The clatter about the kitchen faded away, replaced by the loud applause of an enthusiastic audience. As skinny Dr. Gartside, he stepped onto the stage and shook hands with the man at the podium who handed him a handsome plaque.
He slipped from that vision and into another and immediately jumped back, startled.
He was in a car accident. The car he drove rolled side-over-side only to be stopped when it wrapped around a huge tree. His right knee screamed in pain and he was trapped in the mangled car. Looking at his leg, he saw a jagged bone and something white protruding from his bloodied leg.
Blackwell interrupted his voyeuristic activity, “Join us, everyone.” He flipped one of the champagne flutes over and poured in the golden effervescent liquid. Ceremoniously, he filled the next and the next until all were ready. Each person retrieved one of the thin glasses.
Scott lowered his guard a bit, knowing they were all drinking from the same bottle that had been sealed just moments ago. “First, thank you Dr. Gartside, for assisting us and for allowing us to use your wonderful facility at the University…at the university.” He stopped the toast there and smiled, as if preventing himself from releasing the school name.
Scott feared Blackwell was about to kill him, so it seemed odd that he might hesitate to release the university name. But Blackwell’s continued toast brought him back to his senses. “And let is thank you, Mr. Moore.” He raised his flute and the others mimicked him. “Thank you, Scott. Because of the breakthroughs we will shortly accomplish, others in our country, in our world, will share your marvelous gift.”
Scott slipped partially out of his trance wondering if the world was ready for such a “gift.”
He tried to ignore Blackwell so he could finish his reading of Dr. Gartside, but Blackwell kept talking.
“Imagine…,” he said.
***
“Imagine the opportunities. The military applications alone are worth billions. We will know the enemy’s plans five moves before they know them. Corporations that are willing to pay for our services will out-compete and out-produce those who refuse to participate. Hell, in your field of Human Resources, Scott, forget background checks. One recruiter, properly trained and treated, will cull the good candidates from the bad and your hiring problems will go away. Poof!”
The idea of having a “properly trained and treated” staff made Scott cringe again. He had to escape. If he could run away now, he would. He would dash through the front door, sprint to the road in front of the house, choose a direction – left or right, and flee as fast as any man could run.
They would pursue him. He knew too much to think Blackwell would let him go. And they would catch him and they would kill him. Then, they would find Grace and kill her, too.
It seemed ironically odd that the man who could see the future had none himself.
Scott had never feared death. He assumed he was ready for whatever was after life. But now, so close to his own demise, he realized he was not ready. He had too much to do. Death would bring too many regrets.
And, behind his fears and misgivings was Grace. He had to do whatever he could to protect her. How?
He was in a bad place, both figuratively and literally, and he saw no way out.
Blackwell called for a toast. “May our visions take us to places we’ve never been before.”
His toast was odd and paradoxical. After all, Scott’s gift had done exactly that. Time and again he went to places in the memories and visions of those he met, where he had never been before. He saw things he wasn’t meant to see. He invaded people’s lives without their knowledge of it and he brought back information he did not deserve to have. He was like a voyeur, standing outside a stranger’s window.
The other three sipped their drinks in the afterglow of success. Scott found it difficult to drink the champagne, not because he thought it might be tainted—he had seen others drink from the same bottle, and the bottle had been sealed when Blackwell opened it. However, it was hard to put the glass to his lips. His hands were shaking so hard because he sensed his own death was coming soon.
He slipped back into a state of relaxation and focused on one of the last visions of Dr. Gartside.
As the doctor, he stood before a stainless steel cart containing several ominous looking instruments. He picked up one, a long glass tube, attached to an even longer, brass needle. He turned around and faced a leather and wooden table that stood nakedly in the middle of the living room. The table looked somewhat like one a masseuse might use, covered with leather and containing a large padded hole at one end. Looking more closely, Scott saw a man’s body, strapped to the table on his stomach, with his face secured to the padded hole with a leather mask. His hands and feet were also clasped to the table with leather restraints. A video image overhead revealed an image not unlike the human brain.
Blackwell interrupted the vision. “Scott, you haven’t touched your champagne.”
Looking up, he realized everyone but he had taken a sip from their glasses. He pulled his flute to his lips and paused. “I was just thinking about Kyle.” He halfway turned to face the strange man. “How’s your old man? Do you miss him? How many times did he beat you?”
“What?” Kyle raised his face, revealing shocked and frightened eyes.
“You remember,” he said, trying hard to divert everyone’s attention to Kyle. “Did you begin to enjoy it when he slapped you around?”
Gartside didn’t know what he was talking about, but started laughing an evil-sounding laugh at Kyle in his embarrassment.
Blackwell was beginning to piece together what was taking place. He said, “He’s reading an episode from your past, Kyle.” Then added, “But how can you do that without your medicine?” Suddenly, a knowing look passed over his face as if lit up by a searchlight.
“Is that why you killed that little puppy long ago?”
“Huh?”
