Fragments

by James F. David

  “But Frankie isn’t like Pat. There’s a spark to her. Why is she so different?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Why is she female?” Karon added. “That policeman is right. You would think with only one female donor mind that we’d get a male.”

  “Remember the savants are different too,” Wes said. “That’s likely why Frankie is unique.”

  Silent until now, Shamita spread a printout across the table. “There’s still this,” she said pointing. “This is the printout from Frankie, and this is that peculiar vertical wave.” Shamita spread out another printout. “Here’s Pat’s printout. Notice what’s not here?”

  Wes could see the difference immediately, but he had to point it out to Elizabeth.

  “Is that what makes Frankie so human?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It’s the only difference between Pat and Frankie that can be measured,” Shamita responded.

  “That implies there are things that you can’t measure—like what?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Nothing,” Wes responded. “Anything can be measured once it’s defined.”

  “What about psychic ability?” Elizabeth asked. “That’s what Pastor Young was interested in.”

  “No such thing,” Wes protested.

  “Says you!” Elizabeth said.

  “Says any respected member of the scientific community.”

  “We’ll see,” she said defiantly. “I leave for Chicago tomorrow—let’s see what Dr. Birnbaum has to say.”

  Wes waited while Elizabeth explained to the others who Dr. Birnbaum was. Shamita frowned properly, but Len and Karon lit up with interest. Then Elizabeth spoke like she was in charge.

  “Don’t run the experiment until I get back. We don’t want to give the police any more reason to suspect us.”

  Frustrated, Wes sighed. It was the worst possible situation. They couldn’t leave because the police wouldn’t let them, so they would stay, but they couldn’t run the experiment. All that was left to them was to analyze old data and baby-sit the savants. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he heard Ralph’s voice from the stairs.

  “Hey, somebody plugged up the toilet and it’s overflowing! And there’s turds all over the place!”

  Immediately all eyes turned to him, and as he left the room he heard Len say, “Be sure to roll up your sleeve, Wes.”

  27

  DR. BIRNBAUM

  Elizabeth’s absence meant more responsibility for Wes. Gil took care of the savants—although it seemed to Wes the savants didn’t need much care anymore. Still, if something happened Wes would answer to Elizabeth, and then to the Kellum Foundation. He feared Elizabeth’s wrath more than losing his funding—it was probably lost already. Because of his heightened sense of responsibility he was sensitized to the comings and goings of the savants and decided there would be few goings. He directed Gil to keep the savants close to the house, and avoid contact with neighbors and especially the police. He immediately had to exempt Ralph from the rule, since it was like penning a wild animal.

  Len and Shamita buried themselves in the data, wrestling with Shamita’s anomaly, trying to isolate the wave from cerebral static. Every brain wave originated within a neuron somewhere in the brain, and they set out to find the source of the wave. Also intrigued with the anomaly, Wes tinkered with his integration program, trying to find a way to isolate out the unusual wave. He reasoned that if that wave was the source of Frankie, then if he could select it out she should not appear.

  Soon Wes was deep into the programming problem and oblivious of those around him. Only when piano music intruded into his consciousness did he become aware of his surroundings again. He tried to ignore the music, to focus on the problem before him, but there was something different about the sound. Daphne’s incessant playing had prepared Wes’s mind to easily screen it from consciousness, but for some reason he couldn’t do it now.

  He finally flopped back in his chair and listened. The playing wasn’t up to Daphne’s usual standards. Near flawless normally, now the rhythm came in fits and starts. There was something else that bothered him too, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. What was different about it? He tried putting a name to the tune. It wasn’t played well but he finally recognized it as “My Favorite Things,” from The Sound of Music. Then the significance hit him. In all the time he had listened to Daphne play, she had never played anything but sacred music.

