I know who you are. I have a way of finding these things out, and there was a specific purpose behind this false assignment. You've been doing great work locating items for people over the last few years, and making a nice little nest egg for yourself. But we both know that with your abilities, you’ve set your sights too low.

  Several of my trainees arrived at the locations of the unfortunate victims before you arrived in Boston. My people then possessed these individuals (I know you like to call it something different, referring to yourself as a Mindhopper) and jumped to their deaths. All three passed this phase of the test and were able to successfully exit their victims before being smashed upon the pavement. Unlike you, though, Jake (I feel at this point I know you well enough to call you Jake), they didn't need to see their inert bodies to "hop" back into their own heads. (Your phraseology is rather cute, I must admit, so maybe I'll switch to it, and stop using terms like "possessed." Sounds a little too Blatty, doesn't it? Negative connotations could lead the masses to believe we're fighting on the wrong side, which isn't at all true. Don't believe it? I'll explain more in my next message, tomorrow night, after you've put in your evening shift at The Magic Attic. Such a quaint little store. And your mother is so helpful with the customers.

  By the way, the Vermeer painting has been hanging in my private study for many years, so no need to continue your search, as if I really needed to tell you that. Talk to you again soon.

  Yours affectionately,

  Brushstroke

  What in the world? At this early hour, Jake didn't fully trust that he interpreted the email the way he did. Coffee. He pushed away from the hotel desk and poured himself a cup, not bothering to add the dry creamer powder that came with the little kit next to the coffee machine. It felt like his mind was going in a hundred different directions. And his heart. His heart was beating so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest at any moment. Realizing he needed to calm down, Jake sat on the bed and started sipping the hot coffee while gazing at his travel frog. The coffee was bitter, yet he continued until he was finished. Next, he'd take a shower. That might help, he realized. Then he'd read the email again. After, he'd grab a quick breakfast and get an Uber ride back to the airport. No use sticking around here any longer.

  • • •

  "My, you're home early from your little trip," Mrs. Connally said when Jake walked into The Magic Attic. "Did you let Agnes know you're back and working the evening shift?"

  What do you think I am, a complete idiot? He wanted to say it but held his tongue. He'd come to understand her manipulative tricks long ago. Tears would flow, then she'd insist on a hug. The less he had to see her and talk to her, the better. If Brushstroke was
trying to threaten him via his mother, he was in for a surprise. "Yes, mother, she knows I'm working tonight."

  Mrs. Connally slipped on a light jacket and placed her half-empty bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper and a can of Reduced Fat Pringles into her eco-safe shopping bag. His mother drove him over the edge at times, and he looked forward to the day he would leave her forever.

  If that email could be believed, it seemed like Brushstroke was some kind of modern-day Charles Manson, telling his disciples who to kill and when. Jake shivered as goosebumps raced up and down his spine. Mrs. Connally yelled goodbye, but Jake barely nodded his head.

  Seconds later the chime sounded and Mrs. Connally was standing in the doorway again. "I forgot to tell you, Jake, but some woman came in the day you left. Said she didn't have time to stay and look around but wondered if I had any books on some painter named Johannes Vermeer. We had one, can you believe the luck? The book has some beautiful color plates and all. If she stops in, it's underneath the counter, directly under the register. By the way, I'm going to stop in Levenson's deli on the way home and get some sliced olive loaf, fresh bread, a big juicy tomato, and a Vidalia onion. Sound good?" She waited for an answer, but all Jake could do was give her a little nod. His life was spiraling out of control and all his mother could think about was an olive loaf sandwich?

  "Anyway, that's tonight's dinner. Maybe if I'm awake when you get home, you can tell me a little about your short trip."

  After she left, Jake raced to the employee bathroom and vomited.

  • • •

  When Jake got back from The Magic Attic he found his mother asleep in front of the television with some reality show blaring away. In the kitchen, he saw she'd left the olive loaf sitting out on the counter, all warm and greasy now, and his stomach got queasy again. He quickly looked away, grabbed a cold can of Coke out of the fridge, and headed down the basement stairs. The only real thing on his mind was seeing if Brushstroke left him another email.

  • • •

  Dearest Jake,

  First, I wish I could set your mind at ease and tell you that the people connected to the museum who fell to their deaths were connected to the thefts. But my trainees do what I tell them to do, and accessing memories wasn't in the cards, so we'll never know. Yet they did this, from my perspective, as much for you as for their own progression.

  You're raw at what you do, but there is so much more I can teach you. Please don't think that I showed up at The Magic Attic as a way to threaten you into service. Instead, consider how much further advanced I am than you.

  I can teach you how to do things you've never dared dream of. You'll feel so powerful, so limitless.

  But time is growing short. I'm committed to finding and teaching those like us. Our world is quickly heading in the wrong direction, and if those of us who have the power don't do anything to stop it, some morning we may not wake up, because there won't be a world to wake up to. You get it, don't you? You must understand what I'm saying. We have the opportunity of a lifetime to install a better government not only in America, but all over the world. Yet time is running out. The world is full of madmen, baiting each other with nuclear weapons, just waiting for one small misstep. Then...BOOM! Nuclear fallout, nuclear winter, nuclear death on such a massive scale that cockroaches will be lucky to survive.

