by Joel Pierson
And there it is. No sentimentality, no real emotion at all from either side. Just see you soon. “Are you all right?” I ask her.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Put the top down again, would you? I could use the air.”
She seems fine, maybe too fine. But I don’t want to pry, so I lower the top and merge back onto the highway. After a minute or two of silence, she turns to me and says, “Tell me about the first time you got an assignment to help somebody.”
“Well, it started with the message, like it always does. I thought it was strange, but I didn’t think too much of it. But then the pain started, and it didn’t go away for hours. I even went to a doctor. He asked me all kinds of questions, then did test after test, and couldn’t find anything wrong with me physically. Not even a morphine shot took the pain away. I was just about ready to talk to a psychiatrist, but then I decided I would pass the message on to the person who needed to hear it, and see what happened.”
“So who was this person?” she asks.
“It was a friend of mine; why?”
“I’m looking for connections. With everything that’s gone on, I want to see if your first assignment has some connection to me. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Esteban Padgett.”
“Esteban Padgett?” she repeats, her voice full of disbelief.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No, never heard of him, but that’s a really weird name, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, Persephone Traeger, you tell me.”
“Touché, Tristan Shays. Now that we’re all done making fun of each other’s name, let’s see if we can find a connection. Where was Esteban?”
“Maryland,” I reply.
“Maryland,” she says. “I’ve never been there. Oh my gosh, is that where you live?”
“Yes.”
“It just occurred to me that in the past four days that we’ve known each other, I’ve never asked you where you live or really anything about yourself. So you live in Maryland. Where?”
“Ocean City.”
“I love the name. It sounds like a great place.”
“It is. I wish I could spend more time there than I do.”
“Do you have a big house overlooking the Atlantic?”
I smile a bit at her accuracy. “Yes, I actually do.”
“I’m picturing gray wooden siding and white shutters, and a long ramp that leads down to a little stretch of beach all your own,” she says playfully.
“Go on,” I say, now gently uneasy.
“In the living room, there’s a brick fireplace with a big mantel. Across the room is a stairway leading to the second floor.” By this point, she’s no longer asking me, she’s telling me. “Upstairs, your bedroom has french doors that lead to a wraparound balcony that circles the entire second floor. Tristan, how is this possible? How can I know this?”
“Because I’m picturing each part of the house just before you describe it.”
“What?”
“Twenty questions,” I say suddenly.
“What?”
“Twenty questions. Right now.”
“This is no time for games.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s a very good time for games. You guess first. It’s a person.”
“This is scaring me, Tristan.”
“Put the fear aside and focus. It’s a person.”
“Is it a man?” she asks, nowhere near in the spirit of the game.
“Yes.”
“Is he over fifty?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Sean Connery?”
“Yes, Rebecca, it is.”
She is almost in tears, not from happiness over her easy win, but with the uncertainty of what it means.
“Keep going,” I say to her. “A place this time.”
“Is it a city?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Rio de Janeiro?”
“Yes. I’m thinking of an ordinary playing card from a deck. What is it?”
“Ten of hearts?”
“Yes. Another one.”
“Four of clubs?”
“Right again. One more.”
“Ace of clubs.”
I look at her with renewed wonder. “A-plus.”
She doesn’t share my fascination. “Why is this happening?”
“It seems, my lovely Rebecca, that you are with me for a reason. You have a gift as well, one that’s getting stronger now.”
“What if I don’t want that gift?”
My wonder turns to sympathy; she is genuinely overwhelmed at this revelation, and she needs a friend right now. “I’m not sure,” I answer, holding her hand in mine. “Sometimes it’s something you can bury down deep in your thoughts, and sometimes it just needs to be heard. It’s clear that you have a very strong connection to me, but that might not be the case with everyone. After all, you and I have gotten quite close in the past four days. What about with other people? Were you able to hear the Harbisons’ thoughts, or the staff at the hospital?”
“No, I don’t think I was.”
“Open yourself up right now to anyone nearby. See if you can hear any of the other people around us.”
She closes her eyes tightly and squints in concentration. After several seconds, she reports, “All I can hear is you, and I couldn’t hear everything. It’s like I could hear what you wanted me to hear.”
“That’s good. It means you’re very focused. You won’t spend your life shutting out the thoughts of others.”
“Tristan, this is all so sudden …”
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. I think this might be something you’ve been able to do for years, a latent ability that got stronger the more time you spent with me. Think back to the night we met. What motivated you to ask me to drive you home?”