  Curious, Wes left his work at the kitchen table. To his surprise he found that it wasn’t Daphne at the piano, it was Archie. Orange hair puffed out, blue Mickey Mouse glasses perched on his nose, Archie was pounding out a fair imitation of the show tune. Confused, Wes stood behind him, trying to decide if this was good or bad. That one of the savants would demonstrate a new skill should be a good thing, but he wasn’t sure that Elizabeth would see it that way. Archie had never played the piano before, so it signified something—but what?

  Daphne came in, joining Wes behind Archie. Soon her hands came up and she played an imaginary piano behind him. Wes realized he hadn’t seen her do that for a long time. Now that he thought of it, life with the savants had changed in many ways. At first they had to be sensitive to the tiniest detail with the savants—nothing could change without triggering a reaction—but now the savants tolerated considerable disruption. Even something as traumatic as the police search had been recovered from quickly, even by Yu. The savants had become more adaptable, Wes decided, and life with them had become easier. The changes were positive, Wes knew, so it followed that Elizabeth would be pleased with Archie’s piano playing. Thus reassured, he went back to his work.

  Gil didn’t care which savant he killed—he would simply take the first opportunity. Unfortunately, Wes had them staying close to the house, and his suggested outings were turned down. But two days after Elizabeth left for Chicago his chance came.

  Ralph had been bugging Wes for an ice-cream trip, and when he finally relented Gil volunteered to take them to town. Looking for an opportunity, Gil asked Ralph to cut across the campus so they could walk along the busy street on the other side.

  “It’s longer that way.”

  “I know, Ralph. But it’s a nice day so let’s walk a little farther.”

  “It’s a yucky day.”

  “It’s not raining.”

  Ralph folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back, puckering his lips. “Are we gonna come back that way? It’s longer and I don’t like not having ice cream left when we get home. I like to eat the rest on the porch, especially the runny part that comes out the bottom. Daphne likes that too.”

  “We’ll come back the short way.”

  “Well okeydokey then,” he said, and led off.

  Gil followed behind, not expecting to find a killing opportunity. They crossed the quad and then cut between two of the large academic buildings. It was then that Gil noticed the skybridge connecting the buildings. The structure was only three stories up, but someone hitting just right might break his neck. Now Gil needed a reason to take them inside and up to the third floor. Gil knew the campus well, and the bridge connected the fine-arts building with the performing-arts complex. Gil remembered a student art gallery on the second floor and decided he could later claim he took them upstairs to expose the savants to art. It was weak justification, but he was desperate to be free.

  Calling Ralph back, he convinced him to lead them to the second-floor exhibit area. Ralph headed the strange parade through the building, the odd group turning the heads of students as they climbed the stairs. At the second floor Ralph wandered aimlessly, introducing himself to anyone who would hold still. Finally, Gil herded the group to the gallery and waited impatiently while they wandered around, incapable of even minimal appreciation of the sculptures and paintings. Gil paid scant attention to the collection of modern art himself, but found himself drawn to a painting of a female nude, enjoying the sexual feelings like an adolescent.

  Finally, he pulled himself away and testily ordered Ralph to head up the s
tairs to the third floor. Ralph complied with an “okeydokey.” Trailing, Gil felt his anger grow. He wanted to be free—to be somewhere where he could indulge his new sexuality—but this Frankie thing wouldn’t let him go.

  Ralph found the skybridge without help, leading the savants to the middle, where they all stopped at the rail to look across campus. Archie, Yu, and Luis stared dumbly, but Daphne and Ralph alternated sides. Under normal circumstances Gil would have killed Ralph, but Ralph wasn’t part of Frankie, so he selected Luis. Staring at his head, he suggested he lean over. Luis complied, folding over the rail. Next he suggested to Luis he get on his toes and lean further. Again, Luis complied. His perch was precarious, but he was a short man and the rail was still only chest-high. Now Gil wished he’d picked Archie, who was the tallest, but didn’t want to take the time to start over. Instead he suggested that Luis push himself up with his arms and lean out.

  “You shouldn’t ought to say that, Gil,” Ralph said loudly. “Luis might fall off of there. You want I should get him down?”

