by Elana Brooks
“Or maybe they are the skeptics, and hate anyone who disturbs their notion of how the world works.” She patted Rosalia’s shoulder and went back to her herbs. “Toss it in the trash. I’m not interested.”
Rosalia pressed her lips together and nodded. She dropped the envelope into the trash can, but folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. She wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. What was the worst that could happen?
Rosalia pushed open the glass and steel door of the imposing modern-style building. She’d never had any classes here. The few electives she could squeeze into her schedule between her business major and Spanish language minor she’d devoted to women’s studies and international relations. The one psychology class she’d taken had been held in a comfortably shabby older building, not this sterile block of offices and research facilities.
The e-mail confirming her appointment had indicated that Dr. Miller’s office was on the fifth floor. Rosalia walked to the bank of elevators, her heels clicking on the slick tile floor, pressed the button, and waited until the doors slid open. The ride up was swift and silent. She emerged into a deserted corridor, all pristine white walls and pale tan wood doors and cool fluorescent lights. A bulletin board held a few neatly tacked notices. Other than that small sign of life, it looked as if no human had been here since the building was constructed.
She clicked down the corridor and turned a corner to another which looked the same. Numbers on small metal plates next to each door counted down until she reached 524. The door was identical in every other respect to all the other doors she’d passed.
Rosalia sucked in her breath and steeled her courage. In less than a year she would be interviewing with major international corporations, hoping to be hired for a management position. This was a chance to practice hiding her trepidation and projecting a cool, confident image. She took control of her thoughts and forced her mind to broadcast matching emotions, just in case her speculation had been right and someone was listening.
She raised her hand and knocked on the door. A voice from within called, “Come in.”
She turned the handle and pushed the door open. The office was spacious compared to other professors’ offices she’d visited. Rosalia tried to make her voice calm and self-assured. “Excuse me, I’m here to see Dr. Miller. My name is Rosalia Escamillo. I have an appointment.”
A large, broad-shouldered man looked up from behind a sleek modern desk with papers scattered across its surface. “Have a seat, Ms. Escamillo. I’m Steve Miller.” He rose to shake her hand across the desk, then sank back into his large leather swivel chair.
She perched on one of the curvy metal chairs facing the desk. Clearly style had been more important to its designer than comfort. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” She tucked her purse beside her feet and folded her hands in her lap.
He leaned back in his chair and propped an ankle on his opposite knee, draping one arm across the arm of the chair and gesturing expansively with the other. “Thank you for responding to our invitation.” His eyes traveled over her. “I must say, you’re considerably younger than most of the participants in our study.”
Rosalia bristled at the frank admiration in his gaze. Deliberately, she studied him in return. Sun-streaked blonde hair suggested he spent a lot of time at the beach. Sculpted muscles suggested an equal amount of time at the gym. When did he have time for academics? “And you’re considerably younger than most of my professors.”
He smiled broadly. “Touché. My PhD is hot off the press as of last spring. I was very pleased to be offered a position at my alma mater. They were eager for me to follow up the preliminary research I did for my thesis.”
Maybe her first impression had been wrong. Rosalia opened her mind to him, trying to pick up the subconscious mental emanations most people constantly broadcast, but she got nothing. He must be one of those private types who instinctively kept their minds guarded. “Research on psychic abilities.”
“That’s right.” He abruptly uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the edge of his desk. “I can’t tell you much about the study yet, because if you know what we’re looking for it might change your responses and bias the results. But I can tell you this. My research depends on the cooperation of people like you. I know it’s very difficult to declare publicly that you believe you have paranormal talents. Thank you for taking that risk. I promise that your participation in this study will remain completely confidential unless you choose to reveal it.”
The tension in Rosalia’s stomach relaxed. She gave him a wide smile. “You’re welcome.”
Dr. Miller blinked. After a moment he shook his head and rummaged on his desk. “Here’s the informed consent form I’ll need you to sign. After that, we can get started.” He passed her a sheet of paper.
Rosalia read it carefully. It described the study’s procedures—written tests—and the risks involved—none anticipated. Nothing to raise any red flags. She accepted a pen, signed the form, and gave it back to him.
He opened a drawer and tucked the signed form into a file, then extracted a sheaf of several papers stapled together and passed them over. “Because we want to accommodate as wide a range of subjects as possible, we’ve prepared a number of protocols. Read through the descriptions and choose one you think will allow you to perform to the best of your abilities. Take your time; there’s no rush.” He turned to a computer and began swiftly typing.
Rosalia settled back in her seat and started reading. Most of the procedures described seemed as if they’d pose little challenge to her abilities. Eventually she picked the first and simplest. She and a researcher would sit in adjacent rooms, unable to see or hear each other. Each of them would have a timer that would beep at regular intervals. At each beep, the researcher would look at a simple drawing and concentrate on the image, trying to project it. She would try to receive the images and copy them onto her response sheet.
