2nd Sight: Capturing Insight

by Ben A. Sharpton

  “Well, you are alive,” he heard a voice say. “How you feelin’?”

  “Like shit.”

  “That’s what most people say in here,” he said.

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

  “Just being straight. I’m trying to break the ice.”

  “It ain’t working,” Scott said. “Who are you anyway?” He looked up and saw a younger man wearing a corduroy jacket and jeans standing outside his cell.

  “My name’s Gordon Thompson,” the man said. He held a thick book of some sort across his chest like a shield.

  “And how will breaking the ice with Gordon Thompson help me?” Scott asked.

  “I’ll be straight with you,” he said. “I’m here to tell you that God loves you and wants to help you in this tough time.”

  Scott groaned and laid his head back against the concrete block wall. The lump on his skull burned with pain.

  “You’ve probably gone through life without knowing that Jesus wants to be your friend,” Gordon said. He had an odd accent and the word came out as, “free-ind.” “A life of sin is no life at all. Romans 3:23 says, ‘For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ Most of us don’t think we need God. Most of us think we can do it all on our own. But most of us arwrong.”

  Scott let the man drone on and on.

  And he did. “John 3:16 says, ‘For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son that whosoever believeth in him might not die but have eternal life.’ Jesus loves you, my friend, no matter what you’ve done. He knows your heart. He knows about your sins. Yet, He still loves you, even you, uh, what did you say your name was?”

  “Gordo,” Scott said slowly. “You don’t know a thing about me. Not what I’ve done. Not who I am. Not even my name.”

  Gordon’s left hand gripped one of the steel bars between them like he was hanging on for his life. He seemed surprised by Scott’s reaction.

  Scott stretched through the bars and latched onto Gordon’s hand. “You don’t know that I became a Christian at the age of thirteen at summer camp. You don’t know that I’m in here because of a huge misunderstanding.”

  “That’s what everybody says.” He yanked his hand away.

  “You don’t know if I’m a saint or a sinner. You don’t know if I’m not Satan himself,” Scott said and leered at the young man. “Until you take the time to get to know me, don’t you dare waste my time by trying to tell me what you think I ought to do to straighten out my life. Is that straight enough for you?”

  “Uh, yes sir,” Gordon said. He turned to go and then, as an afterthought called back, “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Scott said.

  He leaned back against the wall, carefully. Too much movement, too fast, would upset what little equilibrium he felt there was left in the world and chaos would ensue.

  He wondered if the Alprazolam might still be effective, so he allowed himself to relax. Instantly, he saw several images. He chose the nearest one and found he was watching one of Gordon’s visions. Scott wasn’t surprised by what he saw.

  “Gordo!” he yelled down the hall.

  “Yes, my friend?” Gordon called back. He hadn’t left, yet. “Did you want to talk?”

  “Naah,” Scott called. “Just thought you might want to stop watching that porn on your laptop. Your wife’s gonna catch you and, boy does she have a temper.”

  When the cat-calls from the other inmates quieted down, Scott listened for Gordon’s reply. But it never came.

  All he heard was the slamming of the exit door.

  ***

  A couple of hours later, a guard came by Scott’s cell. Scott was awake and trying to determine his next steps, but wasn’t coming to any conclusions.

  “You were pretty tough on your visitor,” the guard said. “He was just trying, in his own way, to help out.”

  Scott looked up from the bed where he had been sitting since he woke up. His head ached. His back was sore. The wounds in his stomach still hurt and he was exhausted. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s been a tough day. I guess I took it out on him,” he said.

  The guard went on, “I heard about your day. You caused quite a stir over at Solterra. They said you were running around the parking lot saying you had a gun and somebody was going to be killed.”

  Scott groaned. “I don’t have a gun. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  “Well, you scared a lot of people over there.”

  Scott had been pretty scared, himself.

  “You’ll be happy to know that we heard from your wife. She was out of town at a conference.”

  “Yeah, she’s in Orlando.”

