Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  Black, it appeared, was also hiding something.

  3

  Well, that’s simply insane, Mel thought, staring into the TV. How could he not have any feelings toward his parents?

  He was simply in a state of shock. That had to be it. He’d been through hell… the flurry of the situation, the doctors, hospital, autopsies — the funeral. He was simply mentally and spiritually exhausted. That had to be it. It wasn’t that he had no feelings toward his parents, but that he felt so much pain and loss that he was, plain and simply, exhausted. Shattered. It was bad enough to have your parents die, but to have them die in a violent car wreck… to imagine what they’d gone through in their final moments on earth… the pain, the agony… it just stretched the emotional limits of any family member.

  And then to find yourself totally and utterly alone. On your own. Where previously there had been the constant hum and banter of activity throughout the house… now it was just you, kid. You, the TV, and a dark room. No one to talk to, talk at… no one with whom to eat dinner… watch TV, or play games.

  No one to parent. To guide.

  You expect to see or hear them at every turn, to hear them call out your name at any moment:

  “Mel! Take out the trash!”

  “Mel… did you finish your homework?”

  “Mel — would you help with the dishes?”

  But, no — none of that any more. Now, it was just…

  Mel. And the SCI FI channel.

  Mel sipped iced tea.

  Iced tea?

  He looked to the glass.

  No, it was Vernors.

  He lifted the soda and examined it. Grunted.

  That was weird.

  As he took another sip, he chuckled and rubbed at his nose, wiped at his cheeks as bubbles ran up inside his nostrils. Smiled. It felt good to smile. He set the soda down. Looked back to the television. Something Wicked This Way Comes played, but the movie was presently fading into a commercial. 1-900-PsiKick. Man, did they have a monopoly on this station, or what?

  Come… call us, the New Age-y disembodied Caribbean dialect beckoned, we have all the answers to all your problems (complete with the “this is adult entertainment only” disclaimer at the bottom of the screen). The screen filled with neat looking stars and planets, and synthetic, New Age-y, music. And with this special offer, the commercial continued, you now have your first reading absolutely free! We know psychic hotlines are a dime a dozen, that’s why we’re so convinced that once you try the PsiKick hotline, we’ll make a believer out of you! We’re giving you your first reading — free — in its entirety! For up to twenty minutes! No strings attached! Call our number now, 1-900-PsiKick! Our psychics are standing by!

  Then the commercial cut to shots of several individual (so-called) psychics, doing their thing, all complete with exotic accents. Mel wondered how many of them were faking it — not only their accents, but their abilities. He thought of Madame Nostradameus. Lizzie. Had she been faking her ability along with her accent? She’d said she was for real, had even profusely apologized for faking her Romani accent — but how much of that could he believe? If she lied about one thing—

  He had to believe her. The feeling he picked up from her was that she had been telling the truth.

  Was he in the habit of trusting his feelings?

  God, it was like he had to totally relearn everything about himself!

  He was so tired of questioning every little thought and deed… but she had given him her home phone. He’d never thought any of those people running across the screen of his TV set would ever do something like that with a caller. That had been gutsy on her part. She didn’t know him from Adam — or maybe she did; she was supposed to be psychic — and had taken a chance, for which he was eternally grateful. It had felt so good to be able to talk with her, and he really wished he could call her again. She should be working,

  (our psychics are standing by!)

  shouldn’t she?

  As he watched the commercial fade out, another took its place… an odd little commercial. Simple white words on a black background said:

  When was the last time you phoned a friend?

  And was gone.

  “Okay,” Mel grunted, “I get the hint.”

  4

  President Kennedy sat through the 1973 interview with Victor Black as if he’d just downed a gallon of pure, high-grade Columbian caffeine. The three of them sat around the conference room table.

  Would everything play itself out exactly as it had already done? Could he really change the outcome? Did just the mere reemergence of his presence change things? He couldn’t get around it, he owed it to history to change it — to at least try. Black was not someone he wanted in the history books, in principle nor footnote.

  Sorensen had already indicated and Kennedy had concurred — at least in the original version — that Black was a virtual shoe-in. He had plenty of qualifications, a highly sensitive two-year CIA stint in the Asian theater, was an excellent, highly decorated remote viewer at The Center, had taken on increased responsibility in his remote viewer unit, and nailed the interview with insightful spot-on answers to each and every question. Almost too perfectly.

  And there was that other thing that just wouldn’t go away… what Kennedy had seen when Black’d first showed up “today,” in this version of that “original” interview, anyway.

  That look.

  And whenever he cast a sidelong glance to Kennedy during this interview, and Black hadn’t thought he was looking — or maybe he did and was just letting him know — his look screamed Look pal, you’re not the only one here for a second time. I know what’s on your mind. Don’t even think about changing things. Just fulfill your role like a good little historical pawn, and let things roll along like they already have… and we’ll both be on our way…

  But, the more Kennedy sat before this man, the more fidgety and hot he grew.

  He had a bad taste in his mouth.

  These thoughts — his very thoughts — he knew, were not a part of the initial interview twenty-one years ago, because if they had been, he’d never have appointed Black to the position. So, new developments could emerge, things could change — in the past — his new behavior proved it. He was here, now… and his thoughts were different from those in ’73.

