The black BMW was humming quietly in front of my house. Reid was waiting. He had on his baseball hat and sunglasses. It reminded me to grab mine on the way out. I threaded my ponytail through my baseball hat. It kept my hair from blowing all over the place.
“Can I drive?” I asked as I presumptuously walked to the driver’s side. “I hate giving directions.”
His eyes looked to my house as he got out and held the door for me. “Be my guest,” Reid said.
I climbed in and buckled up. In short order, I had spun the car onto the road. “I hope you don’t have plans today,” I said with a grin as we turned onto the parkway. I gave the car plenty of gas and quickly shifted through the gears. I got into the left lane and took the highway exit.
“No wonder your dad never taught you to drive. You don’t seem to know how to stop! Where exactly are we going?” Reid asked as I exited the parkway onto 95 South. The morning rush hour traffic was heading in the opposite direction.
“I’m taking you hostage for the morning. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Actually, no. This day is getting better already. And I don’t think you can call me a hostage if the hostage in question wants to be there,” Reid said with a smirk.
In no time, we were through Fredericksburg and rolling over the hills toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. The winding roads cut through dense forests and wide fields of fenced farmland. The Virginia countryside was beautiful.
Reid relaxed in the passenger seat. “This must be some doctor,” he joked as we drove through rural Orange, Virginia. He certainly was, I thought to myself. I could feel us climbing in sea level. I hated to be inland and over 400 feet. I could no longer sense the tides from that distance. It made it slightly harder for me to keep track of time and was another reason I wished Dr. West lived closer to Washington.
I knew all the reasons he was tied to Charlottesville. Dr. West was the chairman of The Division of Perceptual Studies at the University of Virginia, and he wanted to keep an eye on his former Clarion laboratory at the National Strategic Intelligence Center.
NSIC was located on the outskirts of Charlottesville. We passed by it as we approached the college town, and the thought of being back in the facility made my skin crawl. After my brief time there, I had a new sympathy for lab rats.
Dr. West had worked for the NSIC until he realized the intentions for his research had changed. Instead of unlocking the potential of the human mind, Clarion’s objective became to hone its ESP agents, or “remote viewers,” into an intelligence war arsenal. Clarion planned to use their remote viewers to end the Cold War to bring about world domination.
Dr. West knew he had to remove himself from Clarion. First, he altered his program statistics and erased as much of the Clarion Program files as possible. Then he brokered a deal that the other young agents like me would not be called to active duty while our brains were developing. I didn’t know how many more of us there were and I did not ask. He told me he came up with the arbitrary age of twenty-one in order to buy me time. He was working to dissolve the Clarion Program but if that did not happen we could find a way out of it. He did not need to add that the government had excellent insurance for my temporary freedom. My dad was the director of Clarion.
We pulled into the nondescript medical research building parking lot and I turned down into the garage. Reid combed his eyes over me for a second. He was waiting for more details when I turned the car off.
“What? I told you I needed a ride. I admit I didn’t say where my neurologist’s appointment was but you told me to try and get those head rushes stopped. Come on, it shouldn’t take long,” I said, grabbing my purse. I walked up to the thick steel door and looked into the security camera. I heard the loud click unlocking it and Reid’s footsteps behind me. I pulled the door open and we walked into a typical doctor’s office waiting room decorated in shades of brown. A woman was waiting at the end of a row of chairs reading a Newsweek. She didn’t look up.
“Whitney! Great to see you again,” the receptionist greeted me from behind the glass as I signed in. “I’m sure you need to get back on the road soon, so Dr. West said for you to come on back.”
“Sounds good. You’ll be OK for a few minutes, Reid?” I asked.
Reid was trying to get comfortable in the small waiting room chair. He looked too big for it. He held up a Sports Illustrated magazine. “You’ll know where to find me.”
I opened the door that led to the examination rooms. The door automatically clicked behind me. Dr. West did not take chances. There was a lot more security on this office than met the eye.
Dr. West came out of his office and gave me a hug. It was nice to see him again. A rare feeling of understanding went through me as I let my guard down and hugged him back. The familiar feeling of relief flooded through me.
“Hey, Wink. Come on back. Time’s a wasting,” Dr. West said as he affectionately patted my back. Dr. West looked the same. He had a full beard and an endearing crooked smile. His blue eyes shone with strength. His white coat pockets were full of small medical reference books, pens, and a stethoscope.
I went into his office. His desk was a cluttered mess of organized piles topped with assorted paperweights. The crystal Washington Monument paperweight looked like it was fighting a losing battle against a leaning stack of medical journals.
My attention was diverted by the two Roy kinetic wood sculptures that were in motion on his wall. They were in perfect sync as they danced. Dr. West said his art collection was the inspiration for developing his body scanners because internal engineering was as important as external appearances.
We had already walked through several of his medical scanners without realizing it. The entire waiting room was wired with them. Accordingly, he turned on several of the computer screens to start processing the data and pulled the file with my name on it off his desk.
