Ability

by Shawn Raiford

  Contents

  Copyright

  CTA

  Chapter One - Darkness completely engulfed her

  Chapter Two - Her son's ability

  Chapter Three - A funeral today I

  Chapter Four - Some irregularities

  Chapter Five - Her skin was cold

  Chapter Six - A funeral today II

  Chapter Seven - It's in the garage

  Chapter Eight - His presence is bothersome

  Chapter Nine - A machine

  Chapter Ten - Multidimensional

  Chapter Eleven - Chest wounds hurt

  Chapter Twelve - Brett couldn't wait

  Chapter Thirteen - Wesley is happy

  CTA

  ABILITY

  Copyright © 2020 Shawn Raiford

  All rights reserved.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Darkness completely engulfed her

  TWENTY-FIVE YEARS ago...

  Over eight months pregnant, and trudging down the dark road, Gracie feared he would kill her and her unborn baby.

  It was coming down in buckets. As a little girl, she hated storms. Thunderstorms typically dumped lots of rain, but she had no choice—she had to get away. Nobody in their right mind would not be outside in storm this bad, but he had found her.

  Darkness completely engulfed her; it reminded her of when she was a little girl and her mother locked her in her bedroom when she misbehaved. Too dark to see anything; it was disorientating to say the least.

  Lightning struck again, the brightness hurt her eyes, not to mention startling, but it was her chance to see the surroundings. Being barefoot slowed her even more. By now, she was sure her feet were hamburger. Scared, she left her motel room in such a hurry, she forgot everything. Her big tote bag, where she had all her money, ID, and clothes. But at the moment, none of that seemed as important as footwear; she even forgot to grab her flip flops. She remembered, her pair of blue and orange Reebok running shoes were next to the door, but she couldn’t have put a pair of shoes on to save her life. Big bellies were a bitch for putting on shoes.

  It was shitty timing. Another two days, and she would have taken a bus to the city and checked into a hospital. But Monty had found her.

  A friend, Heather, another whore in Monty's stable, had called Gracie about a minute before she saw the headlights pull up in front of the motel's front office, letting her know that he knew her location. Before Heather hung up, she mentioned that he got Darlene high and talking. Darlene was another friend who drove her to the motel. Told Gracie to wait at the motel a week and then head to a hospital.

  Monty didn’t know she was pregnant; he’d probably kill her if he found out. None of his girls had babies without his permission. What the fuck was I thinking?

  Gracie was going to give birth then put her baby up for adoption. There was no way she could be a mother. In spite of the fact going cold turkey from heroin almost killed her those first couple of weeks. She hadn’t used the entire pregnancy. That was something to be proud of, she thought.

  Gracie was having a boy, and a boy needed a mother who would stick around for the long haul. But as soon as her little boy was born, she planned on getting high as a satellite. She could hardly wait.

  A few seconds after she stopped to take a break, lightening struck. Once again, lightening illuminated the landscape, but this time she saw something besides the road. Up ahead. Looked like a small building. Yes! Thunder quickly followed, causing her to release a little yelp. The road vibrated under her feet.

  Above her, the storm danced without a care to her condition. Staring up at it, she invited the rain as it kissed her face. With a renewed energy, she continued walking towards the building; she was going to make it to that hospital to have this baby boy.

  When she saw the artificial light flickering in the distance, she began walking faster. The building, she realized, was a convenient store with only a couple of gas pumps out front. The pumps stood under a roof, the flickering light came from underneath. Gracie also saw a pickup truck parked in front. As she neared, the lights stopped flickering and stayed on. Good! It was easier for her. Light spilled out from the convenient store.

  As she got closer, she made out a couple people near the big front window. She began yelling, “Hi! I’m coming! Please help me!” She hoped they would take pity on a pregnant woman who was running away from her murderous pimp.

  Clearly she saw a man and woman in the window, as she made it to the parking lot. Both were staring at her, and waving at her, and she yelled out in glee. “Hi, I’m Gracie!”

  The woman pushed the man towards the door. Lightning flashed, a small one; she barely heard the thunder. The man exited the store, yelling something incomprehensible at her. Holding an umbrella, waving her to him, he hesitated coming out to meet her. She didn’t blame him. Nasty didn't even begin to describe the weather. Who wanted to go out in a thunderstorm to save a crazy woman?

  Then it happened.

  Everything went bright white; opposite of going dark. She felt her body get slightly warm and then fall, but not land.

  When Gracie came to, the man, from the store, hovered over her with a wet and worried face, staring at her. They were inside the restaurant now. He was a big man, must've carried her inside. She lay on a the floor, near the front.

  “My wife is right over there, talking to nine one one. The ambulance is on its way!"

  She made it. For a minute there she was sure Monty was going to catch her and kill her and the baby. "Good! Thank you very much for helping me," Gracie said, grabbing his hand, holding it tightly.

  "No problem. How are you doing?” the man asked. "Are you hurt? Any pain?"

  "No, I don't think so," she replied.