  “Not anymore. She’s on her way back. When she gets here she’ll post bail.”

  “Ohhh,” Scott moaned.

  “Most people are happy to hear someone is coming to post bail. It almost sounds like you like it here.”

  “Believe me, Mister. I’m not most people.” He leaned back against the concrete blocks of the cell wall. Echoes of voices from other cells bounced around his and into his head. He closed his eyes but could not rest. Exhausted, he began to fear the voices were the beginning of another reading—that he was reliving someone’s vision over and over and could not stop. If he couldn’t control the visions, he would go insane.

  He lay back down and dozed in an out of consciousness for the next couple of hours.

  “Scott Moore,” the guard called. “Moore. Your bail has been posted.”

  He rolled over and pushed himself into a sitting position again. Gradually, slowly so as not to disturb the delicate balance of the world around him, he stood up. The cell began to spin and he held onto the wall for support. He staggered through the open cell door, taking each step carefully. The guard escorted him past other cells filled with inmates who made cat-calls, obscene gestures, and pleas for help as he stumbled by.

  Grace looked so out of place in the station lobby. When the officer opened the door and she saw Scott, she ran to hug him. “Oh, Scotty. What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Can we go?” Scott begged.

  Grace checked with the sergeant on duty and then helped her husband out the front doors of the police station.

  “What is going on?” Grace asked after they both had fastened seat belts.

  “Grace, I read Jeff this morning. I had to see how he fit into what I read from Chris last night. I told you I saw Chris and Amy.”

  “So?”

  “The vision was so clear, so real, it freaked me out.” He looked about Grace’s car, searching for the right words to say. “I saw Jeff drive by his house and spot Chris’ truck. Then he went to Taylor’s Gun Shop and bought a pistol. It had to be current day. The cars were modern,” Scott continued to search for the right words. “Then, I saw him walking down the middle of his street with a pistol in his hand. He entered his house, went back to his bedroom, and blew two holes each in Chris and Amy while they made love in his bed.”

  Scott was aware of how strange and melodramatic his descriptions sounded. He felt helpless to describe what he had experienced accurately. “Finally, he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”

  “Oh, dear,” was all Grace could mutter.

  “After I saw that, I panicked. I ran into the parking lot and tried to find Jeff to warn him. The security guards thought I was threatening to hurt him so they tased me.”

  He stared into Grace’s eyes. She searched his, trying to discern every ounce of truth. Finally, she reached down to his stomach, “Did it hurt?”

  “Like hell,” he said. “Every muscle in my body contracted. I was in serious pain.”

  “Well I need to get you home and do my job as your nurse,” she said.

  And she did. She put an antiseptic on the Taser wounds and covered them with tape and gauze. Then she took him to bed.

  That night, with Gumby sleeping fitfully at the foot of the bed, she rocked Scott to sleep. “I don’t know if this abilit
y is a gift or a curse,” she whispered to him just before he drifted off. “A gift or a curse.”

  ***

  Early the next morning, Scott woke with thoughts of Jeff Gray crowding his mind. He had to somehow warn him about Chris. Yet he couldn’t let on as to how he knew Chris might be a threat.

  After a shave and a shower, he hustled into the kitchen for a relatively quick breakfast of Cheerios, while he watched the clock, waiting for the time Jeff should arrive at work. When it reached eight twenty-five, he picked up the phone and dialed Solterra.

  “I’d like to speak to Jeff Gray, please,” Scott said after the receptionist answered the call.

  “One moment, please.”

  Scott waited. He tapped his toe. He flicked his ink pen cap over and over. Finally, the receptionist came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry. Jeff isn’t taking your call,” she said.

  “Why not?” He damned Caller I.D. beneath his breath.

  “I don’t know that.”

  Scott hung up and turned on his laptop computer. He typed out a quick email to Jeff asking him to call as soon as he could. Within minutes it bounced back with the message that it had been blocked by the Solterra address.