  Gil’s anger flared—he’d forgotten about Ralph’s ability to hear his suggestions—but his anger gave him power.

  “Yes, Ralph, you’re right. Would you get him down, please? That does look dangerous.”

  “Sure, Gil. Luis might hurt himself.”

  Gil waited until Ralph neared Luis; then he wrapped his thoughts around Luis and pushed hard. Luis’s head and shoulders went over, but his hands tightly gripped the rail so he hung inverted for a second, his feet straight up in the air. Ralph lunged for him, but it was too late. Luis disappeared over the edge in a headlong dive. Someone screamed and Gil looked to see Daphne leaning far out watching Luis’s fall.

  Dr. Birnbaum lived in a new subdivision carved out of the cornfields north of Columbus. When Elizabeth drove up the cul-de-sac, children scattered and neighbors stared. Pulling into the Birnbaum driveway, she noticed two women across the street whispering and pointing. She felt as if she had triggered the neighborhood watch. She rang the doorbell twice before a haggard middle-aged woman answered.

  “Mrs. Birnbaum? My name is Elizabeth Foxworth. I called you last week, trying to speak to your husband. It’s important that I see him.”

  Mrs. Birnbaum stepped out, pulling the door closed behind her. “You can’t. He won’t see anybody. He was in a car accident—he hasn’t recovered yet.”

  “Just a few minutes—”

  “Goodbye.” Mrs. Birnbaum stepped inside, closing and locking the door.

  Frustrated, Elizabeth sat in her car, devising a plan. Then she drove to a 7-Eleven for a cup of coffee and returned, parking just off the cul-de-sac. She watched the house for two hours before the garage opened and a car backed out. Feeling like a spy, she ducked when Mrs. Birnbaum drove past.

  Returning to the 7-Eleven, she called the Birnbaum house. A machine answered with Mrs. Birnbaum’s voice. After the beep she said, “Please pick up the phone, Dr. Birnbaum. I’m Ms. Foxworth, and I must speak to you about your work. I’m a friend of Dr. Young. You might remember him, he used to research parapsychology too. He’s dead, Dr. Birnbaum, and—”

  “This is Dr. Birnbaum. What’s this about Dr. Young? I thought he was a priest or something now.”

  “He was pastoring a church, but he was murdered.”

  “Murdered? How?”

  “Can we talk face-to-face?”

  “Come back to the house. The front door will be unlocked. I’ll be in the back, but you better hurry before my wife gets home.”

  Elizabeth found the front door unlocked as promised, and walked through a neat living room filled with antiques, and down a hall. A ramp had been built at the end, leading to a family room, also appointed with antiques. One wall was mostly glass, an atrium on the other side. Amid the many leafy plants was a hot tub, and another ramp led up to it. Dr. Birnbaum was in a motorized wheelchair facing the atrium, turning at the sound of her footsteps. The chair whirred until he faced her.

  His empty left pant leg was neatly folded and pinned, and he was missing his left arm too. His face was heavily scarred on the left and the eye on that side hung low, open but dead.

  “My wife doesn’t like people to see me like this. She is a proud woman—some would say haughty—and I was a handsome man. At least I like to think so.”

  “People can accept anything with time.”

  “It’s not just my looks. She thinks I’m crazy.”

  “Why?”

  The chair whirred and he rolled to a table, picking up a cup of coffee. “You can have a cup if you like, but you have to fix it yourself. I can’t reach the coffeepot.”

  “What makes your wife think you’re crazy?”

  “Let’s talk about Dr. Young. I met him at a conference once. He did some good work, as I remember. I can’t say I was surprised when I heard he left the field for the ministry.”

  “Why is that? Science and religion have little in common.”

