by Peter Parken
And in Ukraine, the government there was now doing their damnedest to get the world behind their plight. Hoping that other countries would come running to their defense in a civil war that seemed inevitable. At this point, that rescue didn’t seem likely either.
The parallel Nate thought was remarkable was that during the American Civil War, the Confederates had counted on foreign interference, too—they’d gambled on the idea that countries in Europe, particularly England, would come to their defense in their attempts to secede from the United States. They were convinced they would have foreign help because Europe was so dependent on the cotton that came from the southern states’ slave-labored plantations. But help never came. Europe wisely chose to stay out of it. So, the Americans just proceeded to slaughter each other.
Nate’s home had housed some Confederates during part of its grand history, as Virginia was one of the rebel states. It was built in 1750, over a hundred years before the civil war had even started. He loved the historical character of the house, and the fact that it probably played some kind of role during the most infamous war ever.
His address was 207 Jefferson Street, a street named after the first—and last—President of the Confederacy, Jefferson Davis. Nate had searched high and low in the attics and crawl spaces of his house, hoping to find some old Confederate currency. But no luck.
He and his wife, Stephanie, had bought this marvelous house five years before for a cool three million dollars. It was a large home—larger than they needed for just the two of them—at 5,400 square feet. The original wing was preserved in exactly the state that it was in when it was first built; pine floors, ostentatious crystal chandeliers, colonial fireplaces and ten-foot ceilings. Absolutely nothing had been replaced in that wing, and it was in pristine condition, exuding an elegant feel.
The second wing was an addition put on about fifty years before and it contained more casual living space. More laid back—beer and pretzels style. Nate felt most comfortable in the newer wing. The original wing was so elegant he was afraid to even set foot in there. It was more of a showpiece for anyone who really cared about that sort of thing. People like his wife. Stephanie reveled in the attention the house got, almost as much as she reveled in the attention she got.
There was a beautiful and bright conservatory room serving as the dividing point for the two wings, with French doors opening out into a completely walled and hedged backyard.
Nate’s house was located in a beautiful neighborhood of Alexandria, referred to as Old Town. It was indeed old—and quaint. A free trolley rolled up and down King Street, allowing people to jump on and off to enjoy the stores, restaurants, art galleries and coffee houses. Nate’s office was actually right on King Street, and he was able to walk to it on nice days—which in Virginia meant pretty much every single day. The history of Old Town was accentuated by the cobblestone streets and sidewalks—this section of Alexandria was one of the biggest tourist draws in Virginia. People were generally fascinated with Civil War architecture, and particularly so when it was a city that had been occupied by the rebel Confederates.
Nate’s daydreaming was broken by a fresh headline on the TV. His headline. The anchor lady mentioned Flying Machines Inc. as the designers and manufacturers of The Black Mamba. Then she cited a statistic—the rate of serious injury on rollercoasters was only one person for every twenty-four million visitors. It was actually safer riding in a rollercoaster than riding in a baby stroller.
Nate quickly grabbed the remote and hit the ‘off’ button. That was a statistic he didn’t need to hear, knowing that his coaster had just killed twenty-five people.
Even though he was doing his best to allow himself to drift off and daydream once in a while, try to think of other things, or distract himself with TV, he couldn’t escape what had happened two days before. And he doubted he would ever be able to completely put it out of his mind, no matter how long he lived.
But he had to try—he had to be whole again. Nate had to put his talented brain to work, either to solve this mystery or move on to other things. He couldn’t dwell on it or punish himself. He knew that. But much easier said than done, especially for a savant like Nate who had the ability to observe, think and analyze at a level way beyond the average human.
His brain was jerked out of its trance by the sound of the phone ringing in the next room. He heard Stephanie answer it—probably just another media outlet wanting some kind of statement from him and, after two days of that crap, he was sick of giving statements. He hoped she would just hang up. He knew she was sick of it all, too.
She sashayed into the room; phone in hand, looking like she didn’t have a serious care in the world. And in her little cocoon, that was probably the case. She was dressed in her usual way—kind of a ‘southern’ way. A long flamboyant summer dress, bare shoulders and arms. Big hair and a face that was ‘made up’ as if she was ready to attend some kind of soiree. And maybe she was. Nate didn’t care anymore.
“I took a message for you. Here’s the phone if you want to call her back. Her name is Laura Morgan—says she has something important to ask you. She wanted me to emphasize to you that she’s not from the Press. But if she’s lying, could you please ask her if they could please quit staking out our house? I have a tennis lesson this afternoon and I’m afraid to walk out to the driveway.”
Nate stood up and grabbed the phone out of her hand. “Steph, more than two dozen people died the other day. That’s just a big inconvenience to you, huh?”
“Well, they’re dead—there’s nothing I can do about it. Life goes on.”
Nate shook his head sadly. “Maybe one day you’ll realize the world doesn’t revolve around you. I hope so, for your sake.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. At least nothing that would register with you.”