“Convenience, I guess.”
“I was a stranger to you. Or was I? In your mind, did you see me as a threat or as something else?”
She thinks back. “You represented safety. How is it that I’m realizing this now, but I didn’t at the time when I made the decision to go with you?”
“At the time, you realized it subconsciously. Now, that thought and a lot more are in your consciousness.”
“So why do I have these numbers going through my head?”
“Numbers? When did this start?”
“When I woke up this morning, they were in there. Now they’re starting to repeat themselves.”
“What are the numbers?”
“Twenty-eight, ten, sixteen, N. Eighty-three, five, eleven, W. Hey, do you think they’re lottery numbers? Do you think somebody wants me to win the lottery?”
“I’d love to say you’re right, but those letters in there make me think otherwise. Do you have a pen and paper in your purse?”
“Yeah.”
“Write the numbers down and read them to me again.”
She gets the pen and paper and writes down what she had told me. “Twenty-eight, ten, sixteen, N. Eighty-three, five, eleven, W. What does it mean?”
“Unless this is some kind of cryptic code, N means north.”
“And W means west,” she deduces. “Latitude and longitude?”
“Might very well be. I don’t have an atlas in the car, so I can’t say where those points meet.”
“Wait a second,” she interrupts. “My cell phone has a GPS application on it. I can enter those coordinates and see where it takes us.” She types in the numbers and we wait, all the while making our way westward into Ohio. After many seconds of waiting, she tells me, “It has an answer. It’s in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“In the gulf?”
“Yeah, that’s what it says.”
“Can you tell where specifically?”
“Western coast of Florida … about ten miles off the coast of—”
“What? What is it?”
“Tarpon Springs,” she says.
A prolonged moment of silence passes between us as we both try to understand the significance of what this means. Tarpon Springs, one piece that didn’t fit into the puzzle before, now tries to squeeze into place. But ten miles offshore? What could be out there?
“It’s important to know where these numbers are coming from,” I tell her. “Does it feel like they’re coming from me?”
“No. Your thoughts sound like you, like your voice. These aren’t like that. It doesn’t feel like I’m hearing them, like someone’s speaking them or thinking them. I’m just … aware of them. They’re a presence, and I don’t know why.”
“I wonder if your father might be the key to any of this. When we get there, do you think you could try to read his thoughts?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could. You think he’s sending me these numbers?”
“You said it’s getting stronger the closer we get to his house. That would suggest that someone in that area is sending them to you, and he’s the logical candidate.”
She looks very uncomfortable with that possibility, and I don’t blame her. Though her relationship with her father has been strained for some time, the more she learns about him, the unhappier she becomes.
Crossing the border into Ohio, I exit the interstate and turn onto a state highway that will take us the remaining ninety miles to her father’s house. Traffic is much lighter here, making it easier for us to talk and to think.
“Do you want me to drive for a while?” she asks.
“No, I’m fine. You’re still recuperating. I’ll take us the rest of the way.”
“I feel fine, really. A hundred percent better than I did last night.”
“Good. Then it’s a lovely day to be a passenger. Sit back and relax. I’ve got this covered.”
“Relax, right. Easy for you to say. I find out I’m a mind reader who’s getting coordinates in my head for no apparent reason.”
“Gotta keep a positive attitude. Find ways to use this to your advantage. Won’t it be nice to know what your professors are thinking? Or to know if a first date has something unsavory on his mind?”
She looks at me for many seconds. “You really want me to go, don’t you?”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “I thought that was the whole idea of this trip. I take you home, you go back to school. Did I miss the part where that changed?”
“I thought you would at least try to talk me out of leaving.”
“Rebecca, I …”
“Sure, the night we met, I said I wanted you to drive me there, but now … Everything we’ve been through— We’ve made love.”
“I know. I was there.”
“Was it just a one-night stand? Just some conquest?”
“No, of course not. Rebecca, it was … it was beautiful, and it brought us closer in a way that nothing else could have. Right now, I’m a victim of geography. Unless you know a scenic route to your father’s house through Alabama, we’re going to be there in less than two hours. And I don’t think your idea of romance involves a quickie in a rest area. For someone who has the ability to read my thoughts, you’re certainly missing the biggest one—the one where I’d do just about anything to keep you from leaving this car and walking out of my life forever.”
And there it is, out in the open. I guess I am a bit surprised seconds later when she quietly says, “I did know. I just needed to hear you say it.”
