by Sarah Noffke
“So you have no idea who this mole could be?” I say, realizing how defeated I must be if I’m asking my bloody shrink for clues. I’ve questioned half of the employees at the Institute. My agents have detailed the other half. No one is suspicious of leaking information to Vivian. And yet I know that she’s one step ahead of us. Roya’s abilities to news report have been sabotaged, which has put us at a serious disadvantage in multiple ways. Worst of all, Vivian is watching my every move and I can’t stop it.
“If I did know anything about the mole then I’d tell you because the security of the Institute and its members is my top priority,” the doctor says. “However, I will offer you this because I dare say it might help. I know you’re an extremely talented man with the ability to think critically. You’re what I’d also call an efficient thinker. That’s what’s made you so successful in your role as the Head Strategist. You can size up a situation fairly quickly and make snap decisions. And from watching you I think this is mostly because one, you understand the human condition better than most and two, because you operate based on statistics and probabilities.”
“Well, thanks for the character analysis, but that wasn’t as helpful as you thought,” I say, realizing this guy certainly has me pegged better than most. However, I’m not going to tell him that.
“I also think that in a rare case, such as this, your efficient thinking might be responsible for you missing something. Is there a person you’ve missed or dismissed or not investigated properly because of your way of analyzing?” Dr. Raydon says.
“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I say, but to my surprise I don’t really believe it. I have definitely missed something. I’ve glazed right over this mole. There’s someone I’ve crossed off the list prematurely and it’s most likely because the superior reasoning skills in my head failed. I guess there’s a first for everything.
“Ren, do you mind if I’m blunt with you on this Vivian situation?”
I narrow my eyes at the carpet before taking a seat in the other repulsive chair covered in dumb hunting dogs. I’m actually a little unnerved by the observations Dr. Raydon could make. What the fuck is going on with me?
“What,” I finally say with a growl.
“You’re used to a villain who you can fight. One you have to track down, stop by using your powers, and one who is purely evil. And you’re struggling with Vivian because you’re trying to approach her with the same methods you’ve used on other enemies, but based on what you’ve told me and the expression you get when you talk about her—”
“I don’t get an expression,” I snap.
He nods slowly, a knowing look on his face. “Right. Well regardless, I want you to consider that this isn’t a villain you can defeat by fighting her.”
“Dr. Raydon, do you mind if I’m blunt with you?” I say.
“By all means,” he says.
“You have no idea what you’re fucking talking about. Defeat happens when two sides oppose and one wins. Hence a battle. Vivian and I aren’t in a partnership. She’s an evil witch who I’m trying to stop from controlling unsuspecting Americans,” I say, and still I don’t fully buy everything I’ve said. There’s something not right here. Something I’m undoubtedly missing.
“Well, Ren, you yourself admitted that she’s not pushing back at you. Vivian has brought you in and told you her plan. And therefore my best advice to you is to use what you have in this situation to your advantage. Stop making this into a battle when it could be a negotiation.”
And just like that, the daft shrink gives me the solution I’ve been looking for. I stand at once, intrigued by this new idea.
“Ah, I recognize that look. You’ve had an epiphany,” Dr. Raydon says, sounding proud.
“Yes,” I say, rolling the plan around in my head. I have been approaching this all wrong. The bloody hippies were right. Make love, not war.
Chapter Sixteen
“The key is to make yourself as small of a target as possible,” Clint says, as he stands with his body on profile. The fighting instructor is as tall as me, and we’re built about the same, which makes it easier to model his positions. I pivot my feet to match his, one in front of the other, body turned to the side, hands in front.
For years Clint Solberg has been responsible for teaching my agents everything from kung fu to kick boxing. It was one of the rare trainings I never had since I was never in the field. However, I required that all my agents be trained in at least one martial art. I was reminded of why this had been such a genius decision on my part when I confronted James, the paralyzer, in San Francisco. He’s now under the protection of the Institute since Vivian would no doubt use him as a weapon again or murder him the way she killed Sophie, the girl who made me hallucinate in Dallas.
Sometimes we can’t rely on our gifts. Sometimes they don’t work. Or as in that circumstance with James when I wasn’t allowed to use my power. I have to remind myself that as much sympathy as I might have for Vivian, she can still disable my powers if she so desires to. Thankfully she didn’t at our last meeting.
“Now I want you to think constant movement,” Clint says, bouncing on the balls of his heels. “A moving target is the hardest to hit properly.”
I check myself in the mirrors on the studio wall. Maybe I don’t need this shit. It makes me feel common, like the rest of the people in the Institute. Then I’m reminded of the fingers I broke when I punched James to stop him from murdering three men. He was successful and one, Vivian’s father died; the other two, her uncles, are still locked in comas with little hope of waking and/or functioning in a healthy capacity. And then I remind myself of what this woman is capable of. I keep finding myself deluded into thinking she’s somehow just misguided. I keep wanting to believe she’s not evil. But she has the power to control anyone with her voice. She’s used that power to recruit innocent Dream Travelers and turn them into assassins. Her ultimate mission may be somewhat altruistic but the end doesn’t justify the means. And still I’m torn on her ultimate mission. Controlling even for good can’t be right. Making people get along is wrong. And I get that in some ways it’s what the Lucidites have done. Even Trey isn’t sold on the idea that Vivian needs to be stopped, but this is my mission and something tells me that it isn’t right even if I’m not firm in that opinion yet.
