Mind Over Matter
By Joanna Berry
I
looked calmly at the bullet resting in my palm.
“I hope you realise how lucky you are,”
Henderson said as he flipped over my charts, scrawling something before handing
it to a passing nurse. “A few centimetres, Agent Cooper, and we wouldn’t be
having this conversation.”
I flexed the muscles in my lower
back, cautiously. A slow fan of warm heat spread upwards, a heat that was not
pleasant. My fingers closed into a fist with the bullet inside.
“How is she?” I asked.
Henderson
looked uncomfortable. “Your gal? Under heavy guard, though she isn’t going
anywhere. If she makes it through the night I’ll be surprised.”
“She’ll live through the night.” I
slid slowly off the examining table; my feet were painfully warm against the
cold tiled floor. “Do you have my papers?”
He handed me a sheaf of
identification slips, forms and the like. I sorted through them, balancing them
on my palms as I looked for my ID. Pulling it out, I clipped it on and asked
Henderson for a pen so I could sign for them. He handed it to me, but I was
holding too much and I dropped it.
“Sorry,” he said, and reached to get
it. I shifted the papers, opening my hand and the pen came to me like a
reversed movie clip. Henderson recoiled, just enough to see. Clicking it open I
scribbled my signature in triplicate, counter-signed various items and wrote my
serial number on the form for my sidearm.
“I think that’s all in order,” I
said, handing him the papers with the pen clipped onto the leading edge.
He appraised me coolly. “When are
you going back to work?”
“When I’m needed. Which will
probably be next week.”
“Take some time off.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You were underweight anyway, the
surgery to remove the bullet took a lot out of you and I know the calories
involved in psionics. You can’t take it, Agent Cooper. Get some weight on
before you go back to work.”
“I have classes to take, students to
teach, and regular duties to perform. I’ll be there next week. And I’ll be back
here in two days to check up on her.”
“She might not be here.”
“She will.” I painfully put on my
coat. “She will.”
I met Jack
Pallance out in the parking lot of the hospital, limping. He was waiting by his
car but came to meet me halfway. He looked very shocked to see me lurching
towards him.
“Jesus, Mauran, you’re a mess.” He
caught my forearm as I came close enough.
“Good
morning to you too, Jack,” I replied wryly. “Company car?”
“They
laid it on. Least they could do. How is she?”
“Dying.”
He was tactfully silent helping me
into the car. It was only when we joined the flow of traffic on our way to my
home that he spoke again. “Tell me.”
“Bullets in chest, leg, stomach and
one clipped the side of her neck. She got internal bleeding. They’ve operated
but they don’t think she’s going to live beyond tonight.”
“You do.”
“I followed her for months, Jack, I
know what she’s capable of. She’s got strength where it matters. She’ll live,
for a while at least, then when she’s made her point she’ll let go.”
He didn’t reply, but one hand
briefly left the wheel and found mine.
As we pulled up onto the driveway I
had a nice surprise: my assistant at work, Lisa, opened the front door,
followed by her partner Robert. They came to meet us as I struggled to get out
of the car on my own. Jack balanced me while walking around the front of the
car and with my own help I lifted myself up with a little less trouble. Lisa
held me gently and kissed me on the cheek. I was very glad to see her.
-
So how are you? – she asked, her
face compassionate.
-
I’ve been better – I replied, backing up what I was saying in
Ameslan. Lisa had very little hearing capability, one of the reasons she was a
prolific psionic. She preferred not to speak verbally in company where she
didn’t have to.
Robert
gave me a very careful hug. “We’ve all missed you, Mauran,” he said. “I’m sorry
if we sort of took tenancy of your house while you were in hospital –“
“Rob,
you know you and Lisa are always welcome,” I said, then sniffed at the smell
coming from the open door. “Dinner?”
- Lasagne – replied Lisa. – Rob said you’d be hungry -
We went in to eat, but even as I was greeted
enthusiastically and somewhat painfully by Lisa’s son Jamie, even as I was
taken back into the bright circle of my peers and friends, even as I sat at the
table to eat a good and companionable meal, I couldn’t shake the memory of the
last time I had seen her, bloodstained and unconscious, slumped on a
hospital gurney being run to the operating theatre, one eye hidden, the other
meeting mine.
*****
When
Rob and Lisa had eventually gone home, taking Jamie with them, Jack lingered
for a while as we drank coffee and talked, avoiding legalistic matters, just
small talk. He watched me feed the lionfish in the middle of the conversation,
his eyes calm and grey as Rho and Chi and Omega took their own meal.
“How are you?” he asked suddenly,
bluntly. I turned to look at him, forgetting, and something like a spear of
pain lanced my back.
“How am I? I don’t know. I’m
hurting, I know that.”
“Mauran, we know each other too
well. Don’t bullshit me. You were after her for months before we cornered her
in New Orleans. I know how you used to look. You don’t give up on something
that easily. Tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” I poured
more coffee. “She shot Axel Kingsley. I shot her. She shot me. Kinglsey’s dead,
she’s dying. I’m still alive.”
I felt his touch on the inside of my
head and rejected it. “Do you know,” he went on, as if he hadn’t done anything,
“that they still haven’t got a positive ID for her? No name, no social
security, no dental records, no credit cards, forwarding addresses, insurance –
it’s worrying. The FBI are kicking themselves trying to work out who she is and
where she came from.”
“At the hospital,” I said, “they had
put T. Hunter on the intake cards. The only name they got was The Hunter,
so I suppose they assumed The was short for Theresa or
something similar.”
I felt my pocket and took out the
bullet, cool and smooth and calmly lethal, cradling it in my hands.
*****
A week later, as promised, I was back
at work, while my charge hung on and on in the hospital, breathing through a
tube. Sore and stiff, I was shocked to come into one of my classes to a round
of applause. Putting my bag on a stool slowly, I looked at my students in true
amazement and a facsimile of gratitude. Their faces were young and admiring.
Eventually I settled them down.
“Thank
you,” I said, “but you need to remember I’m not proud of what I did. And as you
know, Coach Kingsley, from the training circuit, is not here to share that
applause with me.” They were solemn as I reminded them of PILEA’s loss – Axel
had been a genuinely good and decent man. “There will be a memorial service on
Tuesday for those who wish to attend.” I opened my bag to bring out my folder.
“Now, according to my notes, while I was away you got up to 22.7 in the green
textbook, under Psionic Ethics and Codes of Practice . . .”
I taught
an hour’s class, then had to take some painkillers the hospital had given me.
Resisting the temptation to take a rest on the sofa in my office, I got out the
case file on our girl in Intensive Care. I knew the whole thing off by heart,
but I had to write a statement, do the paperwork for discharging a firearm,
fill out a PILEA witness form and perform the other thousand and one tasks I
needed to do before the case of the young woman we only knew as the name we had
dubbed her with, the Hunter, could close.
Lisa put
her head around the door as I was deep into my work. – Mauran, I’ve got a call from the hospital
for you –
I put
down my pen and patched the call through, waving gratefully to Lisa. “Agent
Cooper.”
“Ms
Cooper, this is Harvey Marshall, head of security at the Memorial. We’ve just
had a serious situation with your charge in the ICU.”