  If the thought of this doesn't get your attention, I don't know what else will. So please, join me. I'll train you like I've been training others. Together we will be strong. We can possess, or as you like to say, mindhop, into world leaders and change everything we don't like. We're going to be the superheroes that the world needs.

  Yours affectionately,

  Brushstroke

  Brushstroke was a woman. Jake thought the visitor to The Magic Attic was perhaps one of Brushstroke’s trainees, but her email confirmed it. Still, considering everything he'd just read, he felt slightly better. Brushstroke mistakenly thought Jake cared about people. But he had no emotional feelings about the victims who were forced to jump. Even the memories he'd gained from the curator, as sad and frightened as they were, had no effect on him. Earlier he'd told himself over and over after his mother left The Magic Attic that if Brushstroke did something to her, he wouldn't let it intimidate him. He was his own man. Always had been, from as far back as he could remember. A memory flitted across his mind about some shrink telling his mother that he appeared to be emotionally stunted. Probably true, he understood, but it didn't concern him in the least.

  So what if he didn't care for people? He tried not to act mean to anyone. He just wanted to be left alone with his things, which he did happen to like. Such as his music, his phone, his computers, his books. Even his comic books. Sometimes he felt like he'd probably outgrown them, but he liked them better than people. He also collected frogs. Frog statues, frog carvings, frog sculptures, frog paintings. And book after book about frogs. He really loved frogs, though he didn't care much for Kermit. Toads were cool with him, too. Ever since he was a boy, Jake wished that Mr. Toad from The Wind in the Willows really existed. The world would be a better place with Mr. Toad in it. Nothing in the last couple decades caused him to change his mind on that thought.

  Frogs, and to a lesser extent, toads, were the very reason Jake referred to himself as a mindhopper. Though the idea of comparing himself with his green buddies didn't seem logical, or at all rational, Jake considered it his very own way of hopping.

  But to continue feeding his need of things, he needed money. After discovering his gift of mindhopping while he was in college, his first thought was to figure out a way to make money from his ability. That's when he started developing and coding the software program he used for his emails. When he graduated summa cum laude with his degree in computer science, his mother couldn't have been any prouder. He moved back home and into her basement, working part-time at The Magic Attic. "When are you going to get some fancy computer job?" She asked him that same question practically every day for the first year. Finally, she gave up, and there wasn't much they ever talked about now. Jake didn't want to tell her about his gift, about his plans to make millions. She tended to be a blabbermouth, and though he figured no one would believe such a wild story, you never knew what might happen. Besides, it wasn't like he felt an attachment towards her, so telling his mother wouldn't be worth the effort.

  Before sending a response back to Mrs. World Domination herself, Jake decided he needed another Coke, and wondered if his mother had any Pringles left in that can.

  • • •

  Brushstroke,

  You jumped in her mind, didn't you? The curator. Before I got there? Is that how you picked out your victims? And how do you know I call it mindhopping? Are you psychic or something? By the way, I don't want to be a superhero. I'm not interested in your dumb ideas. You wasted my time and money, letting me go to Boston, knowing it was a wild goose chase. Please just leave me alone to live my life.

  Seriously,

  Mindhopper

  Maybe Jake didn't fancy himself a superhero, but if Brushstroke was going to continue playing games, using that silly name, he'd be just as juvenile. If the nut wanted to take over world governments, he didn't care, as long as she didn't bother him and his collections.

  "Superheroes that the world needs," Jake whispered in his basement. That made him chuckle a bit. Why save people when he didn't even like them?

  There was a little "ping" noise, and Jake was surprised Brushstroke has responded back so quickly. With a few clicks of his mouse, Jake's software was decrypting the message. While waiting, he walked over to his nightstand and gave a quick stroke to his plastic frog. He liked this one so much more than his travel frog. This one he never wanted to lose, so he always left it on his nightstand. It was solid plastic, weighing several pounds. It had been a gift from his father, from a business trip to research some old books to buy for The Magic Attic. Jake was probably about six or seven at the time. He couldn't remember the exact details anymore. But it turned out to be the
last trip his father came back from. The next time dad left home was the last they saw of him. Not a letter, not a phone call, not an email, not a text. Authorities were alerted. But no one could find him. He just vanished from existence.

  Sometimes Jake would sit back on his bed and think about the day his dad gave him the frog, staring at it as it sat so serenely on his nightstand. It was getting old but was still as beautiful as the day his dad gave it to him. The shrink who called him emotionally stunted told Mrs. Connally that it was Mr. Connally's fault that little Jake seemed so distant. But Jake knew it wasn't his dad's fault. As a matter of fact, he could have cared less that his dad never returned. It wasn't that he hated his father, or even loved him. He just didn't care. Objects, such as his frog, always had a much bigger appeal to Jake.

  Thinking about the past wasn't something Jake did often, and it surprised him when he found himself doing it. The idea of making more money and moving out, along with spending time enjoying his collections, gave him much more pleasure.

  The translation software finished. Jake went upstairs and got another can of Coke before reading Brushstroke's message, noticing that his mother had turned off her television and was most likely snoring away upstairs in her bed. He felt deeply disappointed that the finder job for the painting ended up being a bust. The money would have been so perfect. He had plenty of money and could leave home now, but when he'd started his finder business, he wrote down some goals, including financial goals, and intended on keeping them. As his mother always said about him since he was a small boy, he was a stickler for particulars.