Stephanie turned on her heel and stomped back to the kitchen. Nate sighed and hit the memory button on the phone. Then he dialed the number for Laura Morgan.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Laura Morgan?”
“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”
“I’m Nathan Morrell. You called me a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you called back. Are you the same Nathan Morrell from the rollercoaster accident?”
Nate paused, then said softly, “You told my wife that you weren’t with the Press.”
“No. No, I’m not with the Press. I’m the sister of the woman you saved.”
Nate felt his face flush. “Oh, well, okay then. How is she doing?”
“She’s doing really well. They’re keeping her in the hospital for a few more days, just for observation. She was unconscious, as you know, and they’re afraid of any post-traumatic stress symptoms. So, they’ll be watching her closely.”
“I’m so glad she’s okay. Please give her my best wishes.”
“Mr. Morrell, I wanted to thank you for what you did. It was so very brave of you. She wouldn’t be alive, I’m sure, if it wasn’t for you.”
Nate could feel his mouth going dry.
“Mr. Morrell? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes I’m here. Thanks for your kind words, Laura.”
“I saw you on TV and in the newspapers. I know who you are, Mr. Morrell. You saved my sister, but you’re also the CEO of the company that designed the Black Mamba.”
“Yes, I am, Laura. I…don’t know what else to say.”
“Don’t hang up. My sister wants to meet you. You probably don’t even know her name—it’s Shelby Sutcliffe. And she wants to thank you in person. Would you agree to come to the Inova Alexandria Hospital to meet her? Please?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea—now that you know who I am?”
“My sister has been sheltered away from the media; no interviews, newspapers or TV. We told her your name, but she has no idea yet who you are. Shelby’s desperate to meet you—she remembers clearly what you did. It’s very important to her. Will you do it?”
A part of Nate’s brain wanted to say no. But the compassionate part of him wanted to see his lone survivor in person once again—in a safer venue. He wanted to see for himself that she did indeed survive the horror, that he had indeed done something worthwhile. And maybe he also needed to face the music—face whatever wrath was coming to him.
“I’ll come by today, Laura.”
Chapter 6
Nate donned his New York Mets baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses—not a great disguise, but better than nothing, he figured. He walked out to the driveway and hopped into his car. A few reporters were hanging around, but they respectfully gave way to him as he backed up and headed on down the street. It wasn’t a long drive to Inova Hospital. It was located on Seminary Road, only about ten minutes away. He was nervous about seeing Shelby. Felt unworthy. She was going to thank him for saving her life, when his invention was what put her life in peril to begin with.
As he drove along, he started remembering back to the only time he’d ever been laid up in a hospital. It was a long time ago…
He got to his feet slowly, deliberately. A simple task like standing up, something that he’d taken for granted his whole life, was now an effort for him. He picked his helmet up off the field—at least he thought it was his helmet—and began the long walk back to the bench. There were players on either side of him trying hold him up straight—he was aware that he was teetering, but he didn’t think it was serious. Thought he could easily make it back to the bench on his own.
The next thing he knew he was on the ground again, staring up at the beautiful blue sky. Just before the darkness smothered him. And it was a profound darkness—he tried to explain it later to his friends but it was impossible to describe properly. You had to be there.
His mother always warned him about football being a dangerous sport, but like most athletic boys his age he ignored her. He was a good athlete, strong, in excellent shape, could handle a lot of punishment. But of course he couldn’t foresee that he was going to be clotheslined at the forty-yard line, then pounded from the side while he was still staggering from the first cowardly hit. He could still feel the impact—his helmet had been jarred loose and sent flying from the initial hit. The second hit came when his head was unprotected—butted by his opponent’s helmet. He ‘saw stars’—he had heard that expression many times, but didn’t really believe that anyone really saw them. He found out firsthand that it was true.
He spent the night in the hospital. His coach and the rest of the team hung around as long as they could until his mother could get there. Then they left, but not until collectively signing the game ball and leaving it for him. He’d earned it—Nate had scored two touchdowns and they’d won the game. He had given them a big enough lead that they were able to hang on through the last quarter and win without him.
Even though he was the quarterback. The leader. The General on the field.
His back-up proved to be almost as good. He had to be, because Nate was out for the rest of the season.
After a few days rest at home with his mother fawning over him constantly, Nate went back to school. It was his senior year in high school, so he was well known to everyone. Not necessarily because he was a senior, but because he was a football star and President of the Student Council. So, when he wasn’t there he was missed—when he came back, he was a hero.
Everyone who mattered had been at that game—had seen the double hit against their star quarterback. Gasped as they watched him crumple to the ground. Applauded when he crawled to his feet like the brave warrior he was. Then gasped once again when his legs gave out and he fell to the field unconscious. Watched in stunned silence as the trainers tended to him on the field, then clapped and cheered again as he was carried off the field on a stretcher.