  He thought of calling Chris at home. He might not be in the office, yet. But what would he say? “Chris, stay away from Jeff’s wife.” That sounded stupid and he felt it wouldn’t work. Besides, the vision he had may not come true for weeks or even months. Regardless, nothing he could do would stop Chris.

  Grace was still in bed, so Scott dressed quietly and slipped out the back door. He drove his Prius to the Solterra offices.

  Feeling cautious and a bit frightened and embarrassed because of his reaction to the vision the day before, Scott slowly walked up the steps to the Solterra offices.

  A security guard met him at the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moore, but you are not allowed in the Solterra offices,” he said.

  “Why not? I was just here yesterday.”

  “You also frightened a number of employees yesterday, so you have been banned from the premises.” He crossed arms over his chest.

  “I need to speak to Jeff Gray,” Scott said. “Will you ask him to meet me in the parking lot?”

  “We will file an injunction, if necessary, to restrict you from coming on our property,” the guard answered.

  “Can you ask him to meet me off-site?”

  The guard didn’t say anything. He just stared at Scott.

  Frustrated and angry, Scott returned to his car. He grabbed a pen and paper and jotted a quick note on a pad of paper.

  Jeff, I’m concerned about your relationship with Chris Azorin. Please don’t do anything rash.

  He read over the note several times. It was vague enough so as not to encourage him to suspect his wife and Chris might have an affair, yet he couldn’t tell if it was specific enough to prevent Jeff from doing anything foolish, like buy a gun and kill them.

  He folded the note and drove around the lot until he spied Jeff’s Suburban. He climbed out of the car and tucked the note under the windshield wiper of Jeff’s vehicle.

  He drove off feeling far from finished, but he didn’t know what else he could do.

  “Where have you been?” Grace asked when he entered their house.

  “I had to see Jeff. I had to tell him about the vision I had with he and Chris and Amy.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He refused to meet with me.”

  “Did you try calling?”

  “I phoned him, emailed him, and finally left a note on his car.”

  “I guess there’s nothing else you can do.”

  “I just feel so helpless. What good is it to see people’s futures if they won’t let you help them?”

  “Perhaps we should back off this vision stuff,” Grace said. “It doesn’t seem to be doing anyone any good, least of all, you.”

  Scott listened, feeling helpless. He felt as if he would suffocate. There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Grace drove. She rolled the back windows half-way down because Gumby sat there. The morning air blew away their cares as the miles swept by and Scott wondered why they didn’t take long road trips more often. It was a fluke that they were taking this one. Just a few hours earlier, they had been stuck in their house pondering what to do next.

  Grace’s boss, a battle-ax who followed hospital policies as if they were written by God Himself and handed down on stone tablets, had insisted she take some time off. “Get away. Take Scott and sit on a hill somewhere and think about nothing but each other.”

  “I don’t have any vacation days left.”

  “Sure you do. I’ve got this report—oh, where was that—I just laid it on the desk. Anyway, I’m positive you’ve got two weeks coming to you. By the time you get back, I’ll have it straightened out.”

  “Go to the beach,” one of her friends urged. “Wriggle your toes in the sand and wade in the water.”

  “It’s October,” Grace reminded her. “I’m not wading in any water ’til next June.”

  “Go to New York,” another nurse suggested. “Catch a couple of shows. Visit some museums.”

  “Too noisy,” Grace said and the Big Apple would wait. “We need to go someplace to relax and rest. We need a place where we can just sit and think and talk.”

  “How ’bout a staycation? Don’t go anywhere but here.”

  “No, we need a place that is inspiring.” She pondered the dilemma. “Maybe we could rent a house.” She spent an hour searching the internet for vacation rentals without luck.

  Scott walked in with a turkey sandwich and a glass of tea—an offering if repentance—and placed them on the desk before her.

  “I forgot the leaves change this time of year in the mountains,” she said. “Every house, cabin, trailer, or lean-to I’ve checked is booked.”

