by Brian Toal
“That’s where I want to go.”
“Not with this helicopter! Why don’t you just ship your stuff by truck?” Harry stole a look at the man walking beside him. Did this guy have any idea what helicopter time cost?
“You don’t want to fly to Detroit?”
“I’d love to fly to Detroit! It’d be good bucks for me and to tell you the truth I’ve never been to the States. But I can’t do it. I don’t have maps, I don’t have clearance and I don’t have enough fuel.”
“I phoned your company just before you arrived. I told them I wanted to take the equipment directly to Toronto. They agreed, with a refuelling stop along the way. But now I have decided that I wish to go directly to Detroit. Can you get maps and more fuel in Toronto?”
“I can get maps and additional fuel in Toronto, but this machine goes for sixteen hundred bucks an hour - you know that - do you?”
“Money is unimportant.”
“But it’s going to cost you sixteen thousand dollars - or more. You can ship four or five truckloads of stuff for that much if you send it by road.”
“I wish to go directly to Detroit.”
Harry shook his head. He loved to fly, and the ten or twelve-hour flight down to Detroit would be indeed good for his bank account. But ten or twelve hours with this guy as a passenger - he wasn’t sure he would enjoy that. And crossing the border into the US? He supposed it could be done. But not without permission. Not in a helicopter that could set down anywhere with a ton of drugs. “I’ll fly you to Toronto. Then I’ll call my company. I’ll see what we can do after that.”
Charlie nodded, then increased his pace, turning towards a rough wooden building to one side of the camp.
“What are you bringing out that is so important anyway?” Harry asked, quickening his pace to keep up.
“That you will see shortly.”
“Because whatever it is, you’re going to need customs clearance and probably fill out a pile of paperwork. I don’t know much about it. But if we do get permission to continue onto Detroit you can’t just fly stuff into the States without telling somebody.”
“I would prefer not to.” Charlie mumbled, stopping in front of the wooden building. Two tall doors, suspended from rollers running along a metal track covered the entrance, secured by a large lock between two equally oversized hasps in the middle. Harry stood back as Charlie fumbled in his pocket. He definitely did not like this man - and why would he feel it necessary to lock a building when he was the only person around for hundreds of miles?
Charlie turned the key in the lock and then with both hands pulled one of the doors aside.
Harry said nothing. His awe turning to fright as his eyes travelled down the golden sides of the long box. He didn’t know what it was. Didn’t want to know what it was. But it was probably too late for that. He was three hundred miles away from any assistance, standing beside a man who was probably insane who now had shown him a fifteen-hundred-pound object that looked to be made of solid gold.
He wasn’t surprised when he heard clack of a shotgun slide from behind him.
“You see...” Charlie began, as Harry felt the cold metal pressed against his back. “I need your help and I am determined to get it.”
FIVE - THREE
Tears were pouring down Chris' face as he ran down the small side street angling away from his school. With his breath catching in his throat, and a cramp in his side, he reached the far end of the block and turned right, continuing his dash anywhere that was away from his school and what he now realized he was capable of doing. He had known there was more changes occurring within him than he was consciously aware of. He had felt the pull towards knowledge and exploration. He had enjoyed the fascination of investigating new topics and searching out new information. He had welcomed the new ability of effortlessly remembering vast quantities of data and had accepted these new skills without question. But this - what was this new skill he was capable of - he had destroyed his own classroom! He had hurt his teacher. Not only hurt him, he had scalped him. Hurting, breaking, smashing - it had been all that he could think of - and everything he thought of, had actually occurred.
What had he become?
He turned yet another corner and entered the green area of a local park and slowed his pace to a walk, sucking air into his lungs. The pool where he and his friends had spent many pleasant summer afternoons was to his right, the chain link fence now locked. Two maintenance men stood within, inspecting the drying sides of the pool as the water drained from its blue painted depths. He swung by the fence, blinking his eyes as the tears dried on his face. What should he do? He had demolished his classroom. He had badly hurt his teacher and then he had run away.
If he phoned his mother - what was he going to tell her. "Mom, I wrecked my classroom and tore Mr. Clifford’s face up. But I didn't mean to do it - it just happened - can you come and get me? I'll try not to demolish your car or twist your head off."
He stopped, his body frozen. Had he torn his mother's head off of her body - just by thinking about it? He pictured his mother happily teaching an aerobics class, bouncing on her toes, her arms stretched above her, twenty other women behind her. Suddenly her head turns completely around and around and around - totally surprising the other dancers - but it keeps twisting around and around, the backbone and cartilage of her neck crackling and crunching, until her throat splits wide open, spraying blood and gore across the other women.
He clasped his hands over his head, impervious to the curious look of the pool maintenance men. Oh God! Had he killed his mother? He had to figure this thing out! He shut the image of his mother from his mind and walked over to a picnic table secluded behind a tree. What was this new ability he had? What were these slow-motion images? How did they affect what actually happened?
He sat on the top of the picnic table with his feet resting on the bench. The images, as far as he could tell, were pictures of things in the past, even if that past had been only seconds ago. Like Ben Able - he had visualized Ben pouring his spaghetti onto his head and it had happened. The same with Mr. Clifford's mustache, he had visualized the long hairs curving up and stuffing themselves into his nostrils and it had happened.
