2nd Sight: Capturing Insight

by Ben A. Sharpton

  The haze shifted and the girl’s nasal cries faded away and he looked into the eyes of a tiny baby, obviously just born, ruddy complexion blending across its face, eyes shut tight, and mouth making small sucking movements.

  “She’s hungry, honey. Let me have her back.”

  His hands placed the infant into the woman’s arms and he noticed that she was not the same girl he had just been with. She was much older, with jet black hair that clung to her forehead with what must have been dried sweat. His hands reached out to brush her hair away. They were in a hospital somewhere. The woman drew the infant to her breast, which she had pulled from her nightshirt, and it made quiet sucking noises.

  The world around him continued to shift, change, blend.

  In the background he heard music playing some college theme song. He was standing behind someone dressed in a robe. When he looked down, he noted that he, too, was wearing a robe.

  “Hey, man. Are you okay?”

  Something pungent rammed through his nostrils and dragged Scott awake. The scent jerked him into an upright sitting position.

  “Looks like you passed out,” Gary said, tossing away something white and smelly that he had held beneath Scott’s nose. He helped Scott crawl to the wall and lean back against it. “Pull your knees up and rest with your head between them,” he said.

  He knelt beside Scott and checked his pulse and temperature.

  “I’m okay,” Scott said. “Just give me a moment.” A wave of headaches pounded his skull.

  “You should go to the ER,” Gary said. “Let me call for an ambulance.”

  “Not necessary. I just slipped, Gary.” He shook off the nausea and dizziness and gulped in deep breaths of air.

  “You’d better take it easy the rest of the day,” Gary suggested.

  “Good advice.” Scott got up and wobbled to the men’s locker room where he showered and dressed.

  The seizures were coming more often these days. He wondered what triggered them. Probably stress.

  The cool night air took his breath away when he stepped outside into the parking lot. He threw his gear into the back of the Prius and opened the driver’s door. Looking up across the top of the car, he spied a black BMW parked at the end of the lot. He started to round the back of his car and inspect the BMW, but his head ached too much. “Fuck it,” he said and climbed into the Prius and headed home. At the parking lot exit, he paused and looked again at the black car, wondering if there was any possibility it had anything to do with his hallucinations. “No way,” he concluded and drove out of the lot for home.

  ***

  Jeff Gray was an old friend from college. At the last reunion he boasted that he worked at a high-tech startup focusing on green energy. He lived about twenty miles away in Duluth. After fumbling around with online search engines, Scott found a phone number for Solterra, Inc. and made the call. A polite receptionist transferred him to a polite secretary who politely placed him on hold.

  “Jeff Gray speaking,” the voice said.

  “Jeff?” Scott wondered why he always repeated the person’s name when he had already said who he was. He also cringed at Jeff’s use of the word, “speaking.” He wasn’t singing. He wasn’t shouting. Of course he was speaking.

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, Jeff. This is Scott Moore.”

  “Oh, hi, Scott. Haven’t seen you since the reunion.”

  “How’ve you been?”

  “As good as I can, considering all the dumb shit they make you do to get government compliance around here. The goddamn regulations are hideous.”

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Amy is good, I guess. She stays busy with this group or that. Spends a lot of time at the club, which is where I wish I was right now, on the back nine.” He didn’t ask about Scott and Grace.

  “Say, I ran into a Tech grad the other day—sharp kid. He seemed really personable. Are you guys hiring now?”

  “No, not right now. The owner keeps a tight handle on the purse strings.”

  “That’s too bad. This kid graduated high in his class and is returning next term for doctoral work. Said he’s studying electrical engineering and specializing in photovoltaic design or something like that.” Scott scrutinized his notes to get it right. “Said the grad school would work with the right company to help him get established while he got his degree.”

  “Sounds like a smart kid,” Jeff said. “Probably all head knowledge and no practical experience.”

  “He may be worth a look,” Scott added, drumming his pen on the table. “How about if I buy you both breakfast.”

  “Well, if you put it that way, I guess I could squeeze in a breakfast meeting.”

  The two nailed down the specifics for the meeting and ended the conversation. Jeff never asked about Scott’s situation.

  Scott shrugged it off and keyed in the number Chris had given him. If Chris proved to be a valuable employee, it might lead to something down the road. It never hurt to pay it forward.

  “Hola,” a voice said on the other end. In the background Scott could hear a loud Hispanic television or radio broadcast.

  “Hello. Uh, I’d like to speak to Chris Azorin.”

  “Que? No habla Inglés.”

  Scott’s Spanish sucked. “Yo hablo Chris Azorin.”

  “Un momento, por favor.”

  After a moment, “Hello? This is Chris.”

  “Hi, Chris? This is Scott Moore. We met at the outplacement center a few days ago.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Moore. How are you?”

  “I’m doing fine. Yourself?”

  “Just getting ready for next term,” he said. “My classes look pretty tough.”

  “How’s the employment situation?”

  “Nothing, yet. I’ve talked with some people at several electric companies. You?”

  “It’ll take time,” Scott said. “Say, I remembered the name of a friend of mine who works in a green energy startup over in Duluth. He may be someone you could connect with.”