  Had she reached her limit? Over exerted herself? Did I pass out? She didn’t remember lying down. Confused, Gracie asked, “What happened?”

  "My wife and I both saw it. You were struck by lightening!" the man said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Her son's ability

  TWENTY-TWO YEARS ago...

  Coming off a double shift at the diner, her dogs were barking.

  She exited the diner through the back door. Honda Civic was parked twenty feet away. Beyond tired, all Gracie wanted to do was sleep for five days.

  Her son would be awake, waiting for her arrival. He was her little man. Her protector, he told her. Also, he was waiting for the piece of apple pie she was bringing him. She liked spoiling him.

  Mrs. Gorenstein, and old Jewish lady, who lived next door, was such a huge help to Gracie. She accepted half the pay of any teenage baby-sitter would, and would watch her son anytime of the day. And she watched her own grandchildren at times. She was almost sixty, but she did not look it at all. Gracie pegged her at least ten years younger. So thin and always filled with so much energy; she told Gracie that children made her young.

  As she drove home, it began sprinkling. Every time it rained she thought about that night. Gracie didn’t know what she would’ve done if that couple that owned the diner hadn’t saved her that rainy night, three years ago. She’d probably be dead. Gunshot to the head. Probably to the belly too. Fucking Monty. Psycho.

  After the couple took her to the hospital emergency room, her son was born within an hour. The couple told the doctors that she’d been struck by lighting. She didn't know what to believe about that. She hadn't felt any pain. Her baby did not suffer a
t all either. The doctors said so.

  Most of the time she believed them, that she had been struck by lightening, she just chalked it up to being lucky. But there were days when she did not believe that she was struck by lightening. It had to be impossible. Maybe that man and his wife saw it wrong.

  But then last week her son did something amazing. He made a toy, an action figure, move a foot into the air. Gracie plucked it from the air. This happened in front of Ms. Gorenstein. She did not make a big fuss or anything. But she did not dismiss it either. "God does not make mistakes, Gracie. Watch your son, carefully."

  Ms. Gorenstein, the toughest woman she had ever known, tougher than most men, made Gracie promise her not to tell anyone else about what had happened. About her son's ability. She told Gracie that men from the government, "Yes, even here in the United States!", would come, if they knew about him, and take her son and she would never see him again. Ever! Gracie never considered herself anti-government, she did not know enough about the government to be pro or anti, but she had watched plenty of movies to know that the US government did take citizens, the special ones, to study in laboratories, like lab rats.

  Ms. Gorenstein talked an hour about how her parents survived the holocaust. How she never trusted any government, even that of the US. Gracie told her that she would never tell anyone; she would die before anyone took Wesley.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A funeral today I

  TODAY: SATURDAY—OCTOBER 19th

  As Wesley Cole sat on his couch, the TV remote hovering above his right palm. Removing his hand, he allowed the TV remote to fall. He reached for and picked up his half-full cup from the coffee table, and he took a sip of water.

  It was difficult to think of her as being dead. Beatrice, his cousin was dead. Dead! Suicide. Hard to believe. He would never hear her laugh again; she always laughed at his jokes, even when they weren’t funny. They would never have dinner again. He would never take Chinese or burgers to her place for dinner and Netflix again. Beatrice was gone. Six feet under.

  At the funeral earlier, he sat in the second row, behind her parents, his Uncle Greg, and his Aunt Stacey, his mother's older sister. Plenty of people came to show their respects. About halfway through the eulogy, Wesley turned, turned to see the people in attendance. Many people from the office were there; he knew the people she worked with, or he knew their faces, because she had a bunch of selfies with them and showed them all to him whenever he was over at her, which was at least three to four times a week. Renita Teval, from Document Control, sat six or seven rows back. One of the office gossips, but Beatrice liked her. Sandra Callen, from Human Resources, sat five rows back. She and Beatrice had known each other for a few years since college; Sandra was the one who helped her get her job. Sitting directly behind him, Shea Ingermason, the boss’s secretary. Shea had started her life as a man, transitioning a few years ago to a woman. Always told jokes; most of them were inappropriate from what Beatrice said. To a few trusted in the office, Shea gave herself a nickname, Post-Op.

  He did not see Patti Summerland.

  Later at the burial site, Wesley hung back. Just as Beatrice’s casket was lowered down into the grave, Aunt Stacey fell out of her chair, and crawled to the open grave, screaming, “No! My BABY! MY BABY!”

  Tears rolled down Wesley’s cheeks as Uncle Greg grabbed his wife, helping her up, and walking her back in the chair. Parents should never have to bury their children, Wesley thought.

  He just realized he hadn't checked his voicemail. The last few days he didn't want to talk to anyone, he let all of the calls go to voicemail so he knew he had some. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. Entered his passcode. Seventeen miss calls. People wanted to send their condolences. He had nine voice mails. He looked through the names that left voicemails. Mostly family, a few friends.

  Then he saw that Beatrice had left him a voicemail the night she died. That was Tuesday night. “Fuck!”

