Principe had such ability, though he hadn't formally studied psychology. In fact, he hadn't even gone to college. He'd entered the military right after high school, quickly claiming his birthright by becoming a munitions specialist. Principe's family (he no longer used the family's actual surname, not even in thought), who had migrated to the States from Italy after the Great War, thought highly of his great-grandfather who'd been an expert in blowing up bridges during the war. The skill and appreciation for blowing up things had come to Principe naturally, but so had his ability to read people, to see through the steeliest of facades. One of the things that he'd quickly learned shortly after taking the security officer's job at the UBC Center was that the twenty-four hour a day hustle and bustle was often a mirage.
It wasn't that the bank's employees were being intentionally deceitful. It was that they were people. Humans weren't the robots that they tried so hard purporting themselves to be. Humans eventually get tired. Sure, there were some with unbelievable stamina and who were able to last much longer than others. But all get tired eventually and need rest. Most humans are conditioned to getting that rest in the morning hours, with 3 a.m. being the optimal time. Likewise, most people, particularly those with 8 to 5 jobs, felt midday was the perfect time to refuel with food. As a result, according to Principe's unscientifically proven theory, most brains literally wanted to eat and sleep at the same traditionally appointed times, despite what their bodies were required to do or were doing.
Principe didn't need education to know this. One of his unique gifts was detecting minor changes in people's states of being. And despite the hard, determined looks of people at three in the morning and their speed-rushing of meals at lunchtime, Principe could detect a brain's rebellion as it unconsciously kicked in to what he referred to as its calming mechanism. At three in the morning, people worked at slower paces than they would have even five hours later. It was as if they were school children placed in the hands of the proverbial substitute teacher for the day. Whenever he caught the gaze of a fellow third-shifter, it was as if they shared a secret.
Reaching the end of a long corridor, he paused and turned around. He was on the fiftieth floor. His eyes roved, looking for anything different or out of place. Of course he found nothing. Everything was as it should be. The sameness he'd expected. UCB Center's security was top notch. There were video monitors, seen and unseen, placed strategically throughout the hulking nine hundred feet high, seventy floor building—the tallest in the state of North Carolina. Entrance into the hallways of the building required a magnetic ID pass card. If an unauthorized person or persons had succeeded in getting onto the floors, either the boots on the ground or the eyes in the control room would quickly ferret him or them out. There'd literally be nowhere to hide. In addition, like Principe, all the security officers had either a military or law enforcement background, with expert training in the use of all types of weaponry and hand-to-hand combat techniques. Principle himself had a particular expertise in the use of explosives. It would be virtually impossible for any unauthorized person or persons to penetrate the building or to avoid capture if they were somehow able to enter. The bank had spared no expense in securing its protection from enemies foreign and domestic, seen and unseen.
Except for one thing, Principe thought ominously as he exited the corridor onto a stairwell. United Corporate Bank Center had unknowingly entrusted a wolf to help watch over its sheep. He descended the steps, the sound of his footfalls echoing off the walls. When he reached the lower landing, he backed underneath the ascending stairs and leaned against the wall out of the monitoring camera's view. He brought his hands up to his head, rubbing his temples. Lately, his visions had become too acute and the accompanying headaches were almost unbearable, making him wonder if he'd make it to Thursday, October 29. But he knew he had to somehow or another. That date marked the last of the demon-moons. There wouldn't be another one of its magnitude for at least a quarter of a century.
The day would also mark the eightieth anniversary of the stock market crash of '29, a fortuitous coincidence. Principe was not into celebrating such ominous dates in American history. But he knew that after the execution of the largest home-brewed terrorist act since the Oklahoma City federal building bombing, investigators would look for some significance for that particular date. Even amateur sleuths would claim that it was no coincidence that a terrorist act against a bank would occur on that date. And of course, in addition to the unleashing of horrific forces, the likes of which the world had yet to witness, there would be the killing of a would-be president who was scheduled for a visit to the building on that very day. The death of the highly popular freshman senator would be an added bonus—a change in an already determined history. Oh, it was simply too perfect. He could suffer through the monstrous headaches a while longer.
After the fated events of that day, his matriculation into malevolence would be complete and the headaches would be over. There was comfort in that realization. His calling was a blessing. Sometimes he wished he also had the capability of fast-forwarding to that special day. It was virtually impossible to live in the moment when a more fantastic moment was just on the horizon. But that was just ego talking, he chided himself. Ego bred impatience. Ego birthed foolishness. It was ego that had him tagging bodies in Cairo and London, and recently in South Carolina. But thumbing his nose at A.I. had been a short-lived pleasure. He would no longer make such egotistical mistakes. There was a grander prize on the horizon. One he would wait patiently for. For now, he would graciously accept every moment of his existence, even now in his weaker state. For it would make that glorious future day and the life to come all the more gratifying. He pushed those thoughts away, refocusing on the task at hand. Gathering himself, he continued downward to the forty-eighth floor. When he reached it, he exited the stairwell and tapped the button of the radio on his shoulder. “Officer Principe, East Corridor's clear.”
“Ten-four, Gerald.”