  “Oh, wow. That sounds fantastic.”

  “Yeah. Could you make breakfast on Thursday? I could introduce you two. His name is Jeff Gray and he works with Solterra, Inc. Heard of it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But we mostly focused on theory in undergrad.”

  “Keep that between you and me, okay?” Scott said. Then he added, “I don’t know if anything will come of this, but it’s a free breakfast. You in?”

  “Yeah.”

  They shared details and ended the call. As he set the phone down, Scott felt positive, proud—better than he’d felt in a long time. Like maybe, he was doing something good.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Scott arrived at Jasper’s Breakfast House at 8:00 A.M. Jasper’s served breakfast and lunch—no dinner—in an upscale atmosphere decked out with beechwood tables and bright colors. They specialized in skillet breakfasts with anything and everything from sausage, ham, steak, bacon, cheese, and all the trimmings over eggs and potatoes. Smells of spices and fried meats and toasting breads mixed with coffee and antiseptic cleaner welcomed guests to the diner.

  Chris arrived right on time and pulled up a chair. “Wow. I’ve never been here,” he said, staring around the small restaurant. “This is really nice of you. You don’t know me—we hardly met. And yet, you go out of your way to introduce me to…what’s his name?”

  “Jeff Gray, and he’s an operations director at Solterra. It’s a good little startup with a lot of potential.”

  “Well, thanks for helping me out.”

  “No problem. It’s what I do,” Scott said. “Did you bring your resume?”

  “Yeah.” He handed over a couple of pages stapled together.

  Chris perused the document. He had seen thousands in his day, and he knew exactly where to look and exactly which red flags to look for. “Says you were born in San Antonio, right?”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Of course, I don’t remember that…”

  Scott chuckled at Chris’ ef
fort to be funny, assuming the kid was nervous. “Might not want to mention that to Jeff. It may not come across as funny to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then again, it could be that I’ve heard it before.”

  “Oh. I also brought my transcripts,” Chris said, handing an official looking copy to him. He tapped the table with his fingers as if he was pounding a drum.

  “These are impressive grades,” Chris said. “Can you keep that up in graduate school?”

  “I think so. College wasn’t that tough.”

  “Very good,” Scott said. “Let’s hope Jeff is just as impressed. Let me warn you, he’ll do whatever he can to make your stuff seem normal or average. I don’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism or something, but he talks down everything and everybody.”

  “Okay,” Chris said.

  “Here he is.”

  Jeff wore middle age like a kid who had to wear his dad’s tie to a middle school dance—reluctantly. His receding hairline had taken over most of his round melon and his belly hung over his belt like an extra layer of clothes. He was a heart attack that had waited to happen five years too long.

  “Hey, Jeff,” Scott stood and welcomed his old friend with a handshake. Then he added, “You’ve shaved your beard!”

  “Yeah. The wife insisted I take it off,” he said. “Said it scratched her when we did the dirty.” He grinned as only Jeff could.

  Scott frowned.

  “This all looks good. I’ll have one skillet with everything in it and an extra side of biscuits,” he said as he plopped down in the empty chair. “I tell you, Amy has me on this bran diet and I’m shitting wheat fields. And gas—don’t sit too close boys—it’ll make your eyes water.”

  “Sounds rough,” Scott said. “Meet Chris Azorin.”

  “Yeah. Nice to meet you,” Jeff nodded in his direction. “Can we order?”

  They feasted on fried, scrambled, and poached eggs topped with virtually every topping known to man. Jeff went on a protein and carb binge and came up only after he had wiped the skillet clean with his last biscuit. Jeff and Scott put away three pots of black coffee and Chris drank lots of water, finishing it off with a tall glass of orange juice.

  “I’ve seen better,” Jeff said, glancing over Chris’ resume and turning his attention to his transcripts. “Not bad, but we’ve already got some pretty sharp cookies in our company.”

  Chris looked like he had been hit by a truck.

  “Look, we don’t have anything right now, but something may open up. Mind if I keep these?”

  “Sure,” Chris said. “I can provide more information, maybe references?”

  “I’ll call you if I want ’em.” He backed away from the table. “I gotta run, boys. Got a staff meeting at ten.”

  They all shook hands, and Jeff hustled out the front door after asking the waitress for a large cup of coffee to go.

  Chris looked beaten.

  “I warned you not to worry about Jeff,” Scott said. “He grows on you over time.”

  “Really?” Chris asked.

  “No. That’s the way he always is. But he liked what he saw.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “’Cause I’m a people person.”

  They chatted for thirty more minutes and then stood to go their separate ways. Scott paid for breakfast and left a generous tip.

  “You really think I’ve got a chance, Mr. Moore?” Chris asked in the parking lot.

  “Count on it, Chris.”

  Chris climbed into a red Honda Civic sporting Tech bumper stickers and sped away. Two cars were left in the parking lot this late in the morning—Scott’s Prius and a black BMW.

  He marched directly across the lot towards the luxury vehicle. To his surprise, it didn’t drive away, but remained stationary. As he neared, the smoky driver’s window lowered, revealing a lone figure sitting behind the wheel. “Hello, Mr. Moore. I’m Dr. Paul Blackwell.” The man extended his hand through the window.