Cold fear
strangled my heart. “Details, please.”
“She went
into convulsions and experienced a TK event. Everything is normal now, but I
was told to inform you that –“ There was the sound of papers rustling. “Her
brain wave patterns are experiencing strange fluctuations leading us to
conclude she –“
“ – has
psionic capabilities,” I finished. My hand was tight around the receiver. “When
do you want us down there?”
“The
situation has been resolved, Agent Cooper. If anything else happens –“
“ – you
might end up with a hospital ward full of flying glass. No. I’m sending you two
of our good agents to supplement the watch. Their names are Z. Curtis and W.
Jackson. They should be there within the hour.”
“I
appreciate it, Agent Cooper.” His voice was stony and calm. “Goodbye.”
I cut the
line and called down to Zack and William separately, explaining in a moment
what they needed to do and how to get to the hospital. Then I closed the door
quietly from behind my desk and lowered my head into my trembling hands.
A TK
event. TK was the PILEA abbreviation for telekinesis, a gift I possessed
myself. Now I knew I should have warned them, that I should have said
something. Because when we were being wheeled away to our separate operating
theatres, when we had made that split-second eye contact, the Hunter had spoken
to me.
- Are you proud of yourself? –
Of course I wasn’t. I had shot a young
woman in the prime of life. She would not live to see another month. But she
saw things in terms of black and white. Either she won or I did. And while she
had earned herself a place in the psychology textbooks as possibly the only
true female serial killer, she had been winning. By shooting her I had taken
her off the high spot. Never mind if she had shot me with her last strength as
she lay in a pool of her own blood. I had killed her and that meant I was the
winner.
I didn’t feel like a winner. I felt used
up and cheap for shooting her. I didn’t deserve the awestruck applause of my
students or lasagne from Lisa, any more than I would have deserved it for
harpooning a unicorn. In my mind, the Hunter was, as she no doubt knew, a
mythical creature, an urban legend with no moral ties. That didn’t mean I was
too blind to do my job. I knew that her psychosis drove her to murder, and
therefore she was a menace to society. I knew she was dangerous and very likely
to kill again. But that had just been a fact, a scientific snippet I had tucked
along with two and two make four, and the equations for photosynthesis and
relativity. I felt differently. I could relate to the Hunter, as we were
both rare creatures in a world where normality was drab and drear. I had a
genius IQ, and a P rating of twenty-nine when the average person was around
three or four, which marked me out somewhat even in PILEA. I belonged here. But
sometimes I felt that I did not deserve to be here.
My eyes strayed down to my company
notepad, where the PILEA crest was ghostly and colourful. The words around the
edge could be clearly read: Psionic Investigations and Law Enforcement Agency.
The Latin motto underneath was a little harder. Quo mens se habere aeternus.
Something along the lines of: The Mind is Forever. Whoever had
written that had the right idea. I knew that I would not forget the Hunter,
even if I lived to be older than Methuselah. And I knew that wherever she was
going, she would not forget me in a hurry.
She was a psionic, and I had murdered
her. Perhaps the fatal event had not yet occurred, but it was a foregone
conclusion. And psionics do not kill each other.
I left the
building as early as I could without being suspicious.
*****
That evening I sat in my living room
with several manila folders scattered around me and a cold coffee on the table
next to the chair. Rho moved slowly around the large tank on one side of the
room and fixed me with a baleful stare as if he disapproved. I glanced up. My
lionfish were my pride and joy. Rho was the single male in my life I could
relate to. I wondered if the Hunter had kept lionfish.
My eyes
strayed back to the page. The inventory of the small motel room where we had
found her was on my lap. It was the one and only place we had found which she
had lived in for a period of time. The place had been extremely neat and tidy,
the only evidence of occupation a damp shower curtain and piles of electronic
surveillance equipment, binoculars, a Kevlar vest, which she had not been
wearing when we finally cornered her, a switchblade and a .38 Police Special.
The only even slightly personal item we had ever discovered was a small bonsai
tree on the side of the table, carefully clipped and cared for. I supposed the
Hunter favoured minimalism, as I did, and that the meticulous nature of bonsai
upkeep appealed to her nature. Assuming, of course, that the tree was hers.
In these
folders was the work of months, mostly mine. We had tracked the Hunter across
most of the continent, going from city to city – Dallas, San Francisco,
Chicago, Saint Louis, Los Angeles, in a seemingly random pattern. She went to a
city, killed one person, usually a high up like a lawyer or a company
executive, then left. The modus operandi never altered: gunshot wound to
the back of the head that killed instantaneously. Residual epinephrine levels
in the bodies and nerve-pattern post mortem psionic scan – usually performed by
myself, Jack or Axel, as we had been the three assigned to the case – revealed
that they had been held at gunpoint for some time before they died. The Hunter
had been talking to them, I remembered writing. Flipping over the corner of a
page, I read it again in my sloping handwriting. But I knew now that wasn’t
true. If the Hunter was a psionic, she could have been doing anything to them
while she held the gun on them.
I closed
my eyes, seeing in my imagination the face of the third victim, Michael
LaPointe, a successful junior partner in a wealthy software corporation. I saw
him sitting in the office he had died in, working, and the door opens revealing
his secretary, Louise, who I had interviewed tearful and shaking.
Mr
LaPointe? Your eleven o’clock is here.
Thanks,
Lou. Show her in.
Louise
retreats and the door is held for a young woman, mid-twenties, blond-brown
hair, arresting hazel eyes, wearing an expensive trouser suit. She comes in and
shakes his hand.
Ms
Hunter? Pleasure to meet you.
Thank you,
Mr LaPointe. I had never heard the Hunter’s voice, but I created a
cultured accent that was from nowhere and everywhere. She keeps her voice low
all the way through the conversation. They arrange to meet later that week, but
LaPointe is busy and can only make the last slot in the evening. Moving time
ahead to their appointed date, I watched the Hunter walking towards his office
and being shown inside by Louise, just as she is leaving for the day. LaPointe
is behind his desk, and they talk for around twenty minutes. The Hunter has
exquisite hearing and she can tell when the offices around them are empty. They
conclude their business and LaPointe asks if she’d like a small drink while she
signs a contract he has given her. She agrees. He turns to get her the drink
and when he turns back . . .
I snapped
out of it. The murder weapon in this case was a different gun, threaded for a
silencer. He sees it, knows what this means – maybe drops the glass. But what
then? What happens after he slumps back in his chair, his voice trembling, and
asks her what she wants? Somehow, I doubted it was money. She didn’t feel like
the blackmailing type.
So what,
then? What had the Hunter done to him with her psionic gift before she killed
him? She was maybe criminology’s first true female serial killer. How did that
make her different? God damn it, what had she done?
I read the
other files, but I was tired and wanted some sleep. Yet even as I lay back
carefully onto the braced mattress, my mind kept turning it over. I already
knew that the Hunter in psionic terms was a rara avis, again, like me.