  He paused. Before listening to it, he had to brace himself. He didn't know what to expect. She could've been drunk and crying about how life sucked. He knew his cousin was embarrassed about getting fired due to failing a drug test, but he had talked to her about it. She seemed good, looking for a new job. Looking at the brighter side.

  Seriously thinking about not listening and deleting the voicemail, Wesley stared at his phone's screen. Finally he pushed the play button. If anything, he thought it would be nice to hear her voice again.

  Almost from beyond the grave, he listened to his cousin. From what he heard, Wesley was blown away. "Beatrice may have not committed suicide!" He listened to the message again. And again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Some irregularities

  TUESDAY—OCTOBER 15TH

  Wesley entered her apartment, he had his own key, placing the Chinese take-out food on the dinning table.

  With a bottle of water in hand, Beatrice sat on the couch, not watching TV, legs folded under her. “Thanks for coming over.”

  She got up, and walked over to the dinning table, where there were two place settings.

  “No problem. You said you needed to talk?” Wesley said, sitting in a chair at the dinning table.

  “Yeah. I need to talk to someone. Who’s the new secretary?” Beatrice asked. “When I called the shop’s number, she answered and sounded sassy.”

  “I don’t know her name. The boss’s niece I think. She only calls out over the PA system, informing whoever they have a call. Most of the time its clients checking on their cars.”

  “You know I don't have to call you through work phone, you can just have your cell phone on you like a normal person, and you can answer my texts,” she said, reaching inside her pocket and fishing his phone out. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” He grabbed his phone, and put it on the table, with no intention of taking it with him. Why? So someone can call him? He liked not being able to be contacted whenever someone else wanted to talk to him. His phone was for him to call or text people back, if need be. He liked leaving it at his cousin's place, because not only could people not contact him, but it gave him a reason to come over. “Yeah, I know. I will work on it. You hungry?” When he told her he was coming over, he did not tell her he was picking up anything to eat. It was just in case she hadn’t eaten. “I'm starving.”

  “I can eat a little, I guess,” she said. She got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water for him. Only water with his dinner. Every now and then he liked having a beer with his dinner, but Beatrice did not have beer. Only water, wine, or whiskey.

  He gave her a Chinese take-out container. “Veggie rice.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Wesley put his styrofoam box down on the table and opened it. It smelled good. He got himself Beef and Broccoli, his favorite. He began eating, shoveling the rice, pieces of beef, and broccoli down his gullet. He was hungry. Beatrice was preoccupied, picking at her food, not really eating. Tears began flowing down her cheek.

  He put his fork down. “Hey, hey!” Wesley said. He was close enough, so he placed his hand on her forearm. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cry in front of you,” Beatrice said.

  Wesley did a quick memory check, and he did not remember her ever crying in front of him. Beatrice was a strong woman. Unlike her mother, she would tell him. “What is it? I’m here if you need to talk it.”

  “I got fired today!” Beatrice said, grabbing his hand. “Fuckers fired me!” she said, wiping her nose. She stared at him in the eyes for a few seconds and took a drink of wine.

  He patted her on the back. That was weird. Beatrice was a hard worker. She stayed late four out of five days a week. She even went in on Saturdays sometimes. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry to hear that. But you’re smart. You'll get another job, no problem. Don’t worry!” Wesley wanted to ask why she got fired, but he figured she would tell him.

  “Yeah, I know, but the thing is they fired me, because I tested positive on a drug te
st they had me take yesterday.”

  Wesley had to take a drug test when he got hired on to be a mechanic. Most jobs in America were contingent on passing a drug test. But, it usually took a few days, even a week to get the results. “What? Did you smoke—”

  “Opiates! Can you believe that? I tested positive for opiates, and they told me it was a lot of opiates!”

  Wesley wasn't sure what normal drug tests tested for, maybe she took a broad range test. But he still didn’t believe it. Beatrice would never jeopardize her job; she was too smart for that. “What, like oxycodone or hydrocodone? It’s legal, right?”

  She held up a hand. “Yes, oxycodone, but you need a prescription. The test is right. I had opiates in my system.”

  “How?” Wesley asked. He knew she was not a drug user. Not even a recreational pill popper.

  “A couple of weeks ago, I found some irregularities in some financials. Payments to companies I wasn’t sure about. I thought it was possible that there was someone committing fraud against the company. Or someone is stealing, but I need more information to be sure.”

  Beatrice worked as an accounting clerk, working to be an account. She had been working for Hendrix Limited, for two years. It was her first job since graduating from college with a degree in accounting.

  “Wow!” Wesley said.

  She continued. “And I told my supervisor about it. I gave him all the relevant files, and he told me that he would look into it.”

  “Okay. Then what happened?”

  “Last Friday, I went out with a girl from the office. For drinks. Her name is Patti Summerland, she’s in Accounting too. But she works with mostly international stuff. She was meeting Neil Connors in Sales. Ugly, hairy dude with moobs. I’d met him before, what a fucking loser, but he was bringing another sales guy, so she invited me. Didn't want to but I thought I'd help her out by being her wing-woman.”