“I'm going to take a potty break,” Principe said into his radio mic.
“Okay. I'll see you in control in thirty.”
“Roger that, Mike.” It was another of the benefits of working the third shift. When talking amongst themselves at this hour, his fellow security officers usually eased off the formalities.
The restrooms were the only areas in the building where there were no cameras, although there were hidden cameras at the entrances to the restrooms, letting the control room monitor the restrooms' comings and goings, but not the doings inside. After verifying he was alone in the restroom, Principe went to the last stall. This one housed the toilet for the handicap. It was a high-sitting affair. Principe liked using it because it made him feel as if he sat upon a throne. However, he didn't need to use it now for that purpose. Instead, he climbed atop it and pushed aside the ceiling tile. He craned his neck into the darkness of the top deck and saw the bomb's numerical face. It was still intact and counting down, just like the others. The countdown was merely a failsafe he'd created to ensure that he wouldn't activate the bombs before the twenty-ninth. It was merely a prophylactic measure for his unpredictable ego. After the numbers reached triple zeroes, he'd only to press a couple of numbers on his cell phone to create the explosions that would forever change humanity's course.
CHAPTER FOUR
After she'd childishly run out of Professor Sampson's class earlier that morning, the professor had been nice enough to allow Kallie back into his classroom to take the history exam. Now, a couple of hours later, she stood outside his office, her hand poised pre-knock over the doorframe. The door was slightly ajar. Though she couldn't see the professor from where she stood, she could hear papers shuffling and the stilted creakiness of a weighted office chair.
Though she really didn't have anything more to add to the apology she'd already given and risked further embarrassment, she felt she owed him an additional explanation for her earlier behavior. Of course, she really didn't have a viable excuse for her actions, at least n
ot one she could accurately articulate. How could she explain having been spooked by an eerie déjà vu sensation at the exact moment of her first interaction with Seth Winters? And besides, the professor was probably too busy to hear lame explanations anyway, particularly any involving her possible mental breakdown and nonexistent love life. She dropped her hand down by her side and started to turn away.
“My door is always open, as you can see,” the professor called from inside his office. “You've come this far, you may as well trek the last mile.”
She pushed the door forward and walked into his office. Her nose was immediately appeased by a pleasant flowery odor immersed in the air, which amazingly put her at ease. The professor was partially hidden behind a huge desk populated by several plants and neat mountains of books and stacks of papers.
“Ah, Ms. Hunt,” he said when she'd stepped beyond the cover of the door, his head peeking over a virtual miniature forest. “I'm afraid I hadn't enough time to grade the exams.”
“It's not that,” she said. Her voice was soft and hesitant. “I just wanted to explain about earlier.”
He parted the blend of academia and foliage on his desktop down the middle and indicated the chair in front of his desk. “An explanation is unnecessary; but please, come have a seat.” He was wearing a pair of telephone headphones.
Kallie sat down in the offered chair. She opened her mouth to start the explanation she'd yet to completely flesh out in her mind, but was stopped by the professor's raised hand. “Just one moment please,” he said. He turned to his right and began tapping on a laptop that was atop a side extension of his desk. On the extension to the professor's left side were a small, neat stack of papers and a cup of pens and pencils. Kallie smiled inwardly. Sitting behind his u-shaped, greenery-topped wood desk, wearing headphones, and tapping away on his laptop, the professor looked like a jolly little spaceship operator.
After a few moments, he faced her again. “Sorry about that. But if I didn't complete my train of thought that letter wouldn't have gotten finished anytime soon. Now, you were about to say…”
During the brief respite, she'd decided to start with another apology. “I want to apologize again for running out of your class this morning.”
The professor smiled warmly. “As I'd told you before, there's no need to apologize.” He paused and shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked off to the side for a moment as if struggling to recall the first few words of a previously rehearsed speech. When he faced her again, he spoke deliberately. “My mother is ninety years old and my dad is ninety-three. I'm fifty-three years old and I can't begin to imagine what it's like to lose a parent, let alone, to lose one at your age. I can only offer my heartfelt sympathy.”
“You know about my mother?” Kallie asked.
“I remembered she died from cancer. You were in my class last year when you dropped out of school to go home to care for her. After class this morning, I took the liberty of looking up the date she died and I know that tomorrow will mark a year since her death. It's understandable what you're going through.” He paused again, treading lightly. “We do have grief counselors on campus. Maybe you should talk to someone.”
Kallie nodded noncommittally although she was pleasantly surprised at the fact that he remembered she'd lost her mother and seemed genuinely concerned. For a period of five seconds, she weighed it as a benefit of attending a small private college versus a large public university. The professors evidently took the time to know their students. “Thank you, professor. But…”
He leaned forward in his chair. “That wasn't what was bothering you? Forgive me for being presumptuous.”
“No, it's not that. I mean, I don't consider you presumptuous. I appreciate your caring. It's just…” she hesitated, unsure of what she was trying, wanted, or even was willing to say.
Despite the unplanned student-teacher conference, Sampson regarded her with kind, patient eyes. “What's the matter?”