PILEA used three initials for psionic abilities on ID: TK for telekinetic, TE
for telepathic, and T/T for both. T/T was extremely rare and highly respected:
NITA, the Non-Profit International Telepaths Agency, practically framed
authentic certificates for T/T. I knew around a hundred and fifty authentic
cases, and most of them worked for PILEA. The Hunter had, with that little
unconscious stunt today, proved that she was a T/T. I mused over the
implications aloud into the darkness. Even with PILEA’s no-shit reputation –
unlike NITA: they were basically a cataloguing service – the public was still
wary of psionics, and to put it out that one of the most notorious serial
killers of our age had been a T/T would do irrevocable damage. I decided to do
an internal memo in the morning.
As I
finally turned over stiffly, in a reasonable amount of pain, I began to drop
asleep. And only then did the thought hit me, unlikely as it was: What if
she didn’t know?
*****
I discovered that Jack had telepaged me in the morning and
I responded when I woke up, bleary eyed and sleepy. – What is it? –
- Just wanted to see how you were.
Apparently you left in something of a hurry yesterday –
- I was in pain. I’ve been shot, you
know –
- Is it the Hunter? –
- Why is it that every conversation we
have ends up being about her? –
- Cool down, Mauran, it was just a
question. Is it? –
- No, it isn’t –
- Have you been to see her? -
I hesitated, and then, suddenly irritated,
cut the contact. I had better things to do with my morning than justify myself
to Jack. Coffee, painkillers and toast put me in a better mood, and I decided
to come in a little late to work. After the way I had been acting recently, I
doubted anyone would notice. After showering, I went into my room, unwrapped
the towel and squinted over my shoulder in the mirror, looking at my back
injury for the first time. It was not a pretty sight. I had a tough knot of
scar tissue beside my spinal cord which was an angry livid purple, as if a bulb
had been jammed under my skin. I realised for the first time just how right
Henderson had been. The Hunter had almost killed me too, or at least left me
paralysed. She had intended for me to die with her, as she had killed Axel
Kingsley, but I had moved at the last moment as she turned up to look at me
with my back to her, gun in hand. Then there had been the crashing echo of the
shot, the incredible pain. I remembered feeling oddly interested in the
concrete floor I was lying on, and wondering why the sounds around me were so
muffled and strange, before I spent thirty six hours unconscious and was yanked
into the operating theatre to have a slug removed. I had come out several
pounds lighter and a year or so wiser – I would never turn my back on a corpse
again, at least. And for some reason, I felt as if I was living on borrowed
time.
Maybe I was, if I wanted to find out what the Hunter had done to
those she had killed before she died in her coma. For some reason it struck me
as important. I knew it wasn’t – the case was closed, those final, damning
shots I had fired myself had seen to that. I had fired at the murderer of,
amongst others, my co-worker Axel, who had been a good agent and one hell of a
sports coach, and locked the case closed – but by locking it closed I had
locked myself out too, like closing the lid on a jigsaw puzzle which had one
piece missing, and expecting it not to matter to the picture.
I rubbed myself slowly dry and got dressed.
So if I was so eager to go and find out for myself what had
happened, if time was so short, why wasn’t I streaking down to the Memorial now
to find out? I had an answer I could give readily to myself which I would
rather have died than said out loud: I was afraid. Not of the Hunter. She was
dying, kept alive by machines and chemicals. Her days of harm were over. No - I
was afraid to reach into her soul and find that thing she was keeping locked
down, which had caused her to kill, which had made her live like a nomad and which
was preventing her from finding final peace. I was afraid to pull it out of
there, because I thought it might have my face.
I felt close to the Hunter. I regretted not coming to know her as
a person. But that didn’t mean I wanted to meet her secret self. And yet, if I
wanted to find out why she had done what she had, I was going to have to.
I turned away from the thought and went to work.
*****
Lisa met me in the corridor on the way
to my office. – Mauran, I’ve got the
files on the Carparthi case you wanted –
I detected a distinctly nervous air in
her communiqué and I had some idea of why. I began to get seriously annoyed,
not at her directly, but at someone else. – Lisa, has Jack Pallance from upstairs been talking to you? –
She
looked and felt uncomfortable. – Not
exactly. How do you mean? –
- I mean, has he been asking
questions about me? –
She looked hurt. – Are you accusing
me of something? –
- No. But I think Jack Pallance
is after me about something. What did you tell him, Lisa? –
- The truth. You’ve been a little withdrawn and you’ve had a few
irregular hours, but other than that you’ve been completely normal. Are you
going to tell me what this is about? –
I shook my head and gently took the Carparthi
case files from her hand. “I’m sorry,” I said aloud and signed to her at the
same time. “It’s just that Jack seems to think I can’t do my job any more.”
I went into my office and took the five or so
messages on my desk – minor things that were handled quickly. Some angel,
probably Lisa, had collected essays from my first class of the day and left
them in my tray for me to mark. I felt disgusted with myself for attacking Lisa
like that. She was a kind and generous woman, a loving mother and an extremely
good assistant. She put up with me in all my moods, but I had never snapped at
her before. Running a hand through my hair I thought about it. Jack Pallance.
That was it. That had set me off. He
had been a little too protective of me the past few days. I truly resented
being taken care of, as if I had gotten
this job by being effeminate and meek. I decided to have a word with him, but
not now. I had work to do. Taking the Carparthi case files I flicked through
them, then sighed. – Lisa? –
- Hmmm? – She
was working at something on her computer.
- Lisa, I’m sorry I shouted at you. I’ve been under a lot of
stress, but that’s no excuse. That was rude and uncalled for –
- That’s all right. I’m used to you
letting off steam –
I winced. – I know I’m not an easy boss. Next time just
yell back –
- I’ll bear that in mind –
I let her get on with her work and started on my
own, sorting through my student’s essays. Marking them was oddly soothing in
its familiarity. I reflected as I finished that and started typing up a report
that sooner or later I’d be assigned a new investigative case, and that soon
the Hunter would just be another case cipher, another notch on my gun. The
second I formed that tasteless thought I felt physically sick. Leaning back
from my computer, I breathed in one deep breath after another, ignoring the
serious pain forming in my back. So I had come to this: collecting trophies.
How sordid.
I felt for my painkillers and took two with a
dash of water. They tasted bitter, but I crunched them viciously, hard enough
to jar my teeth as they went down. Penance wasn’t the healthiest concept ever
formed, but I usually felt better if I had balanced things out in the great
scheme. A bitter taste in return for death by gunshot wounds. Not the fairest
of exchanges.
Looking back at the neat lines of text on the
screen, I wondered what had happened to me. A genuine sense of remorse and
concern, if a little misguided, had turned into something quite different. I
supposed it was morbid obsession. But my mind just wouldn’t leave the subject,
however hard I tried to turn it the other way. It was as if my subconscious was
working on the problem but occasionally had to remind me about it. I rubbed my
fingers into the corners of my eyes and sighed deeply. Maybe I was just too
damn tired. Those painkillers might have a bit more than morphine in them.
I turned the little white canister around and
looked at it absently. Then my eyes caught an interesting but trivial titbit of
information on the label: they were made by the same company the Hunter’s
second victim, Jordan Cole, had worked for, a successful pharmaceutical firm.
