Mind's Eye

by Douglas E. Richards

  Fyfe pulled out his phone, intent on calling his brother to verify what Hall was saying.

  “He won’t answer,” said Hall. “But that’s okay. Megan is dialing your number now. To discuss the terms of a trade.”

  The instant Hall said this, Fyfe’s phone vibrated and indicated an incoming call, from his brother’s phone. He answered.

  “Hello, Hassan,” said Megan Emerson. “Nick tells me you’re expecting my call.”

  Without saying another word, Fyfe lifted one of the guns beside him on the steel workbench, pointed it at Nick Hall, and pulled the trigger.

  57

  “What have you done?” screamed Megan Emerson into the phone.

  “You weren’t in telepathic contact with your boyfriend when I pulled the trigger, were you?” asked Fyfe mockingly. “Because that would be cheating.”

  “You killed him?” said Megan, unable to keep the hysteria from her voice.

  “No. I didn’t kill him. I used a dart. Just like I understand you did on Rashid. I was told you were calling to trade for my brother. Do you really think I’d let you stay in contact with someone who can read my mind during negotiations? Seems like an unfair advantage, don’t you think?”

  “Let me talk to Alex!” she demanded.

  “I’m putting you on speaker,” said Fyfe.

  “Alex, is he telling the truth? Is Nick okay?”

  “Yes,” said Altschuler. “So far.” He couldn’t help but admire Fyfe’s move. His quick calculation to take Hall out of play was impressive.

  “Call me back in five minutes,” said Fyfe, and then ended the call.

  The phone vibrated immediately, but Fyfe ignored it. Instead, he pulled a roll of gray duct tape from a drawer under the workbench and wrapped multiple layers of tape around Heather’s and Altschuler’s heads and mouths, until even a scream would have no chance of escaping.

  When he was done, he said, “Megan Emerson is impressive when she’s getting advice. Let’s see how she does when she’s on her own.”

  Fyfe’s phone vibrated again, on cue, and this time he answered, putting it on speaker for the entertainment of his guests.

  “What the hell is going on?” demanded Megan.

  “I was taping your friends’ mouths shut,” explained Fyfe. “They’re a little too chatty for my taste.” He paused. “So you claim to have my brother. Can you prove it to me?”

  “The proof is on this phone,” she replied. “Saved as a video file named Cowan. Have Tanya access it and put it on the monitors behind you.”

  Fyfe told Tanya to comply, and seconds later the video began playing on the panic room monitors. It began with a close-up view of the front seats of a four-door sedan. Cowan had been propped up in the passenger’s seat and looked to be taking a nap.

  The camera panned over to the floor of the driver’s seat. A deep, rectangular casserole dish had been placed on the carpet, six inches in from the brake and gas pedals. A pool of clear liquid filled the dish to about three inches in height. In the center of this pool, a blue candle, about the size of a tall can of soda, was being held in place by a heavy glass candleholder, which was fully submerged. A small, orange flame danced innocently at the top of the candle. One end of a wet cotton blanket, tied to the steering wheel, was hanging about a foot above the candle, with the other end resting on Cowan’s lap.

  Finally, the camera panned to the back seat, where four large, plastic bottles of Kingsford lighter fluid, for barbequing, were lying on the floor.

  The video ended, and began to repeat in a continuous loop.

  “Did you see it?” said Megan.

  “I saw it,” snapped Fyfe.

  “Nick was relaying the highlights of your conversation to me,” she said, and Altschuler realized this must be why Hall had seemed to check out of the discussion periodically for extended periods. “And I learned you were planning to burn my friends alive. So I thought I’d return the favor.”

  Megan paused to let this sink in. “Your brother is still in my car. I’ve drenched him and the blanket in lighter fluid. These things aren’t all that precise, but the candle I bought is supposed to burn down about an inch every thirty minutes. Which means that in an hour or so, it will have burned low enough for the flame to make contact with the pool of lighter fluid it’s sitting in. When it does, flames will shoot up and hit the blanket. If my calculations are correct, your brother’s entire body should be on fire about four seconds after that. Give or take a few.”