Rosalia had to work hard not to smile. Intentionally projected thoughts were easy to pick up from almost anyone. She imagined Dr. Miller flipping through page after page of perfectly reproduced drawings, his eyes getting bigger and his breath quicker. Would he be excited or horrified? She hoped for the former, but the later might be even more satisfying. She’d love to see his arrogant confidence shaken.
She handed him the packet. “This one.”
Dr. Miller glanced at it. “Very good.” He rose. “Come with me and I’ll get you set up.”
He led her to a small room with a single student desk in the center. “Have a seat.” He tapped a square plastic device identical to ones Rosalia had used at many restaurants. “This will flash and buzz three times in quick succession when my assistant is ready to begin. After that it will go off every two minutes. Record whatever you perceive in these squares.” He indicated a stapled sheaf of papers, each one divided into six numbered spaces. “When the test is over, wait here until I come to get you.”
“All right.” Rosalia picked up the provided pencil.
“Please don’t put your name or other identifying information anywhere on your response sheets. Your responses will be evaluated by someone who doesn’t know whether they were given by one of our psychic subjects or by one of our controls who don’t claim any psychic abilities.” He removed a sticker printed with a many-digit number from a notebook and affixed it to the top of the first sheet. “You’re all set. We’ll get this going as quickly as possible.” He smiled at her, then strode through the door and closed it behind him.
The wait for the initial buzz was interminable and boring, just like waiting to be called to a table at Antonio’s. Rosalia opened her mind and listened for stray thoughts. Nothing yet. Not surprising; undoubtedly the assistant would keep his or her thoughts under tight control until time for the actual experiment.
As she stared at the buzzer and waited, her mind drifted back to Dr. Miller. He must be only about five years older than she was, so around twenty-six. He wasn’t the type
she was usually attracted to—machismo of any variety was a big turnoff, and he was dripping with the privileged white male version of it. He’d probably never had to work or struggle for anything in his life. He’d flash that bright, orthodontia-perfect smile, and people would scramble to throw open doors and roll out red carpets.
And yet, there’d been genuine warmth in his eyes when he’d thanked her for taking the risk of coming. That had been a perceptive comment. She was risking a lot. If her friends or professors or potential employers ever learned she’d put herself forward as someone who could read minds and foretell the future, she could face all kinds of repercussions. None of them good. He’d promised confidentiality, and the sincerity in his voice had told her she could trust him to deliver.
She stared into the distance, remembering those eyes. Golden-brown, not blue like she’d expect from his fair skin and blond hair. They crinkled in the corners when he smiled. He’d smiled readily, even when she’d commented on his youth. He’d liked that she’d returned his teasing in kind. He’d liked what he’d seen when his eyes had traveled over her body.
She liked his body, too. He looked strong and solid, and he moved with the easy grace of muscles trained to obey his every command perfectly. His fingers were long and nimble, the nails clean and neat. He wore a UCLA ring on his right hand, nothing on his left—
The black plastic square buzzed and flashed colored lights. Rosalia jumped. It fell silent, then went off again. And again. She snatched the pencil and poised it over the first space. A long moment later, the square gave a single buzz and flash. Rosalia threw her mind open, searching the surrounding rooms for the promised image.
Nothing was there.
She blinked, then scanned again. Blank emptiness. She reached farther afield, to the limits of her range. She might as well be the only person in the building. Nowhere could she pick up even a slight trace of thought, not even outside on the sidewalks where dozens of students moved around the campus.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so alone. She was often overwhelmed by the mental noise that constantly surrounded her in the city. At least a few times a year she escaped to a state or national park. But even hiking in the wilds of the Santa Monica Mountains she hadn’t been so completely cut off from human contact. It gave her the horrible feeling that everyone on Earth had died in the same instant, leaving her the only survivor.
The square buzzed and flashed again. The first space on her response sheet remained stubbornly blank. She shook her head hard and moved her pencil to hover over the second. Surely this time she’d get something.
The mental silence and blankness continued. Mierda, she was failing this test spectacularly. Far from proving her psychic abilities were real, she was giving Dr. Miller dramatic evidence they were fake. He’d think she was the worst sort of liar. Those warm, welcoming eyes would go cold with disgust. Or worse, pity. Maybe he’d compassionately suggest she visit a psychiatrist for medication to control her delusions.
She made one final attempt, searching with every bit of strength she possessed for the nonexistent projected image. Nothing.
This had to be some sort of trick. The test was whether or not she would realize she’d been lied to. The assistant must be fictional. No one was sitting next door, looking at pictures and thinking about them. If her abilities were phony, she would sit here faithfully jotting down sketches. If they were real, she’d call Dr. Miller on his bluff.
Maybe he was timing her to see how long it took her to reach that conclusion. She jumped from her chair, hurried to the door, and yanked it open. “There’s no one—“
The hallway was empty.
Rosalia stormed down to Room 524 and burst in. “Damn it, what sort of idiot do you think I am? I don’t know what your game is, but I can tell you I don’t appreciate being lied to and manipulated.”