Below the name was another, printed small, and I squinted to read it. Once I
had, I frowned. Bader-Cameron Associates. But it couldn’t be.
I saved the report I had been typing and went
onto the office server to try and find the victim files of the Hunter case. I
typed in my password, misspelling it at first, then searched for them amongst
the myriad cases PILEA had handled in the past few months. Finding the area, I
opened it …to find it empty.
I scowled. This was not good. I came out and
went in again. Still nothing. The victim profiles had been deleted from the
server. This was looking less and less good all the time. A superuser had
deleted case files from the server without even leaving a message. And did I
know who had done it? You bet your ass I did. A certain agent from upstairs
called Jack Pallance, maybe? By God, you might be right.
I slammed both my hands flat down onto the desk
in frustration. A little voice that was quickly drowned out told me that it was
paranoia, that I was getting a little stirred up over something so simple.
People cleared out the server all the time, just to keep it from getting overloaded.
The Hunter case was closed, and the files were now defunct. But my usual inner
voice, the one which I habitually listened to and which had gotten me out of
trouble before, told me that was so much bullshit. Jack had done it to get my
mind off the Hunter, to stop me dwelling on the case which was over and done
with. He was doing his chivalrous act again, the one which always got my
hackles up, and I knew just the line he would take if I confronted him: Well,
Mauran, I did it for you, my
dear.
I picked up a hole-punch without touching it and
flung it across the room. But Jack’s deleting the files didn’t change anything,
really. I knew what Bader-Cameron Associates was – but what the name was doing
on a bottle of painkillers, I didn’t know. The Bader-Cameron Associates I knew
was an attorney’s resource: the name had surfaced momentarily on a legal
document belonging to the sixth victim. I decided to take a look when I got
home that evening. Maybe I’d see the name again. Perhaps those killings had not
been quite so random after all.
*****
Bader-Cameron, over and over again. I slammed
the last folder closed.
How
had we missed it? How had I missed
it?
The
same company name, in several different contexts. According to the small print
on various documents connected to each of the victims, Bader-Cameron was a
pharmaceutical conglomerate, a software giant, a law firm, a financial advice
service and half a dozen other unconnected companies. The killings hadn’t been
random at all. She had been taking out people who, via a tortuous route, worked
for the same company, or branches of it, or companies with the same name. All
high ups, or soon-to-be high ups, all killed execution style.
I
wandered restlessly around my home, unable to sit or stand still. What did it
mean? Why had she done it? Why those particular people? Why that company?
Then
a thought struck me and I went into my small study, going extremely carefully
on my knees before a low drawer stuffed with papers. I pulled page after page
out until I found what I wanted: a page from my contract, or a Xerox anyway.
Taking it into the light, I looked very carefully at the small print on the
bottom. My eyes picked out a now-familiar logo and writing in the smallest type
possible: Bader-Cameron Associates. I raised my head. Whatever Bader-Cameron
was, PILEA had some connection to them. That meant nothing – PILEA took some
funding from companies as a goodwill gesture, as well as in return for our
services – but for some reason it gave me a chill. That tiny little inner voice
told me to go and surf the Net for Bader-Cameron Associates, if I was so
worried, but I knew I would be wasting my time without even bothering.
I did, however, turn my home computer on, as
well as my scanner, grabbing the small print from each document I had seen the
name on and blowing it up before printing them off. I was about to shut my
computer down and turn off the printer, when I hesitated, then printed another
two copies. Taking them and a roll of sellotape, I opened the drawer in my
bedroom and taped one to the bottom of the drawer above, then wriggled under
the bed and taped another one there. I felt ridiculous, but feeling ridiculous
had saved my skin before now. Paranoia was only paranoia when it was
unjustified, and those deleted files had spooked me. With the paper now folded
into my jacket pocket, the one on my computer and the two in my room, there
were four copies of the evidence and more if you counted the originals. Only
then did I go to sleep, my mind at ease for the time being, at least. But now I
knew what I had to do.
The next morning, I woke up with the mother of
all pain lurking in my lower back. I had forgotten to put on my brace,
especially after kneeling down yesterday, and it felt as if someone had
strapped a staple gun to my spine. Every time I moved I had to clamp my teeth
together or scream, and getting out of bed was seemingly the work of hours.
Finally standing on my feet, I decided enough was enough and supported myself
for once as I staggered to the bathroom, groggy and in agony. I took another
look at my wound in the mirror, but the swelling hadn’t changed much. It was
the muscles that were giving me the greatest trouble, cramping with teeth like
knives. Munching more painkillers with a glass of water, I checked the dosage
and recklessly took another few. The pain eased a little bit, waking up as I
struggled downstairs but giving me a break as I found muesli and instant
coffee, eating while standing up. There was no way I could drive. I disliked
taking time off work, especially since I had only just come back, and my hours
had been very erratic recently, as Lisa had told Jack. But I shuddered at the
thought of sitting up all day with my back in this state, and anything I did or
wrote wouldn’t be worth reading when those extra painkillers started kicking
in.
Reluctantly, I phoned the head office and
apologised profusely. I was grateful for the supervisor, Gale Harding’s
sympathetic response. She told me to take the rest of the week off until my back
calmed down, which I thanked her for, and promised she’d get someone to cover
for me. I said I was sorry for putting this trouble on her, but she just
chuckled warmly and cut me off. Extremely thankful, I dragged several soft
pillows from upstairs onto the sofa while I hunted for my back brace. Finding
it, I tried to put it on, then realised something: it is impossible to put on a
back brace alone while your back is giving you hell, unless you want to spend
the rest of the day on the edge of crying with pain. I did without and sank
carefully back into my chair, against the pillows.
At least it gave me a chance to look over the
files again. I brought the folders to my hand to save me the pain of getting
up, and looked down at the sheets I had taken out last night. My eye fell to
the name again. Bader-Cameron Associates. Mysterious, omnipresent – and the
missing link. The pain had sharpened me up: when I tried to find Lisa, I caught
her attention on the first try.
– Morning, Mauran –
- Lisa, my back is very bad and I won’t
be coming in today. Did Gale tell you? –
- She called a while ago. Jack Pallance is looking for you –
- I know what Jack can do. I don’t particularly want to talk to
him, Lisa, so if he asks if you’ve heard from me, you haven’t. Kapeesh? –
- Kapeesh –
- How are things, anyway? How’s Jamie? –
- He’s got his P-grading today – Lisa
was referring to a quick test as routine as an inoculation which measured a
child’s P level via responses to an injection. I remembered my parents’
reaction to my results and smiled. – He’ll be fine. He’s got two psionic parents so he’s got a better
chance of getting five or more at his age –
- Mauran – sorry, but I’ve just got some
more files in to work on. I’m going to have to get on with them –
I quit talking to her and fumed quietly as I
looked for the first victim’s file to go over it again. Jack again. Didn’t he
have a case to work on, students to teach? In other words, didn’t he have
something better to do than nursemaid me? Picking me up from the hospital had
been kind enough, but he didn’t win the right to follow me around like a puppy.
I read the files and made notes on a pad beside
me until my eyes started to hurt, and not for the first time, I wondered if I
needed glasses. My back was now incredibly painful from sitting still so long.