“Now hands up, blocking your face, elbows close to your body,” Clint says.
I do as he says a bit reluctantly. “Just tell me how to hit someone without fucking myself up,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Ren, the best offense is a—”
“Save the strategy talk for the idiot agents I send to you,” I say, dropping my hands. “Teach me how to take someone out. And punching is fine but what I really want is the most efficient way. Pressure points. Kill spots. If I’m using my hands then I want to have the quickest, most direct way to turn the odds in my favor. I’m not interested in bloodying my hands or their face.”
“Of course that would be your strategy,” he says, stopping his bouncing and directing his attention to a dummy on the nearby wall. “Although you don’t want to train on defense, I will tell you that you need to be focused on someone’s hands in a confrontation or anything that you suspect will become a confrontation. That’s key to outmaneuvering your opponent and delivering a deadly strike. You’ve got to always be vigilant, and watching someone’s hands is usually the best way.”
“Hands,” I say, waving mine at him. “Got it.”
“Yes,” he says, moving his fist back as if he’s about to launch a punch at me. “It’s called telegraphing. You’re used to doing this with your mind, I suspect, watching people’s expressions to determine how they will react.”
Clint, although I’d never tell him this, is pretty astute. The guy must be if he picked this up about me. He has a way of studying people that takes considerable focus. I’ve seen him do it when training agents, breaking down each of their movements until he determines how they need to shift to do it right. And he’s
correct. I study micro expressions as well as can dive into the inner workings of people’s minds. It doesn’t tell me what they’re thinking, but rather how they think. This gives me cues about their behavior but not always their actions. Watching for a telegraphed cue will be helpful. As an agent I need to add as many skills to my arsenal as possible.
“If you watch people’s eyes you can detect where they are going to target you,” Clint continues. “Watch their shoulders to determine which arm they are coming at you with. A shift in hips tells you they’re about to kick you. And rapid blinks is probably an indicator they’re about to attack.”
“So they attack,” I say. “I block, is that right?”
“The best block is avoidance,” he says.
“You’re a bloody coward,” I say.
Clint doesn’t grant me a reaction; instead he says, “Blocking sometimes is necessary but then you’d be too busy to plan an attack. Instead, consider pivoting to avoid an attack. Then you’re in a perfect position to counterattack and for you I have the perfect assault. Since you’re practiced at collecting and harnessing energy I’m going to teach you chi pressure points.”
“Harnessing chi sounds like something a barefoot and dirty hippie would do,” I say.
There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. “It’s about absorbing the frequencies around you and by doing that you exponentiate your assault,” Clint says, holding his hands a few inches apart, like he’s holding on to a ball. “You gather this already present energy and then when you strike a pressure point you use this power. If this is done right, the slightest touch will have the power to knock someone out.” He holds up two fingers. “All you need, with a mind like yours, to overpower a giant physically is a lot of focus and these,” he says, waving his pointer and middle finger in the air.
“All right, sounds great,” I say, a bit impatient. I loathe being the student.
“But finding these pressure points in these types of circumstances is difficult. And a failure might result in your death. Especially if you’re unwilling to learn any other form of combat,” he says.
“I’m not a man who knows what failure feels like. Show me these bloody pressure points. I’ll find them if the need arises,” I say.
Chapter Seventeen
In the past week domestic violence has dropped six percent. That doesn’t seem like a big number but that kind of decline has never happened. And it’s all because of Vivian. She’s been able to do what politics and religion have failed to do for centuries. And this is just the beginning. Smart Pods haven’t been out that long and she only started with the initial ten thousand. However, now the company is already on back order, unable to fulfill the growing demands for these devices which people are calling the perfect butler. But they have no idea that these seemingly friendly devices are controlling them. Smart Pods are stopping them when their voice rises and when name calling starts. Stopping the small abuse that breaks down families little by little. These little cones force apologies out of people’s mouths and make them erase the curse words from future conversation. It makes them get along.
And is that inherently wrong? Less violence and neglect does make my job easier. Already I have agents idly sitting by hoping an assignment comes in and yet I have all assignments easily covered for the first time ever. I struggle more and more to find the issue with what Vivian is doing. Is it really any different from what I do, forcing solutions on situations that aren’t my problems? I also have agents intervene in cases related to natural disasters or terrorist attacks, which is me fixing the world in a holistic sense, not just targeting families like Vivian. But in stating this fact am I trying to justify what I do while stating that Vivian is in the wrong? I always know where I stand on everything, and yet I’m being faced with my very first conundrum.