  Dr. Birnbaum laughed. “We like to think they’re different, but they’re both based on faith. You fail to accept the basic assumptions of science and it all comes tumbling down like a house of cards, just like the religion of a creationist who can no longer deny the truth of evolution. Dr. Young wasn’t that different from a priest in the first place. Most of us parapsychologists are like that. We have to be open to what others don’t believe exists. Even our evidence is indirect—there’s no device to measure what we research. Theologians infer the existence of God based on what they see in the world around us. We do the same,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not that big of a step to religion.” He sipped his coffee, then turned back to Elizabeth. “Now tell me how he died, or get out!”

  “He drowned in a bathtub.”

  Dr. Birnbaum looked disappointed, dropping his head to his chest. Turning, he rolled down the hall, speaking over his shoulder. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

  Quickly she added, “It was under very strange circumstances.” Dr. Birnbaum turned back expectantly. “Well?”

  “He was in the bathtub and he had a head wound, so it looked like he slipped and knocked himself out, then drowned. But there was a radio there dangling by its cord off the end of the counter. The police can’t figure out why he would get into the tub with a radio dangling like that. He couldn’t reach it from the tub, so he couldn’t have pulled it off from in the tub. So how did the radio end up like that?”

  Dr. Birnbaum looked interested, but then slowly began to shake his head. “I still don’t think I can help you.”

  “There’s more. Dr. Young had a list of names on his desk, all of them researching parapsychology. Your name was on that list, and so were at least six others. I know two of them are dead.”

  Now interested, Dr. Birnbaum turned back and rolled closer.

  “Who died?”

  “Dr. Leahey and Dr. Kinghorn.”

  “I knew Kinghorn. What happened to him?”

  “He drove his car out in front of a train. It killed him and his whole family.”

  Dr. Birnbaum’s good eye went wide, then his whole body seemed to relax. “Tell me about the other one.”

  “Dr. Leahey walked into the propeller of his own airplane.”

  “Yes, it all makes sense. Have there been more deaths?”

  Elizabeth felt ghoulish, but she believed Dr. Birnbaum knew something. “My assistant died too. He stepped in front of a car.”

  Now Dr. Birnbaum smiled broadly, until he saw Elizabeth staring at him.

  “It’s not what you think. I’m not happy over their deaths. I’m happy because I know I’m not crazy. You must tell my wife this!”

  “But what does it mean? Why so many bizarre accidents to people in your line of work?”

  Now solemn again, Dr. Birnbaum spoke deliberately. “Perhaps if you knew what happened to me. We had been testing subjects for telepathy. It was the usual mix of volunteers—most with no ability, but a couple of subjects who consistently performed above chance level. One day a man showe
d up and volunteered for the study. He was truly unusual. Most of the time he performed like our other talented people, but occasionally he demonstrated remarkable ability, far above anything we had seen. He was so promising we rented him a room and got him a small stipend so he would be available full time. But the more we tested him, the more suspicious I became. I began to think he was faking somehow.”

  “You were using controlled conditions?”

  “Of course. But some of these people are very clever, constantly coming up with new ways of cheating. I got suspicious when I noticed his ability got stronger every time I started thinking about cutting him loose. I decided he was playing with us, baiting us with his power.”

  “So, was he cheating?”

  “You tell me. His ability was inconsistent, but I couldn’t see how he was faking it. I watched every session and I tested with different graduate students, and every once in a while his scores zoomed—but I couldn’t see how he was manipulating the results. There were two peculiarities, however. He insisted on using the standard set of psi cards—they have simple patterns on them, a cross, a star, a circle, et cetera. He claimed that his ability was too limited for anything more complicated. He also wanted to be able to look at the person sending. He said he couldn’t read their minds unless he saw them.

  “Finally, I decided to try a slight variation. I sorted several stacks into piles of symbols, then went through the usual procedure with another deck, asking him what card I was concentrating on. When he answered I would take a matching card from one of the stacks and put it in a second pile. That way I could doublecheck his responses. The odd thing was when it was all over there were hardly any matches in that pile, yet I recorded a forty-percent match rate.”

  “I don’t understand. You recorded more matches than there actually were.”