Vision

by Lisa Amowitz

  But it all fell apart as the monster became stronger, gained more and more control. And once he realized what the beast inside him had done all these years, what could he do but clean up after him?

  The boy. Oh, God, the boy.

  Bobby Pendell was like him. The better him.

  But the boy knew his secret. Somehow, as his eyes failed, his vision became clearer.

  Bobby Pendell was his nemesis. The cause of his downfall.

  He fought. Fought the impulse to destroy him. Fought the monster as he circled him, toyed with him.

  Kenny Cooper dropped to his knees on the living-room floor. The girl had stabbed him in the eye, the pain like a white-hot spike deep in his skull. Bashed him in the head. And it hurt. It hurt so much.

  Carl was stronger now, and he, Kenny Cooper, was fading away. Gone forever, leaving a monster to fill his shoes.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  One final act.

  There was leftover rope that Carl had used to tie up his victims in the garage. Kenny stumbled out there, one last time. His last stand against the monster he could no longer hold back.

  He’d make amends. He’d see to it that the boy who had so much promise could carry on in his name. If he could ever forgive him.

  Kenny Cooper grabbed a stool from his workbench. Swung the rope over the metal bracket of the garage door. Pulled on it to make sure it held.

  He popped a CD in the old player. Music. He needed it wherever he went, to keep the terror at bay.

  Now, he needed it to die.

  Kenny Cooper stood on the stool, tears streaming from his one remaining eye. He was good. To be good was all he’d ever wanted.

  He looped the rope over his head and stepped off.

  Bobby gasped, choking in cold water. He tried to flail his arms, his legs, but nothing moved. He shouted, but no sounds came from his clogged throat.

  “He’s showing some signs of awareness,” said a muffled voice. “He’s coming out of it. The dosage needs to be increased.”

  Again he tried to move, but it was as if his mind ignored his body, the signals not getting through. Help, he wanted to shout. Help me! But his jaws were locked.

  He lay that way for an eternity, sounds emerging from silence, then receding into the endless hum.

  “Bobby,” said a voice, clear and sharp. “Bobby, can you hear me?”

  Yes, I can hear you, he wanted to scream.

  “Bobby, it’s Dad.”

  His heart sped up. He couldn’t answer. He was adrift at sea, unable to move his arms and swim his way to shore. Wetness poured out of his eyes, tears of frustration.

  “Hey!” shouted the person called Dad. “You have to see this! Someone has to see this! He hears me! Look!”

  Feet rushing. “Holy shit.”

  What the hell was going on? Where was he? Who were these people? Why did nothing make sense?

  “Bobby,” said a soft female voice, “we can help you.”

  “Get out of here, you blind bitch. He’s in a coma. He can’t answer you. I’m his father. I’m the one who makes the decisions.”

  A pause. The click-clack of high heels, the scrape of something like a stick on the hard floor. “We can do the surgery in a way that ensures Bobby’s unique and valuable talent is preserved. I don’t know if you understand the special nature of your son’s abilities. Do you understand how our corps of special agents plays a vital role in our nation’s defense?”

  Dad spoke softly, so softly Bobby could barely make out the words.

  “I lost the use of my legs defending this country. Now you’re asking me to give up my son?”

  “Mr. Pendell, we are offering Bobby a life-long opportunity to serve his country. He will be amply compensated.”

  “He’s dying, you bitch. His brain is filled with fluid, and with the injuries and his tumor growing faster than anyone ever imagined, he’s not going to make it if they don’t take the damn thing out.”

  “We understand that, Mr. Pendell. We are just asking your permission to have Bobby airlifted to a special unit in Washington, DC, where we will relieve the pressure in his cranium, reduce the size of the tumor and save his life. He will, if we are successful, still retain his ability.”

  “But he’ll be blind.”

  “He’ll be alive. If, for some reason, he doesn’t survive the procedure, we will pay out a very generous settlement.”

  There was a choked sob. “You’re paying me to allow you to let my son go blind so you can use him as a soldier in your psychic army. I’ve heard enough. Get out!”