  Scott shook his hand carefully. “You’ve been following me.”

  “Research,” the man said. A knowing and somewhat vile smile visible beneath a gray goatee.

  “What do you want?”

  “Let’s go inside and chat, shall we?”

  ***

  Paul Blackwell exuded professor—but the worst professor on campus. His dark, but fast-graying hair was slicked back as if trying to escape his bulbous forehead. The mustache began inside his nostrils as nose hair and flowed down over the upper lip ending just shy of his teeth. The bottom portion of the goatee gave him an evil, devil look. Wire rim glasses, fashionable in an earlier time and place, threatened to slide down his sweaty nose.

  The two men ordered cups of coffee, the fourth cup for Scott, and examined each other for a moment.

  “I haven’t been following you, Scott, but I have been watching.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I think it’s a matter of motive.” He unfolded the napkin and shook it once before draping it in his lap. “A follower, a stalker if you will, follows for what he can get from the individual—personal gratification or some strange semi-erotic pleasure.”

  “And why have you followed me?”

  “Watched you, my friend,” Dr. Blackwell interrupted. “Someone who watches does so because he can help the other.”

  “You’re splitting hairs.” He sipped the bitter coffee and felt himself wince.

  “Perhaps, but maybe not. A neighbor watches your backyard and warns you if your hot tub overflows, or if your dog runs off, or if a limb has broken on a tree in your backyard and is threatening to fall on your roof.”

  His detailed descriptions, straight out of his own yard, chilled Scott’s bones. He scrutinized the man’s features. “You said you could help me. How?”

  His single-word question opened the door to further inquiry and the doctor slipped through. “You’ve fallen on some tough times lately, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been through tougher.”

  “Do the visions increase in times of stress?”

  His words surprised Scott. To date only Grace and a couple of physicians were aware that he experienced hallucinations. They attributed them to early-onset Alzheimer’s or transient ischemic attacks—TIAs, once described to him as tiny strokes. Scott proceeded with caution. “I tend to have hallucinations more often when I’m stressed,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, Scott. I know a great deal about you.”

  Dr. Blackwell waited. The question remained on the table.

  The waitress came and filled their coffee cups and the two men sipped in silence.

  Scott waited.

  Dr. Blackwell said, “I received my doctorate in Paranormal Psychology from Emory University. In that program, I made some amazing discoveries. Some of my research took me to Latvia, in particular to Riga, a port city on the Baltic Sea. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, I don’t recall that I have.”

  “You were born there, Scott.”

  “That’s where your research is wrong,” Scott said. “I was born in Orlando, Florida.”

  “Either you’ve been misinformed or you are not being honest with me. You grew up in Orlando, Florida, but your parents, Ron and Cheryl Moore adopted you as an infant. Am I right?”

  Right as rain. Scott’s parents told him his birth mother lived in Orlando. He had never questioned their word, so he had no proof either way.

  “Allow me to back up a bit, all right?” Dr. Blackwell asked. “Your birth mother was Evgenia Voznaja. She grew up in Riga, Latvia under the rule of the Soviet Union.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “It’s not that unusual. Believe it or don’t,” he said with a shrug. “It’s your prerogative. My doctoral research introduced me to Dr. Konstantins Dekhtyar, a noted psychic researcher from Russia, renowned for his work on ‘Remote Viewing’, the ability to ‘see’ events happening at a distance or in a hidden location using par
anormal abilities. At the height of the Cold War, Dekhtyar tested the effects of various psychotropic drugs, therapies, and treatments on psychic abilities. The Soviets were attempting to use paranormal abilities to spy on the Pentagon. Dr. Dekhtyar treated patients with a genetic predisposition to psychic ability with medicines that would heighten their abilities.”

  Scott interrupted Dr. Blackwell’s narrative, “What kind of medicines.”

  “Unfortunately, most of those records were lost in a fire shortly after he died. I did hear that he tried LSD, but everyone tried LSD back then.”

  “Was he successful?”

  “One of his paid subjects was Mrs. Voznaja, a young, married woman in her twenties who needed the small amount of pay Dr. Dekhtyar offered for the tests. As it turned out she was one of his most promising subjects, in more ways than one.”

  The story sounded like a bad paperback.

  “They became romantically involved and she became pregnant. The husband was sterile so he figured out she had been unfaithful. Dekhtyar successfully hid her from her husband until after the infant—you—were born. He used his influence to have you sent to the states and adopted in Florida. That was 1973, the year you were born.”

  “And where is my birth mother now?”

  “Her jealous husband shot her and Dr. Dekhtyar, and turned the gun on himself just days after you arrived in the U.S. It set the Soviet’s psychic research program back several years. It never recovered.”

  “That’s a pretty wild story, Doc. So you’ve been following me around to tell me the real name of my birth mother, right?”

  “There’s one important detail that you should remember.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your mother underwent much of Dr. Dekhtyar’s treatments after you were conceived. The drugs she took also entered your bloodstream while you were a fetus.”