“You know. You drowned a puppy in a dog crate. Did it squirm and squeal when you pushed it under water?”
“I…how did you know?”
“That’s what I do,” Scott said.
With nothing to lose, he slipped back into the vision of Gartside.
The doctor carried the needle device to the table where the body lay. It was shaking now, squirming, struggling against the straps, and trying to get free. Gartside placed the device at the base of the skull, pointing upwards parallel to the spine. Watching the video image, he gave the device a firm shove. It slid beneath the skin and slowly up along the brainstem, through the thalamus and into the cerebrum.
Pulling back on a ring like device at the other end of the tube, a murky white fluid slowly filled the tube.
He heard a terrifying wail from the body on the table and realized what he had suspected was true. The scream was his. He was the man lying on the table.
“No,” he shouted, jolting alert. “You can’t do this.”
“Get him, you fools.”
Kyle still looked stunned, but reached out to grab Scott. Gartside looked scared.
“Let me go,” Scott yelled, and turned to sprint for the door. “You’re all insane. You can’t do this!”
“We have to,” Blackwell said. “It’s the only way…”
Kyle bear-hugged him from behind. Gartside began to set up the table.
Still holding the champagne flute in his hand, he squirmed, kicked, and elbowed Kyle, but the little giant would not let go. He half-carried, half-dragged him toward the table.
Gartside plunged a hypodermic into his shoulder, but Scott swatted at it with his left hand, knocking it away.
Dr. Blackwell shouted, “Be careful. Not too much. We don’t want to pollute the cerebral fluid.”
But some anesthesia did reach his system. Scott began to slip. He felt his body go weak. His arms and legs tingled. He couldn’t let this happen; couldn’t let them do this, couldn’t die like this.
But he couldn’t stop it.
***
Blackwell looked on as Gar
tside held him on the left and Kyle on the right.
Minimally sedated, Scott was dragged to the table. He could still think, reason, plan—just a little. But he didn’t have much control of his body and he needed to get it back, somehow.
And the plan came to him. It was risky. It might not work. But it was the only plan he could think of.
Holding the glass flute in his left hand, he smashed it on the table, shattering the glass and forcing shards into his palm. The painful shock fueled adrenaline waking him from his semi-stupor.
The move shocked Kyle, too, who loosened his grip just a bit. Little things mean a lot. A flash of clear thought, a desperate move, a loose grip, and big, important things can happen.
Scott grasped the stem of the glass with his bloody hand, gasping from the pain. He jerked his left hand with the glass stem over his right shoulder, catching Kyle in his neck.
Kyle sucked in air. He pulled the glass away, dropped it, and then clutched his bleeding neck, backing away. The wound didn’t kill him, but it sure as hell surprised him.
Scott made his next move. He put all his weight on his right foot and raised his left knee as high as it would go. With a mighty force he thrust his foot directly at Gartside’s right knee. He felt the cartilage pop as it gave way.
“Stop him,” Blackwell shouted.
Scott dashed for the door and saw a set of keys on the table. He grabbed them and yanked the door open. Three cars were parked in the driveway: Blackwell’s BMW, an older Volvo he assumed belonged to Gartside, and a Mustang—probably Kyle’s. Clicking the remote FOB, he was glad to see the lights flash on and off on the Mustang. He didn’t care for Volvos.
Somehow, Kyle stumbled through the door and lunged toward Scott. He made a swiping grab motion and managed to catch his left foot. However, he didn’t have a firm hold, and the effort only served to trip Scott, who fell forward, tucked, and rolled through the gravel in the driveway. Pain shot through his arm and shoulder. He came up on his feet and dashed for the car.
Scott looked up to see Blackwell running through the doorway. “Get in the car, Kyle.”
Gartside stayed inside, probably in intense pain.
Scott snatched open the Mustang door, driving pain into his left hand, and dove into the driver’s seat. Cranking the engine, he felt it thunder to life. He jerked the gearshift to reverse and screamed out of the driveway. Then he pulled the lever into drive and jammed the gas pedal. The Mustang squealed out onto the street in a flurry of dirt, rocks, and smoke, barely missing Kyle, who lay on the ground, struggling to get up.
Scott was free!
***
He had no idea where he was. He didn’t even know the name of the city, but he didn’t have time to stop and ask.
Thundering down two-lane streets, past downtown shops and brick buildings, he searched desperately for something to help him know which way to go.
A sign flashed by pointing to Interstate 24. He turned onto the on ramp and flew north on the interstate highway and then forced himself to slow his mind down, lest he be pulled over by the police. Then it occurred to him that the police may be the only people who could help him, so he would welcome seeing a blue light in his rear view mirror. He had no idea how he would explain that he was driving a stolen vehicle in an unknown town and trying to find directions home, but it just might work.