  More pacing, more sliding of the stick. “Mr. Pendell, the medical team here in Waterbury does not have the skills our team has. Bobby’s survival rate is only forty percent. And, if he does survive, there’s a ninety-four percent chance he will lose his precious ability, and only a thirty-eight percent chance he’ll regain some vision. There is also a great chance he will wake up completely incapacitated. A minimally conscious vegetable.”

  Bobby flinched. Was that what he was now?

  “I’m a gambler, Ms.—Agent Reston. I’ll take my chances.”

  “You’re a fool, Sergeant Pendell. By turning us down, you’re depriving Bobby of an opportunity I know he was looking forward to. You’re deciding for him, relegating him to a life of disability with little means. Now it will be two of you, scraping by, living off a shrinking fixed income. Who will care for your other son?”

  Bobby wanted to shout, if he only could. It all came back to him. The contract! Agent Reston was here for Dad to sign. And Bobby couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He was floating helplessly in black water. Did people live like this?

  “Bobby is a minor. This is my decision. It’s always been my decision. Get your blind ass out of here. The answer is no!”

  Bobby wanted to scream. How could Dad be such a moron?

  He lay there, waiting. Wondering. His mind sharp, but unable to move his body. The electric thread was gone. Nothing called out to him from the silence. The connection to the murderer was lost. Had he lost the ability already?

  Footsteps. Smell. He could smell her. Gabe. Gabe? He wanted to call to her, nestle in her hair, but now he was robbed even of that.

  She leaned down close. He could feel her breath on his face.

  “Bobby, it was Mr. Cooper all along. And you saved us. You saved me. I’m okay.”

  He felt his heart speed up. Why couldn’t he move?

  “He’s dead, Bobby. Mr. Cooper is dead. When he tried to run you over, he roared right past me and kept going. They found him later that night, hanging in his garage. It’s over, Bobby.”

  He wanted to lift his arms and hug her. Let her know, somehow, that he’d heard her. But he was trapped, his body a dark cage.

  “Bobby, they say you have a pretty serious head injury. That and the tumor is a bad combination. The pressure in your head is—they’ve been keeping you in a medically induced coma, they call it, to control the swelling. But, Bobby, they have to operate. To try and help you. The thing is—” her voice was breaking up, “the thing is, they don’t know if you’ll ever come out of it, so…”

  There was a long pause as she tried to gather herself.

  “I came here to tell you how you have touched me in the short time I’ve known you. How I’ll always remember you, and—and what you brought into my life.”

  “Bobby,” she pressed her warm lips against his cold ones, “I came to say goodbye.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Resurfacing slowly, like a diver coming up from great depths, the first thing Bobby noticed was that he itched like mad all over. He tried to scratch, but found that his hands were strapped down by his side. Blinking into nothing, Bobby struggled, his weight sinking into the bed. His legs were strapped down, too, his head vibrating like a gong. When he tried to call out for help, the only noise that came out was the whooping squawk of a dying bird.

  “Good morning, Bobby,” said a familiar voice he couldn’t
quite place. He wondered if it was God’s voice. If he’d died. But he doubted he’d be blind and strapped to a bed in the afterlife.

  Had they operated on him?

  He couldn’t be sure if he’d dreamed everything that had happened after he’d fled the burning restaurant. Maybe he’d never made it out and was drugged to the max in the burn unit, delirious and delusional.

  “Welcome back, Bobby.”

  He felt the touch of cool fingers on his hand. “It’s Dr. Constantine. Sorry to have you strapped down like this. We didn’t know what state you’d be in when you woke, and it’s important you remain immobile until your skull heals. It’s going to be hard for you to speak for a while. Hard to do a lot of things. But I wanted to be the first to tell you that the team I had flown in to operate on you has given you the best possible chance at recovery.”

  Bobby tried to answer, but to his ears his voice sounded like the low tones of an out of tune slide guitar. Why couldn’t he form words?