All of the victims seemed perfectly clean to me, as they had the first time I
had been through these files: no criminal records, all reportedly friendly
people who were sorely missed, loving fathers, caring girlfriends. In other
words, their profiles were squeaking. In light of my recent discoveries, I
became instantly suspicious. Not even a parking ticket amongst them? Something
had to be wrong. I had never worked anywhere else but PILEA – not that I would
want to work anywhere else – but I knew every company had its black sheep,
misfits, office flirts. I had investigated a few in my time. Either the Hunter
had deliberately targeted them for their spotless records or had coincidentally
picked at random, angels of the establishment. Somehow I doubted the latter.
But there was only one way to be certain, and I
was in no shape to do it.
*****
Zack Curtis picked me up an hour later,
helping me to his car. I was limping and exhausted, and I caught a shocked
sound he didn’t make aloud when I had opened the door. Once inside the car, I
leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Zack got in beside me.
“Ms. Cooper, I would honestly rethink this. No offence, but you look terrible.”
“Please
just drive, Zack. You’ve got your post to get back to.” I winced as the engine
rumbled into life beneath us, and Zack gave me another concerned look as he
pulled out into the street.
The
Memorial was almost inaccessible, the parking lot crowded. Zack squeezed into a
tiny space next to a tree, the only one left, and helped me out of the car. The
world greyed out briefly as I tried to stand upright, and I groped for
something to hold onto. Zack caught me before I fell. My back was spasming. I
had no idea I was this ill, but it didn’t change anything. We limped across the
parking lot towards the hospital, and I ignored the look from the hospital
receptionist as we showed our ID. As we made our way to the lift, I heard Zack:
- Ms. Cooper, she’s comatose and wouldn’t understand you if you spoke
to her. It isn’t worth you putting yourself through this –
- It is, Zack – I
replied, hanging onto his elbow. – Trust me, it is –
We stepped out into the ICU and Zack spotted his
partner, Jackson, waiting at the end of the ward. I could feel a furious flash
which stopped before it reached him: clearly, Jackson was irritated at Zack but
had seen me. I could catch drifts of their lightning conversation but I wasn’t
really listening. As I approached, he stretched out a hand, not for courtesy
but to take me out of Zack’s hands. “Agent Cooper,” he said, pleasantly. He was
a TE, like Zack, only not as forthcoming. I accepted his firm grasp and stepped
past him, into the ward, and opened the correct door, the one with a guard
standing next to it. Zack and Jackson stepped in after me, but I spoke firmly
to them. – I want to be in here alone –
Jackson countered: - Our orders were not to leave her alone for
any length of time, and for there always to be two agents pres –
- I issued those orders. Go and get a coffee
–
They left, after exchanging glances, and closed
the door behind them with a gentle thud. Painfully, I brought a chair to me,
silently, and sat down carefully next to the bed.
Here she was.
They had done their best for her, the doctors. There
were tubes in her nose and mouth, IV drips in her arms. An oxygen mask
concealed her lower jaw and the respirator breathed softly beside her. Her
vital signs were measured day and night with an alert and her injuries had been
treated to the best of their ability. They had done all they could. But it
would not be enough. What I had done to her was just too severe.
She had called me here, with the TK event,
whether she knew it or not. A sneaking hunch had been confirmed. And she wanted
me here. I didn’t know why. Even here, my back on fire, looking at her bluish
eyelids, her neck purple on one side where one of my bullets had clipped her,
her body covered with a sheet, I didn’t know.
- I’m here – I said, as quietly as
I could. Then, one of my hands stole out and took hold of her left, the one
with the tube taped in the back. The fingers were as cold as ice and
unresponsive. I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly through my mouth.
Silence reigned supreme.
The light in the room seemed to change. The
sunlight from the window that led to the outside world slowly filtered until it
was a soft bronzed yellow, and the corners of the room softened with it. I
caught colours I hadn’t noticed in the sheet, and I realised that I could hear
people walking beneath me, on the floor below us. Their thoughts were crystal
clear, and I could see them, know them, as if just by hearing them I could tell every aspect
of their lives. A little girl with a broken arm was waiting for her parents to
pick her up in the children’s ward. She was hoping her father would have time
to come too, but I knew he wasn’t coming because his extra shift had come up
this week, and his goddamn boss wouldn’t even –
The figure on the bed beside me stirred, and I
wondered how I had ever seen her as ill and frail. Occasionally I had come
across TE type psionics who saw people differently, like picking up their
thoughts just by looking at them. Now I knew what they meant. The Hunter was
burning with strength and colour, her face alive with light, her hair a strange
aura. Her eyes opened, and the grey colour seemed to hold every storm ever
birthed, bright with the power of the wolf.
Her right hand reached up and pulled the oxygen
mask away. I slowly understood what was happening. I was seeing what she wanted
me to see, inside her own mind. This was the world for her, shown to me the way
she saw it.
Oh my god . . . I could feel it now,
the indescribable sense of power that emanated from her, like standing next to
an electrical generator the size of a city block. In terms of light or sound, a
supernova waiting to happen or the anticipation of a symphony that could
shatter glass. My hand, still held in hers, trembled very slightly. The psionic
energy I could feel was incredible. Once, I had been to a PILEA conference
where the heads of various departments had gathered: some of the strongest
psionics alive in one building, one room. It had been a charged atmosphere, the
air seeming to sing with power. But that was nothing compared to what I was
feeling now.
Oh god, she has to be . . . the strongest psionic alive, the
strongest psionic anywhere. Think what she
could do, what she could be capable of . . .
“Nothing, now,” she answered calmly, sitting up
inside this dream world, whereas in the real world she was immobile, in a coma.
“My days of power are over.”
I turned to look at her, meeting the expression
I had known I would see: reserved and coolly humorous, as if the world was a
joke she alone could understand.
“You wanted me here,” I said, and my own voice
sounded very strange, both muffled and clear at the same time. “What do you
want?”
“Ask yourself,” said the Hunter. “You came here
with questions. I’m willing to answer them.”
I swallowed, and glanced down at the bedclothes.
“Why should you help me?” I asked, my strange voice thick with the remorse I
was longing to express. “I shot you. You’re going to die because of me . . .
because I was too stupid to understand at the time, because it took a bullet
from you to make me get the idea. You’re the strongest psionic I’ve ever met –
think of the things you could have done, think of what you could have been.”
She smiled, enough to trail around the corners
of her mouth, but it was quickly gone. “I have my own reasons for helping you,”
she said simply. “Let’s leave it at that.”
I closed my eyes, pained.
“What do you want to ask?”
Eyes still closed, I didn’t hesitate this time.
“Why did you kill them? What is Bader-Cameron Associates?”
She met my gaze only for a moment, then looked
away, her hands kneading the bedclothes.
“You’re not going to like this.”
“Try me.”
“They’re invested in pharmaceuticals, software,
law and finances, amongst other things.”
“And PILEA,” I added.
“Yes. Mauran, what is PILEA’s biggest problem?”
Taken aback, I nonetheless considered. “Lack of
. . . T/T type psionics, I suppose. They’re the most useful for
investigations.”