An exit sign zipped by. ‘Nashville.’ He pounded the steering wheel with his right hand while holding onto the steering wheel with the fingers of his left hand to keep from pressing on the wound. He was in fucking Nashville, Tennessee. Now he knew where he was. If only he could figure out how to get home. Almost too late he realized he was heading in the wrong direction. He jerked the wheel over to the right and took the exit ramp. At the bottom of the ramp he turned left, dodging oncoming cars at the intersection, went under the interstate and headed left again to go back onto I-24 in the other direction. He floored it.
He weighed his options. If he had a cell phone, he could call Grace and have her meet him somewhere safe. They could run away together and stay away as long as necessary. He considered pulling off the highway to call from a pay phone, but pay phones are the dinosaurs of modern communication—there were few left. Also, he was sure Blackwell and Kyle were on their way to his house just as he was. If they got to Grace before he did, he knew they would kill her.
He could go straight to the police, but how would he explain his plight? The cops would never believe a mad doctor and his assistant were chasing him because he had psychic ability. They’d lock him up and destroy the key. And Grace would die.
As he left the Nashville city limits, the reality of his situation came back to him full force. He had just stabbed one man, broken another’s knee, and staged a spectacular getaway. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. Fear wrapped around him like a boa and he almost started to cry. He shook off the fear. He had to make plans.
Scott searched Kyle’s car. He was not surprised to find a pistol in the glove box. Flying down the highway at ninety miles an hour, he fiddled with the gun until he thought he had released the safety. He had to be sure. Pushing a button, he opened the moon roof overhead, pushed the gun out into the night sky and squeezed the trigger. The blast of the gun combined with the powerful recoil made him jump and jerk on the steering wheel, causing the racing car to zigzag back and forth. He jammed on his brakes and the car squealed and swerved until he regained control.
He was about four hours from home. It took him two and a half. No policemen came to his aid. At about one o’clock in the morning, he rocketed up the driveway and jammed the brakes to a stop. Grabbing the pistol he ran to the front door shouting at the top of his lungs, “Grace. Wake up. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
Gumby charged the front door as he opened it, snarling, growling, and barking.
Grace ran out from the bedroom as he switched the lights on. “Scott!” She grabbed him in a full, welcome hug. “Oh, my God. I was so worried.”
“No time. Grab some clothes. They may be right behind me.”
“Who? What happened?”
“They were going to kill me after they discovered how to copy my ability,” he said. “We’ll talk about that on the road. Get dressed and come with me.”
“Who?”
“Blackwell. He’s still alive.”
Horror filled her eyes with brutal blackness.
“Should I pack?”
“No time.” He grabbed Gumby’s leash and struggled to get the wriggling dog to stand still long enough to drape the leash over his neck.
Grace raced out of the bedroom wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Should we take the Prius?” she asked.
“Hell, no.”
“Where’d you get this?” she asked when they entered the driveway and saw the Mustang.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Scott yelled. He opened the door, pulled the seat forward and half-lifted, half-pushed Gumby into the back.
Grace climbed in the passenger’s side and Scott mounted the driver’s. The engine roared and he shifted into reverse.
The rear of the Mustang jolted with a loud crash bouncing Grace and Scott from one side to the other. Gumby fared worse.
Blackwell’s BMW collided with the left-rear side of their car, throwing the vehicle through the mailbox and into the front yard.
Scott’s left hand exploded in pain as he squeezed the steering wheel to stable himself. He quickly regained his senses and cranked the motor again. Jerking the wheel to the right, he aimed the car toward the street.
The passenger door of the BMW snapped open and Kyle jumped out just as Scott jammed on the accelerator. The Mustang hurtled forward, crushing Kyle and the door and pushing the BMW sideways.
Blackwell had pulled a shotgun from the back seat of the car. Somehow, he backed out of the driver’s seat and away from the sliding vehicle. He aimed from the hip and pulled the trigger. The Mustang’s rear tire ripped into shreds, tossing the
car about like a rudderless ship in a violent storm.
Scott managed to pull the wheel around so the driver’s side was facing Blackwell’s car. He, too, jumped out of the car determined to stop this rampage or die trying. He aimed Kyle’s pistol at Blackwell just as the doctor was reloading the shotgun. The bullet missed by inches. Blackwell raised the stock to his shoulder as Scott’s second shot tore through the right side of his chest.
Blackwell was down, but not out. He was definitely at a disadvantage because his right eye was his good eye, but the right side of his body was now almost useless because of Scott’s lucky shot. Still, he managed to tip the shotgun in Scott’s direction and reach for the trigger.
Scott had taken five steps toward Blackwell and continued to march in his direction. He pulled the trigger on the pistol twice. The shots shattered the window in the BMW. He shot a fourth time and the bullet smashed into Blackwell’s chest, hurling him back toward the ground.
Gumby barked furiously from the back seat of the Mustang.
Grace dashed around the front of the car to Scott who was checking to make sure Blackwell was dead. He extended his hand to the doctor’s neck and felt for a pulse.
Blackwell’s eyes opened wide and he gasped deeply. With a guttural groan, his eyes closed and his head fell back to the grass.
This time he truly was dead.
2nd Sight: Capturing Insight Page 20