  “There’re a few people who want to see you. You can hear me, can’t you, Bobby?”

  He nodded, not wanting to hear the sound of his garbled voice again. Was Aaron alive? Had he made it out of the restaurant? How was Coco? His head was crowded with so many questions, with no way to ask them, he thought it was going to explode.

  There was a murmur of voices. Shuffling feet.

  “Yo, dude. You look like you put your head through a meat grinder.” Coco’s voice.

  “Bobby, bro, it’s me. Aaron.”

  “We’re here, Bobby,” said Gabe. “We’re all with you, no matter what. You made it. You’re alive!”

  “You’re a fighter, Bobby Pendell. Don’t you forget that,” said a deep voice Bobby recognized as Jerry Woods. They were okay. All of them.

  But where was Max Friend? And Pete? Had he been at the Grill? Bobby couldn’t remember much about that night.

  Nobody said a word about either of them.

  Then Dr. Constantine spoke. “It’s the moment of truth, Bobby. We have the lights dimmed, and everybody is here for you. Either way, whatever happens, you are a boy with people who care very much about you. Now, keep your eyes closed tightly.”

  He heard the sound of the gauze being gently peeled away. His eyes felt sticky, crusted together. Someone wiped them with a cool, moist cloth. A pair of glasses was slipped onto his face.

  “We’re not sure about your sensitivity to light, so this is just as a precaution. Open your eyes very slowly.”

  Trembling, he did as he was told, fearful of disappointment. But then, he’d been ready to sign his sight away to the highest bidder, hadn’t he? Except now, if the surgery had failed, he’d be blind with nothing to show for it. With the tumor out, his strange ability would be gone, too.

  Grey light streamed between his lashes. Bobby blinked, his right eye tearing. The right side of his visual field remained a flat, grey smear. But the other side was a bright patchwork of color as images began to emerge from the haze in clear detail. Gabe’s copper-gold hair. Coco, on crutches, grinning. Aaron’s baseball cap, his hair its usual mess underneath. Dad, his battered old guitar on his lap. And Jerry, his typical grizzled self, round belly poking out from under his T-shirt.

  Bobby nodded and tried to smile, but the effort was not particularly successful. He was as weak as a newborn lamb.

  After the hugs, the tears, and the congratulations were over, he was exhausted. He still couldn’t find a way to tell everyone how glad he was to be with them. How glad he was to see them. And still, no Max Friend or Pete.

  Later, the lights in the room were dimmed and Dr. Constantine came to sit beside him. Dad sat in his wheelchair, watching from the shadows.

  “It’s a pretty good outcome, Bobby, considering the risks. Your left eye should recover full visual acuity. Your right, however, will never see more than light and shadow. The eye can’t dilate, which means you’ll have extreme light sensitivity. We’re planning to fit you with a special contact lens to filter the light.”

  Bobby wished he could thank him. Wished the words would come, but his tongue weighed too much.

  Dad picked up the guitar and began to strum, his sweet, sad tenor the most beautiful sound Bobby had ever heard.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Max Friend stood in the doorway with a giant bouquet of flowers and a large manila envelope.

  “Hey, Bobby! How’s the world’s most efficient busboy?”

  Bobby nodded and tried valiantly to lift his mouth into a full smile.

  “The restaurant, as you might know, was a total loss. But with the insurance, I’m planning on taking over the old granary a few miles up the road and renovating it. Thing is, I’m going to be out my best busboy.”

  Bobby tried to protest, but the sounds came out more like barnyard animal noises than intelligible speech.

  “Now, relax. It’s not because I don’t think you can do it. Problem is, you’re not going to be around.”

  Bobby shrugged, or at least tried to, restrained as he was.

  “It’s probably going to take a good, long while for you to be well enough to go, but once you are, you’ve been accepted to the Morton Academy’s upper school with guaranteed admittance to the college program.”

  Bobby let loose a barrage of noises until, finally, one hoarse word popped out of his mouth.

  “What?”