“Whitney Forbes. Let’s see what we have here. Age—almost sixteen. Wow, time flies. I can’t believe it’s been almost ten years since I met you,” he said. He ticked through the medical history in rapid medical jargon that was listed in my file and made little sense to me. “Neurocardiogenic syncope due to unusually low blood pressure—only successfully controlled by Scopolamine. Hyper central nervous system and highly receptive psi ratings for ESP, precognition, clairvoyance, remote viewing, and plant toxin resistant.,” Dr. West read aloud. “Sound about right?”
“I’m not sure exactly what you said, but the person you are reading about sounds like a pretty awesome girl to me,” I joked. I was only half listening. I was looking at the computer screens. Reid was on all of them. He was so attractive I could hardly turn away when Dr. West started talking again.
“I wanted you to know what information is in my office file since it is everything Clarion had on you anyway. I don’t think they would be able to put together the rest of it but you never know if my office will be searched. I’ve got to keep contingency plans in mind. If anything ever happens, I will expect you to think through it and to use your intuition for the answers.”
“You mean when Clarion starts to wonder why I haven’t reported for work?” I kidded. “They might be kinda annoyed when they figure out I broke their deal. Sadly, they will say I am the one who lacks integrity for not meeting the terms of the agreement and never consider my ethical objections to their mission.”
“I haven’t given up hope. You shouldn’t either. We can always change the future as long as we learn from the past. If all Clarion wants is for you to be able to find and report on nuclear and military installations, it might not be a bad idea for you to be on the inside. Your dad and I thought you should be trained in the field in case he is not in command when you are brought into the CIA. As it stands now, you are slated to be in a cozy government office reporting on weapons of mass destruction as a remote viewer. You and I are the only ones who know the full potential of a different outcome if Clarion continues on its current course. Speaking of your dad, how are the magnetic walls working?” Dr
. West asked, referring to the walls covered in magnetic paint that separated my wing of the house from everyone else.
The magnetic force helped my mind to rest at night; it muffled my brain the same way being surrounded by water did. Dr. West used magnetic fields himself to find a respite and that was how he knew to suggest it to my dad.
“It continues to be a good block. I don’t pick up much from him anymore. I seem to be having a hard time dodging Reid, though. I had another dream last night. I would take the searing pain of a waking vision over waking up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep,” I said, frustrated. I rubbed my temples.
Even thinking about my waking visions made me revert to my reflex of ineffectively rubbing my head as I tried to make it stop. The only regular sensation I had that compared to it was what my friends called a “brain freeze” from eating ice cream too fast.
“Maybe you should revisit Mr. Parks soon. Martial arts is not only for defense. It’s also to keep your mind disciplined. Remember how it was before you learned to turn empathy on and off?” Dr. West lightly admonished.
“Yes, how could I forget? I was exhausted. Not to mention terrified.” I sighed. That was why my dad had taken me to the lab at NSIC. He had recognized my nightmares were real and classified information. He was trying to find someone who could help me because I refused to sleep and kept collapsing from syncope. I was not functioning.
All I remembered was that the government conducted a lot of tests until Dr. West walked in and pulled the electrodes off me. I knew he had extrasensory perception like me. He promised to protect me and to teach me everything I needed to know to survive in my environment. The first thing I learned was to turn off my empathy. It drained me the most.
“Let’s see what information I have on Reid.” He looked at the screen. Reid was flipping through his magazine in the waiting room. Dr. West focused the camera on Reid’s face and the computer began running numbers and conducting measurements. Reid’s face looked like architecture plans were placed on top of it as right angles and dimensional calculations appeared over his image.
“Tell me again what is going on—aside from your theory about kryptonite under the skin?” Dr. West asked as he pressed some buttons. Printers started to spit out sheets full of information.
“Right. I might have gotten carried away on the phone. I guess what unsettles me the most is that he has information I have not told him. Is it possible he could feel a scar on my knee and know how I got it?” I saw Dr. West raise his eyebrows over his glasses. That got his attention.
“Yes. It is totally possible. I have a few patients with that capability. It is usually an indicator of a powerful mind. You said your syncope is also acting up again?”
“I haven’t had so many head rushes since before I met you. And, at times, he totally exhausts me.” I paced around the room. “You are right, I DO need to see Mr. Parks more often. I need to work on my mental boundaries. Reid is making me a head case.”
Dr. West sat on the edge of his desk. “Hmmm. This does sound very serious.” He pulled some sheets of paper off a printer. “Let’s see what the chair sensors are reporting. It seems Reid has a current resting heart rate of thirty-two beats per minute. Now, that IS unusual. The average person has a resting heart rate anywhere from sixty to one hundred beats per minute.
“The doorframe scanner shows he has a V02 max of 83.8 milliliters per kilogram per minute, and a lactate threshold heart rate of 178 beats per minute. He also appears to have an oversized heart and exceedingly high iron toxicity in his blood. I would have to guess he must have hemochromatosis. It is sometimes hereditary but not too common. I’ve only known one other woman with psychic abilities who has it.”
“English, please?” I interrupted. I knew he was talking about Reid having iron in his blood but had no idea what he meant about the rest. He spoke with so much medical jargon it made my eyes glaze over.