But what had he done at the very end? He had gone crazy, anything he had looked at had changed before his eyes - bad changes, destructive changes. The ceiling collapsing. The blackboard spraying broken shards throughout the classroom. The light fixtures exploding - anything he had pictured had destroyed itself. It had been terrible. He been unable to stop it or control his own thoughts. Everything had transpired so fast, like he had simply been an observer during a terrorist attack. Why? What was this new skill he had developed with no ability to control? Or could he have stopped it? First of all...how had he done it? He slowed his thoughts down, replaying exactly what had happened at his school.
Chris lay on his back across the picnic table, his feet still resting on the bench. He had been replaying the events of the previous hour, over and over again in his head. Now he knew why the plane didn't fly when he had commanded it to. He had to picture what he wanted to happen and then make the picture change in his mind. Everything that occurred, had happened exactly that way. First, he had to visualise a picture of how something actually looked. An intricate picture, absolutely accurate in every detail. He remembered the blackboard. But he also remembered with perfect clarity the three vertical joints that linked the panels and the two big chips in its surface by the far end. In fact, he could read many of the partially erased letters behind the notes Mr. Clifford had been writing about the Civil War. His knowledge of the surface of the blackboard was almost microscopically accurate. Then the picture had changed - not that he had wanted it to, but it had. First the blackboard had flexed slightly in the middle, pressure exerted from all four sides. Large cracks had sprouted across its surface. Then it exploded outwards and into the classroom. The pieces and shards directed down the centre of the room. Yes...he could picture every microsecond of its
destruction. Just like he had planned it - which somehow he had done.
Chris pushed himself upright, his feet still on the bench. So, he couldn't destroy or change anything unless he could memorize every detail. For instance, he couldn't hurt his mother at this moment, because he didn't know where she was - he couldn't picture her surroundings.
Above him a large branch joined the trunk of the Oak Tree shadowing his picnic table. A small brown squirrel, its bushy tail hanging over the edge of the limb peered down at him. Chattering at him for a second, it jumped from the branch to the main trunk, scurrying up the trunk towards the top of the tree. Chris lay back down across the table watching the squirrel scamper up the trunk above him, then he closed his eyes for a count of ten seconds.
"Fall off," he commanded, trying to change the last picture of the squirrel in his mind.
The vision of the squirrel on the tree-trunk remained stationary, unchanged. He kept his eyes closed for a further ten seconds, fearfully awaiting the thump of a small body crashing to the ground. Instead, he heard a scolding chatter high above him.
Chris smiled and relaxed, opening his eyes, searching for the chattering animal. High in the tree, directly above him, sat the squirrel, its tail flicking from side to side in agitation. He nodded to himself. Right! The squirrel had been moving when he had closed his eyes and it had continued to move up the trunk after he had begun to concentrate - no longer positioned where he had captured a picture of it. Therefore, because it wasn't where he pictured it in his mind, and he had not followed its movements, he couldn't affect it. Not only did he have to be able to picture every detail, the picture in his mind had to reflect the present.
Chris closed his eyes again, leaving the squirrel to its acrobatic interests. Okay...so that is how it worked, but so what! What was he going to do now? He couldn't go back to school - he would be in real trouble. He couldn't phone his mother or father. His mom’s schedule kept her on the move almost all day and his dad was on the road down south. He could phone his Aunt Beth, but she was probably at the hospital with Todd.
He needed to talk with someone - but who. Someone who would understand, or at least help him determine why this was happening.
FIVE - FOUR
Mrs. Hepburn had forgotten all about the young boy whom she had arranged to have expelled from her section of the library a week previously. Her husband, William, to whom she had recounted the entire story about the dangerous young ruffian in search of nudey pictures, had cautioned her to beware, in case the boy returned. But during the preceding week she had participated in other adventurous battles, mostly with that stupid, mousey man in charge of contacting library patrons with overdue books. Several volumes in her collection of Freud - the volumes on dream research - were grossly overdue.
Muriel was a determined believer in the value of dream research and her husband, William, was constantly subjected to an endless monologue of Muriel's night-time revelations. These particular volumes had been lent out in July, almost three months ago, and Muriel had need of their advice, regarding a particularly bothersome dream where she found herself bathing with a group of Hippopotami. Unfortunately, the volumes had been borrowed by one of the library's Board of Directors and the little man on the front desk did not want to remind the esteemed community volunteer of his delinquency.
Yes indeed, other more exciting events had occurred in Muriel's life since her confrontation with the young boy. In fact, her mood this particular day was much improved from the afternoon she had accosted him in her section. Just this morning she had received permission to order the twelve -volume revised set of selected works of the late Dr. Carl Jung, she so dearly wanted. Still, she was understandably surprised when a small dark-haired boy whom she vaguely recognized, stopped before her desk and addressed her by name.
"Mrs. Hepburn - can you help me?" The boy asked, his voice desperate.
"Pardon me?" She asked, her mind searching to recall the memories associated with his face.