I laugh a little to myself and shake my head. “You’re impossible. You do know this, right?”
“So what are we going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know. As long as these assignments continue, I have to keep moving.”
“Would you come see me in between?”
“I’d really like that. Because you mean a whole lot more to me than a one-night stand. I really think I—”
My thoughts are interrupted as I glance down the road ahead. On the side of the highway, a car is parked with its hazard lights flashing. I see a male figure standing in our lane, waving his arms for us to stop.
“Is that a cop?” Rebecca asks me.
At first I’m willing to believe it, but as we draw closer, I recognize the figure and know that this is no member of law enforcement. Rebecca recognizes him as well.
“That’s impossible,” I say aloud.
“What would he be doing here?” she asks.
I slow the car to a stop, and the figure approaches. With no pause for greetings or formalities, he gets right to the point. “My friends, you have to come with me,” he says through his thick accent.
“Stelios, what are you doing here?” I ask him. “How did you find us?”
“There’s no time. Follow me to the next town. There is a little café where we can have some privacy. I’ll explain everything there. Hurry. It’s not safe if we’re seen talking here.”
Chapter 12
Without another word of explanation, Stelios hurries back to his car, gets in, and pulls into the lane ahead of us. Rebecca and I exchange a perplexed glance, simultaneously wondering if we should actually follow him, and then decide to do so. He drives fast, and I pace him, not wanting to lose him. As promised, he gets off at the next exit and we follow, down the off-ramp, around a corner, through several intersections to a tiny café in a quiet portion of a small town whose name I didn’t even catch. I park and put the top back up, then we follow him into the building.
Stelios catches a waiter’s eye, and the young man waves us back to a little meeting room with three tables in it in the back of the café. We all sit down together. “Are you hungry?” Stelios asks us. “Can I get you anything?”
Rebecca shakes her head. “No,” I tell him.
He turns to the waiter. “Bring us a pitcher of water and three glasses.”
The server exits, leaving us alone. “How did—”
Stelios holds up one hand, motioning for me to stop. The waiter enters the room and pours three glasses of water.
“We are not to be disturbed,” Stelios tells him, handing him twenty dollars.
The waiter takes the money. “Yes, sir.”
“By anyone.”
“Yes, sir.” He exits swiftly and once again we have privacy.
“You must have many questions,” Stelios says.
“That’s putting it mildly,” I reply. “For starters, how did you find us? Have you been following us?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Your thought patterns are very distinctive, Tristan. Yours as well, Persephone. After we met, I was able to track you. I could tell where you were and where you were going. Just as I know where it is you’re going now. That’s why I had to talk to you before you get there. So I caught a flight last night and rented a car. And here we all are, together again,” he says pleasantly.
“Why us?” Rebecca asks. “Why is this happening?”
He looks squarely at her and the pleasantness leaves his voice. “How well do you know your father?” She looks away from him, forgetting how deep inside of her Stelios can see. “You’ve been to Wyandotte. You learned the truth about that place. About what he did there. But do you know about Consolidated Offshore?”
The name doesn’t sound familiar to me, and Rebecca shows no recognition either. “No,” she says. “What is it?”
“Consolidated Offshore is a group of oil speculators from all over the country. Men who have some money to invest, in the hopes of making much more. So they work with oil companies and geologists to search the coastal areas for the best places to drill. A few months ago, a small group of these investors was having no luck finding viable si
tes where they could drill. One of them had a side interest that he shared with the others—psychic ability. Do you know what dowsing is?”
I answer, “It’s the ability to find water underground with the use of divining rods.”
“Not just water, Tristan. Gems, minerals, anything hidden within the earth. Scientists try to say that dowsing is a fraud, that it doesn’t work. That’s because in order to make it work, the dowsers need to have some psychic ability, and this flies in the face of science. This group turned to dowsers to try to find the oil, and in the past month, they believe they’ve found a significant source of it.”
“But that’s good news … isn’t it?” Rebecca asks.
“Good news for them, certainly. If they strike oil there, it will be a windfall. But every discovery comes at a price. The area where they are planning to drill is in the Gulf of Mexico, just ten miles—”
“Off the coast of Tarpon Springs,” Rebecca says, finishing his sentence.
“Very good, Persephone.”
She gets a far-off look. “Twenty-eight degrees, ten minutes, sixteen seconds north; eighty-three degrees, five minutes, eleven seconds west.”