  After another brief pause, she continued. “I have to admit I’m new at this. I had to Google, delayed reaction fire, to get ideas—using your brother’s phone, by the way. A few of the results involved kitchen timers, but I liked the simplicity of this one. Would you like me to send you a link to the YouTube video?”

  “You’re very proud of yourself, aren’t you?” hissed Fyfe.

  “Yes. Yes I am. So here’s the deal. I want to be able to see Alex, Heather, and Nick, alive and well, in front of the living room window. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The more important question is, where is your brother? Where did I leave my car? Could be at the back of a huge parking lot. Maybe behind an abandoned church. Could be anywhere. Once I lit the candle, I took a cab back to your brother’s car, which I’m driving now. I’ll come to the front door. Let me in. Once I confirm that my friends are okay and we’re driving away, I’ll call you with your brother’s location.”

  “A trade of three for one. That hardly seems fair.”

  “What hardly seems fair to me is that a psychopathic butcher asshole was planning to kill my three innocent friends in the first place. I’ll be there in ten minutes. You can choose to kill me when I arrive, of course. But just know that if you do, your brother will become a bonfire long before you have any hope of finding him.”

  Fyfe nodded. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  58

  The man who would bring the West to its knees unlocked the cuffs that linked each of his prisoners, one to the other. “Get up!” he ordered Heather.

  With her hands still cuffed behind her back, and her mouth taped firmly shut, this wasn’t easy, but she managed. Once she was on her feet, Fyfe had her turn around so he could unlock her cuffs. He then handed her keys and instructed her to free Altschuler, while he held a gun on both of them.

  Altschuler grunted several attempted words at Fyfe, who raised his eyebrows in mild amusement. “What’s that, Alex?” he taunted. “I’m having a little trouble understanding you.”

  Altschuler ceased his efforts at communication. He was trying to ask what Fyfe’s real plans were, but what did it matter? He knew the gist. Megan was walking into an ambush, despite how impressively creative her plan had been.

  If Fyfe were to actually make the trade, to let them leave, his grand plan was over. He thought he now had the ultimate winning hand in the Clash of Civilizations, and he wasn’t about to give it up. Not for his brother. Not for anything.

  If Fyfe’s brother had to be sacrificed, even burned alive, Altschuler was certain the man could accept that. In a religion that glorified martyrs, he might even be happy that his brother would secure a premium position in the afterlife through this sacrifice.

  Megan was thinking like a Westerner, and believing Fyfe would as well. And Fyfe had taken advantage of her inexperience, brilliantly isolating her from Hall by rendering him unconscious, and making sure he and Heather were unable to shout a warning to her either. She had done remarkably well since Hall had stumbled upon her, but her Western thinking and feelings for Nick Hall were blinding her to the obvious.

  And there was nothing Altschuler could do about it.

  Fyfe instructed Altschuler and Heather to drag Hall’s unconscious body out of the panic room and to the front of the house. Even dragging him, and with two of them, it was backbreaking work. Lifting Hall up and seating him against the windowsill, with his face pressed awkwardly against the window, was harder
still, but they finally managed.

  While they struggled, Fyfe had Tanya unbolt both locks on the front door, and display the perimeter camera feeds on the television.

  Fyfe’s phone vibrated once again.

  “I don’t see Heather,” snapped Megan when he picked it up.

  Fyfe motioned for Heather to get closer to the window.

  “And how do I know Nick is still alive?”

  “You should be able to see his breath against the window,” said Fyfe.

  Fifteen seconds passed. “I’m coming in,” said Megan, obviously satisfied that the three prisoners were still alive.

  Several additional minutes passed. Finally, the camera feed on the television showed Megan carefully approaching the front door. She was alone, as promised.

  The handle turned, and the door swung slowly inward. Megan stepped inside. She tried to put on a brave front, but Altschuler thought she looked as skittish as a rabbit; not that he could blame her.