There was a reception party waiting for him when he came through the front doors of the school. Lining both sides of the hallway, cheering and applauding once again. Nate remembered feeling embarrassed, but also feeling darn good.
The girls were all over him. They must have felt he needed mothering—so they did their darnedest to make him feel mothered. He loved it. Girls had always come easy to him, but this getting injured business made it a cakewalk.
So he came back a hero.
He also came back a genius.
Well, sort of.
He noticed that something was different a few days after the injury. Reading textbooks was a weird experience. When he put a book down and tried to recall what he’d just studied, he could see entire pages in his head. Word for word. Sentence by sentence. Paragraph by paragraph. He had instant recall, photographic recall.
At first, it freaked him out. He didn’t tell his friends or even his family. He felt like a freak. And he knew in his gut that it had something to do with the head injury. It was too much of a coincidence. He thought that it might be just a temporary condition; that it would fade over time. But, as the weeks went by, he began to realize that what he had would most likely be with him for good.
The Principal was the first one to ask him about it. A few minutes before Nate had to make a speech in his role as Student Council President, the Principal handed him a two-page document and asked him to read it out to the students after he’d finished his speech. It had something to do with graduation arrangements. Anyway, Nate simply looked the pages over and recited the words verbatim during his speech without looking at the text. After the assembly, the Principal came up and asked him how he was able to do that. Nate just shrugged and walked away.
Then, at the Senior Prom, Nate, his girlfriend Vicky, and a bunch of his friends, were horsing around beside the piano during a break in the music. One of his buddies tried to one-finger the tune to Guns ‘N Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle. Nate had already had a couple of drinks and was not totally on his guard—and, truth be told, probably wanted to show off a bit. He figured he could tap out the tune to that song easily, even though he’d never played a note on the piano in his life.
He didn’t even realize himself what was going to happen. What started as a one-finger attempt resulted in a brilliant two-hand rendition of the song, just from the tune in his head. As soon as he sat down at the piano, his fingers just seemed to know what to do and where to go. It was like he was in a trance. All of his friends were speechless. They started shouting out other tunes and he obliged—he had no choice now, the jig was up. And he was actually enjoying this newfound talent. He thought it made the photographic memory seem like child’s play. When he finally lifted himself off the piano bench, he’d played ten songs flawlessly, like a trained concert pianist. And his small group of friends around the piano had swelled to about eighty.
He stood up, did a mock bow, and then took Vicky out to his car for the best sex they’d ever had. She breathlessly whispered to him that she thought his brilliance was sexy. That came as a shock to a jock like Nate. He always thought that being an athlete made him appealing, but this brilliance stuff was now deemed sexy. He was a double-threat! At that moment he decided he would stop trying to hide it and just simply embrace whatever God had decided to bestow upon him. Including the great sex.
And he figured it was finally time to tell his mother. So he did. And she immediately booked an appointment with their family doctor, who then referred them to a neurologist.
Nate remembered sitting through a lot of gobbledygook, watching his mother nod respectfully and take notes, pretending to understand. A lot of it just went over her head, not because she wasn’t smart, but because she was so distressed over the whole thing. Nate understood every word—or at least remembered every word. Such that he was able to explain it to his mom later once she’d calmed down.
In short, he had Savant Syndrome. His mom had a tough time getting past the word ‘savant.’ She thought that was synonymous with ‘autistic.’ Nate re-explained, after the doctor explained, that only fifty percent of savants are autistic. Put another way: not all savants are autistic, and not all autistics are savants.
> People could be born with the syndrome or it could be triggered by a brain injury. His mother gasped at that, too. The doctor stressed that Savant Syndrome is not considered a mental disorder, whereas Autistic Savantism is.
Nate’s concussion on the football field had apparently resulted in damage to his left anterior temporal lobe, which is where the damage has to occur to cause savantism. The neurologist said it was nothing to worry about—that Nate was lucky that he ended up getting “good brain damage” rather than “bad brain damage.” His mom felt better after he put it in that context.
Savants generally excel at mathematics, art, memory, and music. Strangely, the musical talent with savants is almost always restricted to the piano. No one has yet been able to comprehend why that is—just another strange aspect to a syndrome that is still very much a mystery.
Nate’s gifts included math—he was a good mathematician before the injury, but quite brilliant afterwards.
And of course his memory was now phenomenal, including being ‘eidetic’—photographic. Not only that, he could read upside down; his mind could take a snapshot, and then flip it around in his head.
His powers of observation were also extremely acute—and photographic as well. If he concentrated on something, the image would never leave his mind. And he could telescope the image to make it larger—all it took was concentration. Which he had plenty of—much more so than before the accident.
One other talent he’d picked up was within his eyesight. He could focus each eye in separate directions and each was capable of ‘taking a picture’ in his mind. The eyes were able to work independently of each other. He thought this was a really freaky skill, and one that people could actually notice if he used it. Nate tried not to use this skill when he was in the company of others—but sometimes he couldn’t resist. And sometimes it was just an amusing party trick.