  “What about that one?” Scott asked, pointing to a listing featuring mountain views and everlasting memories. “Sounds perfect.”

  “The posting says it’s booked. But…they may know of something else.” She dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. I saw your listing for a cabin in the mountains online. My husband and I are looking for a place to rent immediately.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve got two cabins, but both are rented. You know, this time of year, things fill up fast.”

  “I know. This opportunity just came up. Do you know of any other rentals in the area that might be available?”

  “How long do you want to stay?”

  “A week. Maybe two.”

  “Well, I may have something for you. It’s a bit unusual.”

  Grace shot a hopeful smile up at Scott who was taking a bite out of her turkey sandwich.

  “I’ve got this place up here behind me that’s not ready yet for renters. I had hoped to have it fixed up by now, but just didn’t get it done.”

  “Is it rustic?” Grace asked with hesitation in her voice.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Just needs a little paint and a little caulk. I’ll make you a deal. If you and your husband will spend a couple of hours each day painting the interior and caulking the windows, I’ll let you have it for free. I’ll email you some photos,” he added.

  The pictures were gorgeous. The little two bedroom cabin looked perfect as it was. Grace called back and set the reservation. They packed and left.

  ***

  Brilliant bright red leaves lined the highway as they wove their way through the mountains. Gumby hung his head out the rear window and lapped up every mountain scent and taste he could. Scott quietly waited in the passenger seat feeling somewhat like the little boy being sent to detention and somewhat like a kid going on a family vacation—same thing.

  They passed several small mountain towns on the way to Waynesville. Just outside the city, they turned onto a two-lane road and then again to a one-lane road that took them up the mountain on a steep ascent that slowed the Priu
s and popped their ears. Halfway up the mountain the road began to swerve with a series of S-turns and zig-zags above narrow ravines that dropped hundreds of feet. “I’d hate to take this road after a snowfall,” Scott said, leaning this way and that. Gumby braced himself in the back, feet firmly planted, and toenails digging into the thin carpet as much as possible. Once they had to pull way over into a ditch to allow an oversized pickup truck room to pass.

  They pulled off onto another side road and came to a stop on a ridge overlooking waves and waves of mountains peppered by housetops. “This will do nicely,” Grace said. Below them on one side a white clapboard house nestled into the landscape overlooking the scenic view. On the other side, wooden steps and a rustic railing ascended the mountain to a smaller cabin.

  Grace turned the engine off and stepped outside breathing in the cool mountain air. “This is incredible,” she called to Scott who was attempting to exit the car and keep Gumby from doing so at the same time.

  “Hello,” called a broad-shouldered man as he stepped from the porch of the larger house. “I’m Tom,” he said. His high forehead betrayed his age, but still, he seemed fairly spry for an older guy. “Tom Jackson,” he added.

  “Grace Moore,” she said. “This is my husband, Scott.”

  The trio shook hands and Tom took them and the rambunctious mutt for a tour. The cabin was perfect. Tom was obviously remodeling it and almost all of his work had been done. Signs of expert craftsmanship were evident throughout the house.

  “Do you do all of the work yourself?” Scott asked.

  “Just about.”

  “You obviously have some woodworking skill.”

  “Thanks. I just keep at it. I guess it helps me stay out of trouble,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

  It turned out only two of the bedrooms needed paint and three or four of the windows lacked fresh caulk. Scott and Grace knew they were getting the deal of a lifetime. They offered to pay for their stay.

  “I can’t do it,” Tom said. “We had an agreement. I honor my agreements.”

  They returned to the car and transported all of the luggage to the cabin. Tom wished them well and Scott and Grace set about settling in. She placed folded shirts in a dresser while he hung up some clothes in the closet. He paused and leaned against the doorjamb, watching his wife. Moved, stirred, he tip-toed over to her and embraced her from behind. Dragging backwards, he pulled her onto the cedar log-framed bed and the two bounced on the mattress in laughter.