  So, maybe this was his chance.

  And how had Black been so “knowledgeable” during that — this — interview? He hadn’t remembered that. This Black was different from the original one — he was certain of it.

  So, Black was also — somehow — in on whatever was going on. If that was the case, then Kennedy had no choice. He simply could not afford to allow history to continue on as it had — or would.

  Goddamn, this was maddening.

  He had to change it, was morally bound to. There was, simply, no other option. He had to seize control.

  As if suddenly awakened from a dream, Kennedy felt the wrongness of the situation in all its entirety; felt the wrongness of the situation in all its philosophy. Even if it cost him his own place in history — or his life — he knew what he had to do. Hell, he’d already been seventy-seven — had already lived a full life. Now, he was a seventy-seven year old in a fifty-six-year-old body. It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t his imagination, he was actually goddamned fifty-six years old, and was actually goddamned back in the original conference room at The Center, in 1973. Tossing dialogue with Ted Sorensen and Victor Black — his future sworn enemy — and he had absolutely no idea how any of this had happened. He actually felt the chair against his butt, felt the fear constricting his chest… and the fact that he was very, very thirsty.

  He cleared his throat.

  Yeah, thirsty.

  It didn’t get any more real than this. This was in-his-face real. The air crackled with tension, the fate of the world’s future — in very real terms — resting on his every move. He had to act now before things even had a hint of once more heading south. He remembered how the interv
iew had ended. It had ended with Ted casting him a knowing look, as he and Black rose to their feet and came together around the conference table, Ted surreptitiously announcing that Mr. Black, you have the appointment. And it was about to happen at any moment.

  Black quickly, casually, cast him another sidelong glance.

  He knew, didn’t he? The bastard actually fucking knew.

  Kennedy shot to his feet.

  As he did so, everything flew into slow motion. In his mind, Kennedy’s thoughts raced, and he heard the words as they had been so casually uttered twenty years ago issuing from Ted’s mouth, though the slow motion had slowed down Ted’s lips and delivery. Well, Victor, I think that about wraps it, he was beginning to say. Kennedy desperately needed to interrupt those words, but felt his body was sprinting through a swamp. As Ted and Black got to their feet, Black looked to him, and in slow motion Kennedy saw Black smile a wicked, knowing grin.

  An actual sneer.

  Black then began to turn to him and slowly reached into his inside jacket pocket.

  Kennedy knew that running through water or not, what he was reaching for inside his jacket meant him no-good. Just as Kennedy knew he had to risk not only history, but his life, Black had, apparently, already made that same decision. There was something inside that jacket with his name on it, and Kennedy knew it — and knew that Black knew he knew it — but was still willing to risk his life to keep history as it had already been.

  But how could that happen, if Black ended up giving up his own life?

  The questions hurt the mind to even consider, and he had no time to wax philosophical. Kennedy wished for something, anything, to interfere and upset Black’s plans. He had no idea what to do — only that he had to act. He was changing history if he did anything differently, risking everything, considering the impact Program One had had on the world—

  Especially if he was wrong.

  Ted, totally oblivious to what was going on, was now in midsentence, half-way to the standing position, when Kennedy unceremoniously catapulted toward Black, who, still sneering, was also still reaching into his jacket lapel, eyes riveted on him as he approached Ted.

  (Well, Victor, I think that about—)

  As Kennedy launched into Black, images of Blackett Strait filled his mind, perhaps the last time he’d ever had to be a man of action — physical action — and he was not about to shy away from the challenge. During his lunge forward, Kennedy grabbed onto Black the way those drowning and injured men he’d rescued in that straight had latched on to the floating PT-109 debris — and he seized and openly embraced the presented opportunity.

  No turning back now.

  It was as if his body had had a mind of its own. Kennedy, jaw set and gaze burning into Black, willed himself to hurtle fast and hard into Black before he could pull whatever it was from inside that lapel pocket — prayed to God that he be allowed to set things right and in the least damaging of ways to history and its people. Even as the slow motion kept things at a manageable pace, Kennedy’s mind continued to race, and he saw how Black had finally recognized his intentions. In that instant, Black’s expression changed. Kennedy’s only hope was that he got there first, and he prayed so hard he swore he popped a vein.

  Fifty-six-year-old ex-President Kennedy landed squarely and forcefully into forty-five-year-old Victor Black, ramming into his left shoulder, forcing him backward into the table and chairs. The two then tumbled with a hefty thud! onto the carpeted floor. Kennedy heard a “pop” as he ground into Black’s shoulder. With one hand, Kennedy forced Black’s hand — the one part way into his jacket — away, and with the other deftly swept inside the lapel and went for whatever was there. But in order to do that he had to twist his body into a better, more commanding position, and in doing so (he internally smiled), ground harder into Black’s shoulder. He felt and heard a distinct and sickening crunch and snap. Kennedy had one brief moment to stare into Black’s eyes as he landed with his full weight on top of him. He could feel the venom Black willed into him, the tautness of his body, but ignored those as his hand found its target, wrapped around it, and in one swift-and-dexterous movement removed it from the pocket — barely in time to avoid Black’s own attempt at thwarting his offensive. For a fraction of an instant Black and Kennedy eyed each other, frozen in time. Images of brutal hand-to-hand mêlée flashed through Kennedy’s mind, one where he and Black were again combating each other…

  But, in the end, it was Kennedy who’d gotten to the weapon first (in that mêlée — or this conference room?).