“Sorry. Hemochromatosis is a genetic disorder. Probably not a big deal given that his health is so extraordinary. He probably has some magnetic tendencies but Reid may be the one whose weakness is kryptonite—he has Superman health. I’m talking about an incredible endurance athlete. I would say that very few people in the world have physiological statistics like this,” Dr. West explained.
“I knew it. There had to be some explanation,” I said with relief. I sat down for the first time. I could not repress a grin. “So he’s not human?”
"Ha. Ha. No, he’s all too human. Just one in amazing physical shape. Elite athletes train years and years to try and attain this level of fitness and endurance and most never reach it," he added. Dr. West reviewed a screen of Reid. “He’s a good-looking kid.”
“It’s an unfair advantage and he is not against exploiting it,” I grumbled. Dr. West laughed.
“I wonder if he would say the same about you. Besides, your instincts of whom to trust and with what information have always been sound. After all, you identified me in less than two seconds when you were six. But we are much more alike in our precognitive strengths. We are on the same brain wavelength, you could say.”
“I’m not feeling so savvy with him. More like a blender of emotions dogged by concern he is not telling me everything. The only real sensation I can pinpoint is impending hardship, and the rest of it I don’t have the vocabulary to put into words.”
Dr. West pulled a sheet off another printer. “Human relationships are quite complicated. Hopefully, they are always evolving. Everyone has the potential to become more than they are but very few are up for the work involved. You are not one to be paralyzed by fear or complacency. Don’t fear struggle, fear the lack of it.”
“OK. Point taken. You are right, I am not a coward.”
“No, you certainly are not. You have a brave track record. Unfortunately, you won’t always be able to figure everyone out. In this relationship, for once, you may not have all the advantages. Reid’s brain scan confirms he is predisposed to ESP tendencies. It seems likely he could be an empath. That would explain why you are having so much trouble. He has a lot of activity in his frontal lobe while your brain scan shows abnormalities in the hypothalamus…”
“Right. My hypothalamus…that is why you think I don’t need to wear a watch, right?”
“Precisely. The hypothalamus coordinates many behavioral circadian rhythms and responds to all sorts of different signals. Some of these signals are generated internally, like your enhanced precognition, and some are external, like day length. The hypothalamus is the traffic director of your central nervous system, and your nervous system is extremely sensitive. It gives your view of the world that extra dimension that leaves skeptics ready to institutionalize you and believers ready to harness your power for their own means.” Dr. West shook his head at the predicament.
“And leaves you?” I asked with a smile.
“And leaves me to be a wise and trusted counselor to Whitney Forbes and for those in the next generation. I’m doing my best to find ways we can use our extrasensory skills to propel mankind instead of destroy it. That’s why I would rather work with a few choice patients and concentrate on research.”
“But I am your favorite patient, right?” I joked. I was in a good mood since this was one of the few places I could actually say whatever was on my mind. There was no point hiding my thoughts from him.
“You, dear girl, are definitely a standout. You are memorable in many ways and you are definitely the one patient who prods me with the most questions. That hasn’t changed since we first met.” Dr. West gave me a wistful glance. I saw the worry in his eyes. I didn’t want to figure out what caused that look of concern and sadness. I cleared my throat. I didn’t like it when I picked up on his thoughts. It felt like an invasion of his privacy.
“Back to Reid. A little help on what an empath is would be useful,” I deflected.
“Empathy is inherent in our DNA and it is genetic. Empaths, however, are extrasensory like you and I. They can scan another’s psyche for t
houghts and feelings of past, present, and future life occurrences. A true empath knows how to discard surface feelings for the true and accurate ones. Their instinct tells them immediately when someone is lying and what they are really feeling. Empathy is not held by time or space so they can feel the emotions of people and things at a distance. Sometimes only in objects but sometimes beyond physical touch. They are experts in body language and eye movement. They are keenly observant and have a more complete communication package.” Dr. West stopped talking and cocked his head quizzically. “What’s the matter? Am I describing Reid a little too accurately?”
I nodded. I thought about how often his eyes met mine and how they seemed to be extracting more information about me than I wanted to give. I thought about him flipping up my sunglasses when he couldn’t see my eyes and how he was always trying to be in physical contact with me. I thought about him feeling the barbed wire scar on my knee and realized he could know a lot about me just from that touch.
“How does it work? Is there a way around it?” I asked feebly. My mind was recounting all the times he seemed to choreograph running into me. Every time he touched me, he got more information about how I felt.
“You see, everything has an energetic vibration or frequency. An empath can sense and understand these vibrations. Even words hold an energetic pattern that originates from the speaker in the way they express language, and empaths understand those patterns. This probably helps Reid learn other languages quite easily—he already understands the meaning behind the vocabulary. Given Reid’s high brain wave frequency and the area of its placement, I would be comfortable deducing he is definitely extrasensory. If he is an empath with touch sensitivity, he could glean all kinds of information that could be quite useful.”
“Such as?” I wondered aloud. I had never heard of this before outside of corny carnival tents. An iconic image of a television night show host holding a card to an overstuffed hat that read Fortune Teller came into my mind. What was that guy’s name? Johnny Carson, that’s right.
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