To my dismay it appears that Adelaide has found the way out of her room. She’s mostly been in her room lately, spending her time sleeping. I suspect she’s also spending her time with the thing and the nanny who likes talking to me way too much. I consider cruising past the den and straight to my study but for some odd reason I decide to pop into the den to see her. If I find out that Vivian is using voice control on me to be nice to my offspring then I’ll wring her neck…gently.
With a slippery feeling in my veins I stop in the entryway to the den. My eyes take longer than they should to determine what I’m seeing. Adelaide is stretched out on the sofa, her head back, and mouth wide open. Her long hair looks to be wrapped around her face. It looks like an eye mask used to block out the obtrusive sun streaming through the bank of windows at her back. And lying on the floor, next to one of Dahlia’s pair of French bulldog statues that flank the couch, is the thing. Its eyes are open and it is waving its hands in the air as though trying to catch a fly or cast an incantation.
I cough loudly, which only makes the thing flinch. Adelaide shows no other sign of stirring.
“Adelaide,” I say loudly.
“Huh,” she says, lifting her head up, but then quickly realizing she can’t see, she fumbles for her face, untangling the red knots away from her eyes. Ungracefully she pulls the mess out of her face and looks up at me with an angry expression.
“Why did you wake me up?” she says once she’s taken me in.
“What is that doing on the floor?” I say, pointing at the still squirming thing.
She jerks her head to the ground and then giggles.
“I’m a genius, aren’t I? I kept worrying he was going to roll off the sofa and on to the ground. So I just stuck him on the ground. Problem solved,” she says. And then she yawns loudly, stretching her arms above her head.
“Not genius. More like moronic. The floor is where people walk with fucking dirty shoes. Someone could also step on it,” I say, realizing I’m actually quite offended.
She shakes her head and giggles again, which is quite unlike her. Adelaide isn’t the giggling type. Usually she just sneers in response to most things. “Nobody is going to step on him. The dog is guarding Lucien,” she says, pointing at the stone statue of the happy bulldog.
“Pick it up,” I say, pointing again at the wiggling thing.
Like a spoiled brat she ties her arms across her chest and shakes her head. “Hell no. He’s finally quiet. I’m not starting him up again.” Then she laughs again. “You still call Lucien an it,” she says like it amuses her.
“I don’t foresee that changing,” I say.
She lowers her eyes and slightly grimaces. “I kind of get it. I mean, why you would refer to him like that and be so unnurturing.” And just then I catch the slur to her words. Before I’d noticed it but chalked it up to her being tired. However, this is no tired slur. I know the difference. And I’m just about to say something when the demon’s mouth pops open and it unleashes a screeching soul-stabbing cry.
“Oh fuck, not again,” Adelaide says and doesn’t rise to make the thing stop. Instead she claps her hands over her ears and thrusts her head down to her lap.
“Make it stop,” I say at full volume to be heard over the screaming.
She shakes her head, which is pressed into her hands. “No. I don’t know how. And he hates me. That’s all he ever does,” Adelaide says.
I stare down at the thing that is now bright red. “Have you tried feeding it? Every demon needs its proper nutrition,” I say.
She jerks her head up with a laugh. “He is a little monster. And yes, all I do is pump milk for him. My boobs can’t take any more for a while.”
I almost gag from hearing this. “For the love of fucking God, never say anything remotely close to that to me again,” I say.
“What part?” she says with a mischievous grin. “The part about my boobs? I have two, you know, and I also have—”
“Adelaide, don’t you fucking dare,” I say loudly to make her stop before she makes me vomit. “And make that thing—”
And then I’m cut off by the nanny-lady hurrying past me and into the room. She scoops up the thing off the gr
ound, with an exaggerated sigh. Then she whips around to face Adelaide at once, her actions coated in anger. “What is wrong with you, child? Why didn’t you pick up the baby?” she says.
Adelaide actually shrugs in response, no remorse on her face.
“Don’t you know how to take care of a baby?” the lady says.
“Nope, he never taught me,” she says, casting a finger at me. “He never taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, or take care of a baby.”
“I’m about to teach you how to shut your bloody mouth,” I say, which produces another ridiculous giggle from Adelaide.
“The nanny shoots me a glare and then shakes her head. “And you, Mr. Lewis, you’re perfectly capable of picking up the baby as well, but you just left him there.”
“I was letting him cry it out,” I say as guiltless as Adelaide.
“And what was he doing on the floor?” the woman asks me, offense covering her face.
“Look, woman, that’s where I found him,” I say.
“My name isn’t woman, I go by Cheryl,” she says smugly.
“Whatever, and if you want answers to your daft questions then why don’t you ask the drunk over there about her faulty logic,” I say, pointing.
At this Adelaide’s amused expression drops and is covered with real shame.
“That’s right,” I say, nodding to her. “Real classy move breaking into the liquor cabinet.” I then indicate to the armoire on the far wall that is still unlatched although Dahlia and I don’t drink the fine wines inside it. They’re all for Dahlia’s dumbass, hotshot guests. With a jerk I pull my wrist up, yanking my arm a bit to angle my sleeve down so I can read my watch. “Wow, and getting plastered before three o’clock in the afternoon. Motherhood really brought the real angel out in you,” I say.