It took her another full minute, but then the words began to flow easily. With tears streaming down her face, she told him about the déjà vu sensations she'd experienced during the past few weeks and how she'd thought until the pencil-dropping incident this morning that they'd ended. She'd like to think it all was just related to grief, but she honestly believed she'd handled her mother's death well. She missed her mom, but she'd arrived at a tacit appreciation of the perils of living. Death, sickness, and heartbreak, among other things, always loitered nearby, and eventually each would have its say and day with everybody who walks the earth, and the appointments wouldn't necessarily be time oriented. No particular age group had a monopoly on bad stuff happening. If you had a fluid understanding of that, then you could enjoy and appreciate the other moments of your life when the perils were kept at bay. “No,” she reiterated, “my sensations aren't related to grief.” She paused again, this time making it the terminus point. She didn't know what else to say. She was only certain that the sensations weren't related to grief. But just what exactly they were related to was a frightening mystery to her.
When it became obvious that she wasn't going to say anything more, Professor Sampson leaned back in his chair and looked off to the side. His face was contemplative. She stared at him, wishing she could read his thoughts. He'd been kind and patient with her up to this point. Maybe it was in his job description to do so or maybe it was part of his natural personality. Maybe one or both of those things were true or perhaps neither was. In any event, this wasn't his problem. It was hers. She didn't want to impose on his kindness whether it'd been initiated by his employer or his own human nature. His ‘what's the matter' was likely a recalibrated ‘how are you doing,’ where no one wanted to hear a list of grievances. A simple ‘doing well,’ whether true or not, was the expected and desired response. After a few moments, those concerns shuffled back into her mind's recess when he asked, “What kind of cancer did your mother have?”
Kallie closed her eyes for a quick moment. “Brain cancer.”
“I see. And you feel your déjà vu sensations are somehow related to the disease?”
“Well, couldn't they be?” Kallie asked.
“It's possible, I guess,” Professor Sampson said. “Of course, I'm not a doctor. However, I do know that cancer is not necessarily hereditable. Yes, you may be at a higher risk than others. But it's not a given that you'll develop cancer because your mother had it.”
“I know. I guess I should see a doctor about the déjà vu. But…” She dropped her head and didn't finish her sentence. It made perfect, logical sense to visit a doctor. But the perils of living didn't prescribe logical sense.
“Kallie,” Professor Sampson said.
She looked up.
“I have a colleague of mine who is a specialist in the area of human memory. In fact, I believe she's currently doing a study on déjà vu. I recall her saying that the sensation is most likely related to some kind of memory failure.”
“So you don't think my sensations are related to cancer?”
“Right now, I'm afraid I can't say one way or the other. But from what I understand, déjà vu is sometimes related to failed recollections of things you've experienced in the past. Of course, I'm not the expert. Why don't you go see my colleague? If this is not something related to her area, then you're only out one day on your trek to your doctor. But you'll be up one fascinating individual. Her name is Dr. Karen Frost.”
* * *
Professor Frost's lab and office were located on the bottom floor of the science building. Frost headed the Department of Psychology's Neuroscience Program. According to Sampson, Frost was a contrarian who'd requested to be in the science building because a lot of scientists continually made snide remarks about psychology being akin to junk medicine whose theories couldn't stand the rigors of scientific testing.
Kallie stood at the door to the lab and read the small sign that hung over it.
Psychology is not descriptive science, it's simply psychology
She
had no idea what it meant, but she assumed it was probably a missive intended for the scientists in the building.
The lab looked like the campus' other classrooms, except that desks were replaced by rows of tables fronted by caster-fitted chairs. Atop the tables were computers with seventeen-inch monitors connected by thick black cables to space-age looking goggles. A lone man sat at one of the tables. He was wearing a set of the goggles and typing on a keyboard. Kallie walked over to him and looked over his shoulder.
Obviously feeling her presence, he held up one finger. “Just a sec.” Staring intently at the computer screen, he moved his head from side to side and up and down. As he did so, the onscreen camera zoomed about the room. It was virtual reality. It looked like the living room of a house. There was a computerized image of a couch and loveseat. He rolled the mouse on the keypad, moving from the living room, down a hall, and eventually into a kitchen. He paused on an image of a refrigerator. He tapped the keyboard, morphing the virtual house into a virtual forest. Again, he moved his head around and rolled the mouse. His virtual-self was obviously exploring the area. Computerized images of trees and overgrown plants showed onscreen. After a few moments, he paused again, this time in front of a tree. Then he clicked a couple of keystrokes, returning to the kitchen. A few moments later, he removed the goggles and swung around, facing Kallie. “How can I help you?”
Kallie had been transfixed by the onscreen images and it took her several seconds to reorient. After a quick shake of her head, she said, “I'm looking for Professor Frost.”
“She left about an hour ago,” the man said.
“Is she gone for the rest of the day?”
“Ordinarily,” he said. He nodded at a cell phone on a neighboring tabletop. “She'll be back, but I'm afraid she's not going to be in a good mood. She's very time-conscious. She probably hadn't factored into her schedule having to come back here to retrieve that.”
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