"I need to see some medical books. But I don't want to see any nude pictures. I was wondering if...if you could pick the books out for me?"
"You are the boy I had removed, a week ago, aren't you?" She remembered him now. The mention of nude pictures making the connection for her.
He lowered his head. "Yes, but I wasn't really looking for dirty pictures...” He paused for a moment, then continued with more force. “But now I need to read some more books and this library is the only place I know where to find the texts I need."
Muriel Hepburn leaned back. The boy did look properly repentant. And he seemed to have a genuine desire to learn, unlike many of the Senior High School students who fooled around and procrastinated in their studies. She studied his attentive face, noticing his deep blue eyes, as he too studied her. The boy had made quite a scene, the last time he had been here. She certainly did not want another recurrence of those problems. "What is it you wish to study?" She asked, pulling a memo pad towards her.
"Experimental psychology mostly. I don't need to see any books with pictures of nude people in them."
"Experimental psychology!" Muriel felt a slight thrill. She had read all of the texts on that topic herself. Dream research was classified under experimental psychology. She understood why someone would be interested in such knowledge. It was on the forefront of American Psychological research. "We have a number of books on that topic," she replied kindly. “What particular interest do you have?" Then, remembering her last encounter with the boy. "This certainly was not the topic you were interested in studying before."
"I know, but at that time I wasn't interested in psychic phenomena."
"And now you are?"
"Yes. I need to know more about it. I want to know what scientists have discovered and how they control it."
"What exact topics are you interested in?"
"Telekinesis, para-psychology and probably the six books that address the phenomena of ESP on a more general basis." The boy answered promptly, his voice firm and decisive.
Muriel chose to ignore the reference to the library's limited collection of books on ESP. She herself had attempted to persuade the head librarian to authorise the purchase of additional volumes, but to no avail. "Well, you can't very well research all three of those topics, today. Which books would you like to look at now?"
Chris hesitated and then replied, his eyes slightly downcast, "Ahh...I’m a very fast reader and I don't know if I’ll have another chance to come here. I’d like to look at them all."
"Young man...," Muriel didn't know how many books there would be in these three categories, but there would probably be twenty or more, which she would have to replace onto the shelves, when he was finished with them. "You have chosen three topics of which there has been substantial and quite complex research. In my opinion, you will be unable to properly investigate any of these topics in one day."
"Please, Mrs. Hepburn - I already know where the books are that I want. There are only twenty-four of them and I’ll put them back when I’m finished."
"Twenty-four? How do you know that there are twenty-four of those books and only six books on ESP? What do you do, count the entries when you look up topics?" She was surprised though, she had guessed approximately twenty such volumes existed in her section of the library. "And how do you know my name?"
"I can remember things. I can remember the lists of books available - there were twenty-four of them and I remember your name because the security guard, Harold Averly, called you by name last time I was here."
"Really?" Muriel tried to recall the exact course of events during their previous encounter. "When you were leaving last time, you yelled out. And much too loud, by the way..."
"Sorry." He again looked down at his shoes. "I was a bit upset at being thrown out."
Muriel continued, "...when you were leaving, you recited a paragraph, apparently from one of the books you were reading. Was it actually from one of the books or was it something you made up?”
; Chris reached forward and picked up a text from her desk on immunological disorders, Muriel had been cataloguing. He opened the book and glanced at the two exposed pages, handing it back to Muriel, open to the pages he had just examined. "Ask me anything on those two pages."
Muriel felt an excited shiver course through her body. She had heard of this ability before, sometimes called photographic memory or technically, Eidetic Memory, but she had never met anyone who actually had this skill. "Fourth paragraph, page 306, tell me what is written."
Without pause Chris began, "Interleukin - 2 was discovered in 1976 by Doctor Robert Gallo of the National Cancer Research Institute. Although considerable research has been completed on Interleukin - 1, which is produced by macrophages that have come in contact with antigens and microbes. Doctor Gallo's research indicates that Interleukin - 2's effect on T cells and other receptors is complimented by..."
"Goodness." Mrs. Hepburn interrupted, "you are able to remember things." She leaned forward, her past anger at this little boy now forgotten. "How long have you been able to do this?"
"Only a couple weeks - I had an accident."
"Oh dear! That is what happened to your hand, although I see you’ve got your bandage off now. Were you hurt badly?"
"No, not too bad, but ever since then I can do things I’ve never been able to do before. Now I can do lots of other things and I have to find out about them too."
"Like having total memory recall?" Mrs. Hepburn replied happily, ignoring his last sentence. In Muriel's opinion, having Eidetic Memory would be all of the things anyone could possibly be interested in. "Well, I apologise for having you removed from the library, the other day. I thought you were flipping through those medical books for...for a devious, improper purpose."
"That's alright." Chris responded. "I learned almost everything I wanted to learn anyway."
"Well..." Muriel allowed herself to smile at the boy standing in front of her desk, "if you know what books you need, then feel free to read as many as you want. When you are finished with them, bring them to me and I will re-shelve them." He might have Eidetic Memory, but Muriel still didn't trust him to remember the proper placement of the books he removed. "I will be right here if you need me."