  Black had tried another attempt to grab it back from Kennedy, but it was at this point that Ted Sorensen had sprung into action and was presently assisting the President to his feet. Kennedy quickly slid the purloined object into his own jacket pocket, as Sorenson’s hands went to his shoulders. He didn’t know if he’d actually sneered back to Black — but had felt as if he had… and it was a good feeling.

  “Mr. President! Sir! Are you all right? Sir?” Ted begged, sizing him up.

  As Kennedy was “righted” back to his feet, Black got to his, and backed away from the President, head down. Confused, Ted eyed both men, checking for injuries.

  “I’m, ah, fine, Ted—”

  “What happened?” Ted asked, “Are you all right, sir? Mr. Black?”

  Black continued to back away, wincing as he straightened out, and briefly glared the hatred of Hell itself at Kennedy.

  “Well,” Kennedy began, and he found it quite amusing at how easily he formed that smile on his face as he lied to Black, “I, ah, do apologize, Victah — Ted — but I had a sudden Chahlie Horse and, well, it goht the better of me — so, sorry, Victah—”

  With heavy restraint and internally heightened amusement, Kennedy could see the barely contained rage that smoldered just beneath Black’s equally benign façade. He was good, Black was very, very… good.

  “My sincerest apologies,” Kennedy finished, again, extending his hand to Black. “Hope I, ah, didn’t break anything.” Black hesitated but a fraction of a second — none of which Sorensen seemed to have noticed — but Kennedy did.

  “Ah, Ted, Victah, I’m afraid this old wahr injury of mine begs attention.” Kennedy turned to Black. “Victah, I hope I didn’t injah you — we’ll have ourah medical staff look you ovah.”

  Black worked his shoulder then abruptly halted the movement. The man was clearly in pain, Kennedy saw with measured satisfaction, but was also clearly no stranger to controlling it.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Black said, his countenance casual.

  “Good. Then, we’ll, ah, keep in touch and inform you of our decision,” Kennedy said.

  Without waiting for a response from either man, Kennedy abruptly departed the office… faking a limp.

  He’d done it — he’d successfully interdicted Ted from outright giving Black the job, and removed the weapon Black had been intent on using on him. The fact that Black had even considered employing such overt means spoke volumes of him and his intentions. He had no qualms about fucking up either himself — or history. But Kennedy’d successfully diffused the situation and thrown the hugest of monkey wrenches into Black’s schemes. He couldn’t begin to wipe that smile off his face.

  But, it wasn’t over. Kennedy held no such illusions. If Black was able to go back in time to try to change things once (for that matter, both him and Black), who was to say it wouldn’t happen again…

  Chapter Sixteen

  1

  Travis’s day had been just a hair short of boring. He’d had no taskings, and the paperwork had been more of the same old governmental B.S. So, he had had plenty of time to replay what had happened earlier in the day at the restaurant, portions of which he seemed to already be losing… like who the hell had been this “Le Rock” character? He knew no such “Le Rock,” had even searched a couple of their databases for the name, but no one even remotely (pardon the pun) came close to that name. Sometimes the job really had them seeing weird shit — and the
re was nothing they could do about it; it was all part of the job, what happened when one spent too much time dipping into The Darkside, and the only way around it was to not freak out, to realize it for what it was and just deal with it. If it became too much, then that was why there were the White Coats with psych degrees. He’d known a few who’d gone that route… and had subsequently been removed from the program.

  But if he hadn’t known anyone with that name, then where had it come from?

  What are ya gonna do?, his grandfather used to say. You just go on. If it was important enough, it’d come to him.

  Travis left his desk, exited “the vault,” where all their classified operations and administrative work took place, and leisurely made his way through the building and down stairwells, to the cafeteria. Nearly noon, the place was packed. And it smelled good, too. The quiet rustle of everyday needs and normalcy helped ground him, not to mention took him away from his largely administrative duties of the day. He entered the grilled-food line, picked up a cheeseburger and fries, then went on to pick up a Mountain Dew — then suddenly decided against the soda and grabbed an iced tea — two, in fact. Continuing on, he made his way to the cashier. As the girl totaled up his items, she looked to Travis, and asked, “Have you heard the news?”

  Travis looked up. “No,” he said, fishing out his wallet. He stood there, wallet opened, awaiting both an answer and a total.

  “Excuse me,” he asked, “what news?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You asked me a question… if I’d heard any ‘news’?”

  Smiling, she looked at him, confused. “No, sir… I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”

  Travis looked behind him to those in line, hoping someone would confirm his end of the conversation, but no one did. He looked back to the cashier, decided not to push it at the rate his day had been going, and pulled a ten from his wallet. He handed it to the girl, who then mechanically counted back his change.