“Why doesn’t PILEA have many T/T psionics?”
I frowned. “There’s not enough of them in
society. P-rating tests rarely shown them up. Why are you asking me this?”
“Bear with me, Mauran. Not enough T/T psionics
because there aren’t enough of them in society.”
“Plus, existing T/T types tend to blaze easily .
. . they can get affected by what they feel and hear and some minds just can’t
cope with it. They break down –“
“Then what?”
“It depends what happens to them, but they
sometimes go into institutions run by NITA, to help them rehabilitate, or
public institutions if they’re unlucky.” I looked back at her. “What has all
this got to do with Bader-Cameron Associates?”
The
Hunter gave me a solemn look. “Do you want to hear something crazy, Mauran?”
“Go
ahead.”
“What
if someone was making sure there weren’t many
T/T types in society? What if someone, somehow was ensuring the number of
“official” T/T types was kept down?”
I
stared at her. “Wh – what? How
could somebody do that? It’s impossible, they’re –“
“How
about,” said the Hunter, “someone with access to, oh, I don’t know –
pharmaceutical research companies? Companies researching certain drugs and
chemicals which could inhibit psionic ability? Some company, perhaps, who gets
records from PILEA through its financial assistance and is able to find T/T
types and – what was the word you used? – ‘blaze’ them, with the use of other
drugs?”
Sickened,
I could say nothing. For once, I was completely lost for words. Finally, I
struggled out: “Why?”
“Why?”
agreed the Hunter. “Why? Why would anyone want to do such a heinous thing? I
have a new question for you, Mauran. How often does PILEA check up on blazed
T/T psionics in their separate rehabilitation institutions? Don’t worry, I’ll
answer for you. Hardly ever. So PILEA never finds out that eventually they are
removed, and the records altered to show their deaths from suicide, or another
inmate’s actions or whatever. Via computers, with special programs used to
randomly generate scenarios, which are then checked by human technicians and
implemented. While they are living, healthy if not happy, in housing provided
by Bader-Cameron Associates. Along with people whose psionic T/T ability was repressed
while young, after being randomly picked while they were having their P-rating
tested, and who had subsequently lost their minds along with their gifts.”
Chilled,
I shakily asked the question I did not want an answer to. “Then what happens to
them?”
The
Hunter lifted up the back of her hair, which flowed like liquid light on her
hand. I saw a small surgical incision in her scalp where it was not immediately
visible.
“Tests,”
she said, solemnly. “Tests done to into repressing intelligence, and increasing
ability. All to create someone who has the IQ of a small child coupled with the
psionic power of a god. Then – who knows? What do you do with someone who can
topple buildings when their temper gets out of control?”
“You
teach them.” I didn’t say it – I was sure I didn’t, but the words came from
somewhere. “You show them how to use their gift, in the way you want them to,
as they’re not intelligent enough to object.” I covered my face with my free
hand, and felt the hot salt tears. I sensed the Hunter come closer on the bed.
“It
doesn’t happen to every T/T,” she said softly. “Enough are allowed to keep
their intelligence, to keep their cover. PILEA and NITA just think it’s a
genetic anomaly, so T/T types are treated in special ways and given special
training. Bader-Cameron just waist, then picks a few of the best, one or two,
and introduce the correct chemicals and hormones to blaze them. The rest are
allowed to live their lives, and die happily.”
She
sighed. “I never knew what happened to me. I never found out why they let me
live after I woke up with no memory and they discovered I had a genius IQ
coupled with enough psionic talent to blow up a city. I never knew. I just knew
what the other inmates told me, the ones that could, explaining what Bader-Cameron
had done, and why. So I left. I took the thousand memories I had from the
institute and broke out one night, with six floppy disks and a portfolio of
names. The people I killed, Mauran, were the ones who masterminded it, or their
protégés. They were carrying on the work – they were the key figures. I killed
them for what they had done. For the hundreds of people they had harmed, for
the lives they had destroyed. I showed them who I was, then made them feel it.
I gave them the pain of a dozen of their victims, gave them the anguish, made
them hurt before they died. And from each one I got five more names to my
list.”
I
sat in silence for a long moment, lost, immobile. “If I had known . . . if I
had only known. Oh god, I’m sorry. If I – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“If
you had known,” said the Hunter, “you would have died too. They’d have hunted
you down as you hunted me. But I forgive you, Mauran. Because, in another
place, in another life, I would have done the same to you. So I forgive you,
Mauran.”
I
turned to her and we hugged each other, both crying, both desperate, both
exhausted. Then I felt it . . . a touch on the side of my mind, a familiar
touch that someone else had laid on me. I heard her say, softly: “There’s just
one condition.”
*****
And then I was back.
The
strange light had gone, and the Hunter was no longer a burning vision of power,
but an almost lifeless husk lying in a hospital bed, her hand loose around
mine. The oxygen mask was back in place. Very faintly, I could the last echo of
the minds I had sensed, and then they were gone.
It
was over.
I
stood up and realised something entirely welcome: my back didn’t hurt. Puzzled,
I flexed the muscles and tensed. The pain had completely gone. Confused, I
touched the hard bulb of flesh where I had been shot. Still there, and still
sore – but gone was the searing agony of earlier today. It had been replaced by
a greater anguish.
None
of us had ever suspected it. Bader-Cameron Associates, a sleeping giant – no,
an ogre, that dragged innocent children away to be eaten, either during their
P-rating tests or –
Oh
no.
I froze in horror. I remembered what Lisa had
said. - He’s got his P-grading today –
Jamie . . . he was up for his rating today. And with
both Lisa and Rob being psionic, there was a chance that he was . . .
Frantically, I tried to find her, searching like
a beacon in the night, but I couldn’t find her. Now seriously worried, I tried
again. There was no response from Lisa. It was like listening into a dead line.
I ran blindly out of the door, past a surprised Jackson, and into the lift.
Zack Curtis slid in beside me just as I punched the button.
“Mauran!
What is it?”
“Can
you reach Lisa Howell?”
I
watched as he glanced off into space for a moment, then frowned. “No, she must
be –“
“I
have to get hold of her. Where’s your mobile?” Snatching it off him, I punched
in the office number and waited. Three rings.
“Is
something wrong?”
“You
bet your ass there’s something wrong.” Seven rings.
“Is
it to do with the Hunter?”
“Yes.”
The ninth ring, and someone was answering. “Lisa
Howell’s office.”
“Who is this?” I demanded.
“Red
McKendrick. Who -?”
“This
is Agent Cooper. I need to reach Lisa Howell. It’s an emergency and I can’t
find her.”
“She
went home to pick up her little boy.”
“I
know. I need to reach her right now,
Red, get an agent over to her house if you have to.” I broke the connection and
punched in another number. “Rob?”
“Mauran?”
“Thank
god. Where’s Lisa?”
“She’s
gone home to get Jamie for his P-rating. She said she –“
“You
have to get him home, Rob. Right now. I’ll explain later, but you cannot
let him take that test.”
“But
– what – I’ll get him. It’s being held at his school, so I’ll have to –“
I
hung up and tossed the phone to Zack. “I need you to take me back to my house.