  Fyfe, his gun raised, quickly worked his way around her and closed the door. “Megan Emerson,” he said. “Welcome back.”

  Megan walked over to the three prisoners and inspected Hall carefully. “Help me bring Nick to the car,” she said to Alex and Heather.

  Fyfe’s upper lip curled into a scowl. “You aren’t going anywhere,” he hissed.

  Even though this had been utterly predictable, Altschuler’s heart dropped into his stomach.

  “Pull a double cross and your brother burns,” snapped Megan. She tried to sound in control of the situation, but her hands were shaking. “You know better than that.”

  “I do love my brother,” said Fyfe softly. “But I love Allah more. I’m willing to sacrifice my brother for the cause, just as he would be willing to sacrifice himself.”

  Megan searched Fyfe’s face for any hint of a bluff and found only icy resolve. There was absolutely no doubt that Fyfe would let his brother be burned alive without batting an eye.

  The last of Megan’s brave exterior melted away and her eyes began to fill with tears. “I knew you might be psycho enough to pull something like this,” she said, thoroughly defeated. “But I had to take the chance.” She glared at Fyfe hatefully as a single tear slid down her face. “But at least I’ll die knowing I took your brother with me.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’ll tell me where he is.”

  “You can think whatever the hell you want. But unless you let us leave here, your brother fries.”

  Fyfe laughed. “You really do think you’re tough. But you’ve led a sheltered life. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to start by carving out your right eye with a knife. But I’ll leave your left eye alone, so you can see me kill your three friends in the most painful of ways. I can’t go as slow as I’d like, because Rashid’s candle is burning down, but it will be slow enough. They will suffer terribly. They will scream, and in the end, beg for me to kill them.”

  He paused to let this sink in. “Or,” he continued, “you can tell me where my brother is. Right now. In which case I promise to give you all quick and painless deaths.”

  “You can go fuck yourself!” spat Megan.

  Altschuler could barely breathe. He considered attacking Fyfe, but he was too far away, and Fyfe would have plenty of time to turn and shoot him. But what did it matter? At least he would force him to end his life quickly. He tensed his muscles and planned out an approach in his head. His only chance was stealth. If Fyfe was preoccupied with Megan, maybe he could get close enough to lunge at Fyfe without him realizing it.

  “Suit yourself,” said Fyfe, removing a switchblade knife from his pocket. “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me,” he added, herding her toward the wall.

  Altschuler willed himself to be silent and invisible and crept away from the window.

  He managed four catlike steps before Fyfe heard him and turned, his gun drawn and his finger on the trigger. Altschuler closed his eyes.

  But instead of the expected bullet to a kneecap or other vital part of his body, he heard a spitting sound coming from the back of the room.

  “I don’t know, Fyfe,” said a deep voice, coming from the same direction. “This might hurt you more than you think.”

  Altschuler opened his eyes and took in the scene. Behind him, a man was holding a silenced gun. In front of him, Cameron Fyfe was lying on the floor in a large pool of his own blood, which continued to pour from a gaping hole in the back of his head. The front door was splattered with so much blood it looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  Heather sank to the ground while Megan fought back vomit.

  As Altschuler took in the scene, the man who had spoken came into the room, his gun still held in front of him.

  Altschuler hastily pulled enough tape from the bottom of his mouth to partially free his lower lip. “Who are you?” he said, his words garbled.

  “I’m Colonel Justin Girdler,” the man said as he walked by Altschuler to the window. He grabbed the unconscious Hall by his shirt, and lowered him to the floor.

  “So nice to see you again, Nick,” he said.

  59

  “Get away from him!” demanded Altschuler, his words still garbled by the tape over most of his mouth. “I can cure his ESP.”

  Girdler shook his head. “Believe it or not, that’s the last thing I want.”

  “It’s okay, Alex,” said Megan. “The colonel is on our side now.” She thought about this for a moment. “Well, sort of.”