Dr. Miller looked up from his computer, scowling. His voice was icy. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there’s a problem! You know very well I can’t read someone’s mind if no one’s there!”
He regarded her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he rose and came toward her. Still silent, he gestured for her to precede him into the hall. She followed him down the corridor toward the experiment room, her stomach growing more hollow with every step.
He passed the open door of the room where she’d been stationed and stopped at the next one. He beckoned her close. When she was near enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, he opened the door.
A young man looked up from the paper he’d been staring at. “Dr. Miller? What’s the matter?”
“Brendan, show Ms. Escamillo what you’ve got there.”
“But that will invalidate the trial,” he protested.
“It’s already been compromised. Go ahead, show her.”
Brendan picked up a spiral bound flip book and displayed it to Rosalia. On the page he’d been studying was a simple black outline of a six-petaled flower. It looked like something from a child’s coloring book. At Dr. Miller’s nod, he flipped over several more pages. A house, a dog, a sun, a star. Just the sort of images she’d expected to see.
Dr. Miller’s voice was emotionless and implacable. “How long have you been sitting here?”
Brendan frowned. “Since you told me I was needed for a trial and gave me the buzzer. About five minutes. You know that.”
“And you’ve been looking at the pictures and thinking about them since the first signal?”
“Of course. Just like always.”
“Thank you. You can go back to your office now.”
“All right.” Brendan set the flip book on the desk and walked toward the door. Rosalia stepped back to let him out. He stuck out his hand. “Sorry it didn’t work out. I really was trying to think as hard and clearly as I could.”
Rosalia shook his hand numbly. He grinned at her and headed down the hall.
Dr. Miller gestured curtly toward the elevator. “Because you didn’t complete the study, you won’t receive the offered payment.” His voice burned with tightly restrained anger. “I’m sorry if my experimental design didn’t meet your approval. But really, would it have killed you to finish the full session? How am I supposed to produce publishable research if I can’t get any data?”
“You mean other psychics have quit early, too?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Vindication rushed through Rosalia. “You’re blocking us somehow. Maybe the room is shielded with some material that doesn’t let thoughts through. Or maybe it’s just that Brendan or whoever else assists you is naturally blocked. Although it wasn’t just him; I couldn’t hear anyone. I still can’t. Maybe it’s this whole building.”
“Or maybe your so-called abilities are bullshit. Just like every other charlatan that’s walked into my office hoping for an easy hundred.” His eyes blazed and his voice dripped with scorn. “Now get the hell out of here and go bamboozle some other sucker.”
“Not until you tell me how you did it.” Rosalia poured all the fury and loathing she could muster on him. She’d break through whatever shields he’d erected and rip his mind until he begged for mercy. Let him call her a charlatan then! “You’re deliberately sabotaging your own research. Why? If you prove psychic powers are real, you’ll be famous. If you show they’re not, you’re just another nobody. What frightens you so much you’d pass up the chance to go down in history just to convince yourself mental powers don’t exist?”
He flushed deep red and grabbed her upper arm. “That’s enough. I’m calling security.” With his free hand he dug in his pocket and produced a phone. He thumbed it on and stabbed at it. “Campus police? There’s an intruder on the fifth floor of the Simmons building. I’ve asked her to leave and she refuses.” He was silent a moment, eyeing Rosalia. “I don’t see any weapons, but she’s being very belligerent and talking a lot of nonsense. I think she might be mentally ill.”
Outraged, Rosalia grabbed fo
r the phone. He raised it out of her reach. “I am not mentally ill!” she shrieked. “I am perfectly calm and rational! If he would only stop blocking me, I’d show you all exactly how real my powers are!”
She threw herself at Dr. Miller, clawing at his arm. He stood still, hand with phone raised high over his head. Rosalia abandoned all caution and snatched for the phone telekinetically. But of course that power was blocked as well. She couldn’t even make it twitch in his grasp.
“Give it to me!” She wasn’t going to give up until she had the phone and could convince the campus police that she was no threat.
That the screaming, wild-eyed woman babbling about psychic powers and attacking a professor was no threat…
She subsided, suddenly acutely aware that her body was pressed hard against his as she strained upward after the phone. She stared at him. His eyes met hers, dark and deep, mirroring the desire that had leapt to life in her body.
Before she could back away, he released his grip on her arm, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her even tighter against him. His face was inches from hers as he lowered the phone to his mouth. “Actually, I think I’ve got things under control now. Ms. Escamillo, would you like to speak with them?” He turned the phone so it would pick up her voice.
She should demand help. She should insist that he release her immediately, tell the campus police that he was assaulting her, threaten to press charges. But then he would probably let her go, and she’d lose the contact that made every nerve in her body blaze with pleasure and beg for more.
She took a deep breath and spoke into the phone. “I’m sorry, officer. I lost my temper and raised my voice for a moment. But I’m calm now. Dr. Miller and I—” She swallowed. “—have reached an understanding.”