I have some portfolios to collect. What’s the speed limit around here?”
*****
Twenty minutes later, Zack paused at my
driveway while I jumped out. “Thank you for the ride. I’ll pay you for the
calls –“
“Mauran?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever
happened in there . . . you look much better.”
“Thanks,
Zack. Get back to PILEA headquarters and tell head office I’ll be there in a
few minutes. I have a report they’ll want to see.”
“I’ll
tell them.”
He pulled away as I ran up my driveway towards
the house, pulling my keys from my coat. I had to get the files from the
Hunter’s victims, the scanned images I had strapped around my house, and a –
The door was open.
I stared at the lock. There were a few bright
scratches around the lock, where the wire used to pick it had slipped. I
glanced behind me, but Zack had already gone, and calling him back now would
only delay him.
I touched my hip, but remembered I had left my
gun in the house.
One hand slid out and pushed the door slowly
open. I stepped inside, breathing the violated air. Somehow, I doubted any
ordinary thief had come in, not when I was so close to blowing the whole thing
wide open. I wondered who had taken the trouble to pick the lock, who had come
into my home and might or might not still be here.
I opened the drawer in the hall table and took
out a letter knife. A puny weapon, but anything sharp was useful when you could
use TK. Grasping it in my hand, I advanced slowly into the living room. Everything
was orderly, as I had left it. But the door was open. I never left the door
open.
One step inside.
Every sense was alert and quivering. My eyes
were everywhere.
Three steps, and I was heading for the kitchen.
On the sixth step, I was on the threshold of the
door to the study. I turned my head slowly inside, and then my eyes found Lisa.
She was slumped on the floor, gagged and bound, her blond hair bloodstained
from a blow from behind. She wouldn’t have been able to hear whoever it was
that attacked her. My gorge rose.
The phone was close by.
I half turned.
I turned, and was suddenly in a world of white
with noxious vapours filling my mouth. A chloroform pad was being held hard
over my face while someone yanked my sleeve up. I fought like a cat, even as I
felt the sting of a needle, even as I felt the chloroform knocking me out, even
as I clawed at leather gloves in an effort to free myself, even as I sensed the
floor rushing up to meet me, letter knife falling from my hand as I realised I
couldn’t throw my attacker away from me.
I
slumped to the ground.
The
world went grey.
*****
Sleepily, I turned my head from side to side,
then noticed that I was awake, and in a very uncomfortable position. Opening my
eyes, I realised that I was bound to one of my dining room chairs, my hands
tied behind me, my ankles tied together and to the chair legs. My back was
hurting considerably, particularly in the unwelcome position. I wasn’t gagged,
but outrage had done a pretty good job. I looked around the room and saw that
on my coffee table, someone had laid out a case of equipment. Medical
equipment. I saw hypodermics, ampoules of amber liquid, prophylactic gloves, a
cloth thrown over something small and bulky and, chillingly, a set of scalpels.
I
woke up very quickly.
Turning my head to one side, I concentrated on
one of them, intending to bring it close enough to cut me free. To my surprise,
it didn’t move. I tried again, this time pulling with all of my psionic
ability. It didn’t as much as twitch.
Someone
was coming downstairs, leisurely. I listened, quietly fuming, as the living
room door opened.
“Hello,
Mauran.”
I
looked up and saw the face I had been wondering about. The face I could cheerfully
have cut open, right now. I watched him walk around the room and sit opposite
me, on the other side of the medical equipment.
“Hello, Jack.”
He
stretched out, looking quite pleased with himself. “I wouldn’t try moving
these, if I were you,” he said calmly, tapping the medical case near the
scalpels. “And you were, weren’t you? I would, so I know it’s the first thing
you’d think of.”
“Yes,
I was,” I said. I was exercising a fascinating amount of self-restraint.
“Where’s Lisa?”
“Safe
upstairs. In your bedroom, actually. Sleeping, right now, under a good
sedative.”
“What
have you done to her?”
Jack
gave me a lazy look. “I was incredibly tempted.”
“You
son of a bitch.”
“Don’t
worry. She’s quite unharmed. Even if I had given into my temptation, I wouldn’t
have hurt her. I’m quite fond of Lisa, as you can imagine. I know that she’s a
good friend of yours.”
My
hands were kneading the ropes, feeling the knots. Fury didn’t even begin to
approach how I felt. “It was you, wasn’t it? You, in PILEA’s files, giving them
the information they needed. You told them the names of the T/T types, and –
you –“ My speech fell apart as my anger began to grind its teeth.
“Thank
you for shooting the Hunter,” said Jack, coldly. “You saved me god knows how
much trouble. She was a loose end.”
“She’s
a hell of a lot more than that.”
“I
know what she is. What I couldn’t understand was why you were so morbidly
fascinated with her. Unfortunate for you, Mauran. I actually like you a lot
more than Lisa. She’s a little too – meek. Perfect assistant, perfect mother,
perfect partner, perfect fucking life.
You, on the other hand, are screwed-up enough to be interesting. I know you
were interested in me, as well. Which is why this is going to be both fun and
extremely sad at the same time.”
I
lunged forward, testing my bonds. They were nylon ropes, virtually unbreakable.
I ground my skin against them, but I didn’t care. The pain ignited my anger and
I flicked a glance at one of the scalpels. This time, it had to work. Jack watched serenely as I tried with every inch of
me to get the scalpel to move. Finally, panting, exhausted, I slumped back in
my seat. The thing hadn’t even tilted.
“Finished?”
he inquired.
I
just looked at him through hanks of hair.
“You
may be wondering why you can’t use your T/T abilities. That’s because your
system is now trying to flush a drug called thelohydraline out of your
bloodstream. A psionic inhibitor developed by Bader-Cameron Associates,
pharmaceutical division. You won’t be able to move as much as a matchstick for
a few days. Which should give me plenty of time.” He stood up.
“Jack?”
I asked, now worried if not actually frightened. “Mind telling me what you’re
planning to do?”
“I
thought the Hunter had fully briefed you.” He took up a hypodermic and one of
the ampoules, filling it carefully.
I
was almost physically sick as it hit me. The thought of going to a – no, it was
too horrible. My mind was all I had, all I was.
“Please,
Jack, don’t do this.”
“Don’t
plead Mauran, it doesn’t become you.” He stepped around the table, flicking air
from the syringe. “Now. This won’t hurt – it’s just a little top up for your
medicine.”
I
moved away as far as I could, but he tutted and grabbed my arm. The needle
stung, but I’d had worse. I had a feeling things weren’t over yet, though.
“Hmmm.”
Jack examined the floor. “Nice carpets you’ve got, Mauran. It’s a shame my
little home surgery is going to make such a mess.” He went back to his medical
kit.
“Think
what you’re about to do, Jack. You’re going to lobotomise one of your own kind.
A psionic, like you. It’s worse than murder, Jack, you know what we teach them
at PILEA . . .”
I
was begging and I hated myself for it. I sounded childish and weak. Worse, I
was starting to babble. I forced myself to calm down, though under the
circumstances it was quite a stupid thing to do.