  Heather had joined Altschuler near the center of the room, and he took her hand in his.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Girdler to the two of them. “Let’s get that tape off you both, brew up some coffee, and have a little talk in the kitchen. Nick will be okay. He’ll be awake in a few hours. I know. The darts Fyfe used were from my gun.”

  Ten minutes later the four of them were at the kitchen table once again, cups of steaming coffee in front of them. When they were all situated, Altschuler studied the colonel, watching carefully for any signs of treachery. “So you don’t plan to kill Nick anymore?”

  “No,” said Girdler simply.

  Heather had been watching him intently as well. “Good choice,” she said. “Because we wouldn’t want to have to hurt you.”

  Girdler laughed. “I’ll say this for Nick, he can turn people who don’t know him into loyal friends in no time. I found myself liking him as well.”

  “Thank you, by the way, for saving our lives,” said Heather. “But where did you come from? I’m guessing there is some explanation other than your arrival being the luckiest bit of good timing in history.”

  “You’re right,” said Girdler. “Good timing had nothing to do with it. You owe it all to Megan here.”

  Heather faced her new friend, who was taking a sip of coffee. “Okay, Megan. How did you pull this off?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” replied Megan with a smile. “Because I’m dying to tell you. I was in telepathic contact with Nick when the three of you were watching coverage of the press conference. Just before I lost my connection with him, he managed to think the words, sleep drug. After that it was radio silence. I was totally panicked at that point. I thought about rushing back to the house, guns blazing, to save him. But there were problems with this strategy. I didn’t know if only Nick had been knocked out, or if everyone had. And if the two bodyguards were behind this and still conscious, this could end very badly. Besides, I’m just a graphic designer. The guns blazing thing really isn’t my strength.”

  “Didn’t you only have one real gun, anyway?” said Heather with a smile.

  “Yeah. There was that, too. So it would have been, gun blazing. So I decided to wait until Nick awoke, so he could feed me telepathic intel and give me instructions. Having him on the inside, guiding me, was the only way I was going to be able to help him. We never told you this, but that’s really how Nick and I managed to escape the colonel.”

  Girdler winced. “And I’ve been tryi
ng so hard to forget that ever happened,” he said in amusement. “Thanks for bringing it up again.”

  “You have to admit it was effective,” said Megan.

  “Exceedingly effective,” said Girdler.

  “Even so,” continued Megan, “it occurred to me I could use an ally. Someone who knew what he was doing. Not a graphic designer pretending to be a Navy Seal. And that’s when it hit me. Nick had told me telepathically about the breaking story on his ESP. The Iowa Gazette story. I realized this might change everything with the colonel.”

  Altschuler pursed his lips in thought, and began to nod seconds later. “Good thinking,” he said in admiration. “Because you realized the genie was out of the bottle anyway. That this story was so credible, even without Nick Hall in the picture going forward, people would take it seriously. The ESP arms race the colonel feared was going to happen no matter what.”

  “Right!” said Megan excitedly. “Given that, I thought it was worth asking the colonel if this would cause him to have a change of heart. Nick thought highly of him. So if he told me he’d consider sparing Nick, I decided I would trust him. Besides, I knew he was by far the best chance for us to survive.”

  “How did you get ahold of him so quickly?” asked Heather.

  “Along with the car, I had bought a disposable cell phone,” replied Megan. She turned to Girdler and rolled her eyes. “You know, to replace the one your men took from me.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  “Anyhow,” she continued, an amused smile on her face, “I called the pentagon, told them I was Megan Emerson, and demanded to speak with Justin Girdler of PsyOps. They told me there was no one there by that name. I gave them my number and told them if he didn’t call me within five minutes, I wouldn’t be responsible for the loss of life.”

  Girdler nodded approvingly at Megan. “That was more than enough to do the trick,” he said.

  “Really?” said Heather.

  “Yes. Our computers flagged her call immediately and brought it to my attention. They knew I had a keen interest in Megan Emerson. I called her back right away. I’d already seen the Internet story about Nick’s ESP and reached the same conclusions she had.”