  “Relax. Because you’ll be going there, I’ve convinced Gabe to go back to school, as well. She’s had enough of piano, so she’s going to study the electric bass.”

  Max settled into the chair beside him, let out a long breath and patted the fat manila envelope on his lap.

  “It’s not going to happen overnight, Bobby. You have a long road to full recovery. But your prognosis is great.

  “So, let me get to the meat of it. This envelope on my lap is the last will and testament of Kenneth Carl Galloway Cooper. His entire history, his diary, a log of the individuals he routinely kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. All in here.

  “However, Kenny Cooper was a very, very rich man, sitting on a huge inheritance. In a posthumous attempt at making amends, he divided his fortune among his victims, with the addendum that, if there was no close family available, the money would go to you.”

  Bobby managed to grunt out a single hoarse word. “Me?”

  “Yes. Plus the portion from your mother, one of his many victims. Aaron will share in that. Strangely, in Cooper’s twisted mind, you were like a son to him—or more like the person he wished he could have been. It’s all very sad. I got to know Kenny very well, or at least I thought I had, and despite the evil he harbored inside, I can’t help but believe there was something good in there, struggling to prevail. Tragically, he failed.

  “The long and the short of it is, you’ve got a nice chunk of change waiting for you in the bank. More than enough to take care of your Dad and send Aaron to college. He’s left some for Gabe, as well. See, the reason you were accepted into Morton is, before his alter-ego, Carl, went off on his terror spree the night of the performance, Kenny had made a CD of your rehearsal that afternoon. He had the application in an envelope, ready to mail.”

  Max Friend smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “So I mailed it. I figured, what the heck? I must admit, I did have ulterior motives. Gabriella had already been accepted and was refusing to go. I figured, somewhat selfishly, that if by some miracle you recovered and were able to attend, she’d agree to go, too. It was a long shot, I know. But here you are!”

  Bobby stared at him, unable to do much of anything else as his brain struggled to process all that he’d just heard.

  Max continued, “And one more thing. That blind woman—Agent Maura Reston? Dr. Constantine was able to trace how his confidential medical evaluation was compromised and wound up in her hands. You’re very lucky you did not sign with her and her band of rogue hooligans. The whole special unit is under a Congressional investigation for exploiting brain-tumor victims, lying about their prospects, and deliberately tricking th
em into going without treatment, rather than have the medical interventions that could save their lives. Many of the folks who signed on served for a few years and suffered terrible disabilities from the unchecked growth of their tumors.

  “You have a lot to be grateful for, Bobby. And now, Gabriella has a surprise for you.”

  Bobby nodded and lifted a corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile. Even smiling was hard work these days.

  A few moments later, Gabe walked in, and Bobby realized immediately that the important parts of him were still very much alive. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was, and how he’d almost given up the privilege of looking at her. He wanted to kiss her, throw himself all over her. If only he could move.

  She stood at the end of the bed, beaming at him, her hair like a sunset cascading over her shoulders. He knew he sounded like a rooster crowing at the dawn, but he just wanted to tell her how he felt. It didn’t work. Frustrated, he slumped back onto his pillow.

  She smiled and put a finger over her lips. In front of her, she held a large square of paper with words printed on it.

  CAN YOU SEE THIS?

  He nodded.

  “Good,” she said.

  THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY LIFE.

  I LOVE YOU.

  The next card said:

  I’M SORRY TO TELL YOU, BUT YOUR GUITAR GOT BURNED UP IN THE FIRE.

  Before Bobby had a chance to react, Aaron bounded in holding a guitar case tied with a red ribbon. Smiling, he carefully opened the case and placed the shining new acoustic on Bobby’s lap.

  Aaron leaned over and helped him place his clumsy fingers on the frets.

  “Dr. Constantine thought it would be good therapy for you to regain your dexterity. Kind of like physical therapy,” Gabe said.

  Bobby had so much he wanted to say to her. So many songs to write for her.

  “And one more thing!” Gabe threw her arm to the side like a game-show host. “Meet your service dog-in-training, Pete Townsend, mutt.”