Then
something very strange happened, on a day of strange things. I felt a great and
good peace go through me, like dropping into bed at the end of a long, hard
day, or coming home unexpectedly to a meal which someone you love has made for
you. It was like afternoon sunlight, sleepy and golden. My head drooped
slightly and I breathed more easily, as I wasn’t hyperventilating with fear. I
thought it was acceptance, before I spoke again, without thinking.
“You
know, I’d be very grateful if you reconsidered.”
He
paused. Something in my tone had caught his attention.
“Excuse
me?”
“Don’t
be stupid, Jack, you said it yourself. There’s always been magnetism between
you and me.”
“You
never cared. You’re just doing this to stop me.”
I
laughed, a light, carefree laugh quite unlike my usual one. “You’re right. But
that doesn’t make me wrong.”
He
turned slowly away from the medical kit. “So you’re saying –“
“
– that you and I could get on a lot better in future if you change your mind.”
I
caught an incredulous look in his eyes. My last lover had cheated on me and I
had broken his nose in three places when I found out. With my fist, mind you.
Since then, I had lived alone, kept to myself while I worked on the Hunter. I
wasn’t exactly known for my caring, loving personality. Even if he hadn’t
already threatened to lobotomise me, he would have been wary of any kind of
advance I made. Still . . . I thought I saw a familiar look in his eyes.
“You
mean that?” he asked, as if I thought he was stupid.
“Of
course I mean it,” I replied, my voice quiet enough to draw him closer. His
mind touched mine, but the drugs were keeping all my cerebral processes at a
minimum, and he couldn’t read a thing.
“You
really must think very little of me,” he sneered suddenly. “As if I’d fall for
a trick like that!” A contemptuous laugh, and he turned away.
“A
kiss, then,” I called, wondering where my words were coming from.
“Don’t
make me laugh.” He was choosing a scalpel like a rare and expensive cut of
meat.
“I’m
about to lose most of my higher brain functions. I’d like to enjoy what time I
have left, and I’d like my last kiss to be with you.”
He
stopped moving for a moment. I could tell he was tempted.
“No.”
“So
you’re a lousy kisser. Who am I going to tell?”
“Look!”
He brandished the blade in his hand at me. “I can either make this hurt, or
make this quick. You choose. Stop talking and I’ll make it quick.”
“Please,
Jack.”
This
time I got through to him. I knew vulnerable women appealed to him, and he
turned around slowly. As if this was a chore, he moved over towards me and gave
me a quick peck on the lips. Then he drew back, and looked at me. I could see
him remembering all the years we had worked together and he leaned in for a
second time. The sunlight welled up in my veins and I moved forwards again, our
lips close.
Something burst through me like a rushing dam,
shoving me aside within my own mind and flew at Jack. It hit him between the eyes like a jolt of
electricity, punching everything else aside. We screamed in concert, me in
terror at what was happening, him in pain which wasn’t worth imagining. I could
feel it, like static electricity pouring through me, like lighted oil, like
everything powerful and burning and terrible. It didn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop.
Jack went on screaming, as some horrific psionic
power lifted him off his feet with the strength of its own fury. His hands
tried to claw at his face, his eyes, but something held them back while it
poured in, knowing only itself, only what it could do – which was to hurt him,
and drag his soul through a torment so dark it didn’t bear thinking about. I
could only wonder in fear at what he was seeing or hearing, as some unnamed
psionic terror took his life away.
Then it stopped.
Everything stopped.
*****
I remember very little of what happened
next. All I can dredge up is a roaring in my ears, the ropes falling away like dead
snakes, and feeling Lisa’s mind upstairs. After that I think I passed out.
The
police and PILEA came an hour or so later that evening, alerted by Rob. They
found Lisa upstairs, unconscious, and myself and Jack in the living room. I was
close to death, they whispered in the ambulance. I wouldn’t make it through the
night, they thought.
And
I wondered: How is it I can hear them when the drugs haven’t been
flushed?
My back didn’t hurt at all.
*****
I woke up alone in a hospital ward three days
later, dizzy and restless. For two hours no doctor or nurse checked up on me,
and I had time with my thoughts.
I
knew what had happened to Jack, just by what I had heard-sensed while I was
under. Comatose, they said. A large section of his brain had just died under an
influx of some kind of energy. With it had died his ability to communicate, his
higher brain functions, his psionic abilities and his problem solving skills.
He was little better than a human husk, doomed to the rest of his life being
spent in cold institutions. And I knew why. The Hunter had told me. There’s
just one condition, she’d said, and then I’d come out of
whatever trance she’d put me in. Only I hadn’t, not right away. She’d placed
her ability in me, enough to do the job, to take out the last target in her
lonely quest for revenge. Her gift had overloaded Jack’s mind on purpose, and
blazed him. Taken everything that made him a person, and left him still alive,
her last and most fitting punishment.
I
cried for a little while, then went back to sleep.
*****
I was discharged a week later, after my
back had been examined and my brain for physiological damage. I explained what
had happened the best I could, but psionics make bad witnesses in stress
situations like that, and they eventually concluded that Jack had tried to
sedate me with his ability, but had blazed himself by accident. I knew it was
impossible, but I kept my mouth shut.
Some
things are better left untold.
*****
Three weeks later, after Lisa had
returned to work, shaken but otherwise fine, after I had written and filed my
report on the T/T crisis – and caused a media feeding frenzy – and after I had
finally been ordered to take leave after my experience, I was woken one night
by a strange sensation. It felt as if my heart was beating in a disordered
rhythm. Sitting up I tried to modulate my breathing, but it didn’t make any
difference. The next second I was in pain, and then nothing hurt any more. Even
my back, which was still twitchy, kept its peace.
I
looked up and she was standing there, psionic residue, ghost or whatever she
was in the first place. The Hunter. My fugitive, my enemy, my ally, my
confidante. I could see through her, and I knew she was dead. I told myself I
wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not, but I knew I wasn’t. She was here, and
she was here for the last time.
I
blinked and she was gone. Who knew where? Where do such people go? I don’t
know, and I think any God who judges her will sit in court for a long, long
time. Her heart will weigh strangely on the scales of justice, and I know
whatever happens to her will be the right decision. She will stand by it,
because that is who she is.
Since the Hunter used me to destroy
Jack Pallance, my psionic abilities have roughly doubled. I can do things that
frighten and amaze even those who are like me. But I didn’t get these gifts for
the record books. I know what to do with them. I have a list of names, in my
mind. I can see the people, their faces and their house numbers. I know who
they are. Because she wants me to know. I am her protégée, and the wrong has
not been righted yet.
It
will be legally done, of course. The law is my life.
But
they had better pray I somehow pass them by.
The End
Ó 2000 by Joanna Berry
I'm a student from the UK working through A levels at the moment and trying to find time to write in between. My usual theme of writing is speculative / science fantasy, but I'm also trying to explore archaeological and film noir ideas. I draw as well as write, and my work in both areas is displayed on my website, the Hypergate. Other interests include going out with my friends, my family (plus my two cats), music, ancient cultures, and astronomy. I'd love to be a professional writer, but I'd settle for actually getting all my ideas down on paper :)
Address for the Hypergate is http://jump.to/hypergate