by Peter Parkin
Mike grimaced. He wasn't sure he wanted to see Dr. Teskey again, especially with so much still up in the air. But for Cindy's sake he would. "Okay, we'll go."
"Good." She rubbed his arm. "You must be feeling a lot of stress. Are you sure it's too dangerous to report all of this to the police? And lying to the Board must be a huge weight on your shoulders."
"Yeah, it is. And as for the danger, I may be overreacting on that," Mike lied. She didn't know the other parts and that's how it would remain. "I didn't like the words used in the birthday card message, and I know it was Samson's writing. He was demonstrating to me that he could very easily have our kids picked up. He didn't hurt them, but I know he meant it as a warning. He doesn't want me to disclose the fraud to my Board—or the police—pure and simple. I'm worried that if I do, something bad will happen to us, either by him or one of his cronies. I can't take that chance and if I'm breaking the law by keeping this quiet from the police and deceiving the Board, well, so be it. I've had to decide which is the worst danger and I've decided that it's Samson."
Cindy shivered and folded her arms across her chest. Mike took a long sip of his martini. "Hon, I'm hoping we can just sell those properties and bury this whole thing. That way, Samson will be out of my life, and I can just allow things to slide back to normal. He'll have walked off with millions of the company's dollars, but that's the least of my concerns."
"What are your chances of selling those properties soon?"
"Probably not good, at least not close to the price we paid for them. They were inflated by millions. And now with the recent floods north of Rio, and the public display of beheadings down in Acapulco, our chances are even worse. However, the one positive thing about the publicity from those two events is that the Board will probably accept a recommendation from me that we drastically lower our prices to sell those turkeys. At 'fire sale' prices, they may just go."
Cindy laid her head against Mike's shoulder. "Things were going so well for us. We shouldn't have these stresses at this point in our lives. And Gerry— Christ, I'm so disheartened to think that a close friend would do that to us. Why didn't we see any signs? Do you think Amanda knows? And what did he do with his share of the money? Surely Amanda would have noticed large amounts going into their account."
Mike shook his head. "He probably buried the money in an offshore account. And I don't think she suspected anything, I really don't."
Cindy sat up straight, and looked directly into Mike's eyes. "Amanda told me about your visit to her house. You never told me about that. Why?"
Mike lowered his eyes. "I just kind of went there on automatic pilot without understanding why. In hindsight, I know I was in 'Gerry mode.' I wasn't myself at all."
"I was alarmed when I heard about the things you said to her—you knew things that probably only Gerry would have known; and about your supposed university days together when she attended in a totally different campus section than you. She was in classes with Gerry, not you. She also said that you were affectionate towards her in the same way that Gerry used to be. It freaked her out. And it freaks me out!"
Mike cracked his knuckles. "Nothing happened between us, Cindy. Be assured of that. But I know I said some things that were strange to me. I'm sorry. I had no control over that. Just like when I called you 'Mandy' while we were in bed together."
Cindy continued. "You knew about the security patrol Gerry had arranged for. Do you think that was related to all of this embezzlement stuff? Was he afraid for his family for that reason?
"I don't know."
"These thoughts of Gerry's that you get—you can't just think hard and summon them?"
Mike chuckled. "No, I wish I could. I'd be able to figure things out about all of this much quicker. The thoughts, and skills like the boxing, seem to come without warning."
Cindy shook her head. "Too weird—maybe we should arrange some security ourselves until you get clear of this mess."
Mike nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. We already have a good alarm system so I'll arrange for a night patrol as well—the same company that we use for security at the office. They offer armed patrols."
Cindy put her arms around Mike's neck. "I appreciate your telling me all of this. It takes some of the uncertainty away, but I have to admit, it's all pretty alarming. I always thought shit like this only happened in the movies." Mike could see that she was swallowing hard, fighting a dry mouth. Then he heard her speak, with difficulty, the words he didn't want to hear. "It's still...too soon for you to...move back in. I don't feel...right about it yet. I think there are...some things...you're not telling me. Just a gut feeling I have. I'm sorry."
Mike could feel his heart sink in his chest. Cindy was as perceptive as usual. He sucked up his disappointment. "Okay, I understand." He kissed her cheek. "But will you at least accompany me to my high school reunion next week? I know it's probably boring for you, but it only comes around every five years. I'd like you to be with me."
"Oh God, I hate those things! All you old jocks getting together and reminding yourselves about what big shots you were in your wild youth years. It's nauseating."
Mike laughed. "I know, I know. We just give ourselves an ego boost every few years. Keeps us going."
Cindy shook her head. "I guess 'boys will be boys.' Alright, I'll go with you, but you owe me one, Mister Baxter!"
Mike smiled lovingly at her. He owed her more than just one.
Chapter 26
Mike was enjoying the view of busy Yonge Street from Bob Teskey's office. There was always something to look at on Yonge, Canada's longest street. It was the hub of Toronto, with some sections also unfortunately being the shame of Toronto. The main subway line ran beneath this street, and not too far from here was the stretch of track where Mike had beaten up the punks who were tormenting that pregnant lady. That seemed so long ago now, but in reality it was only about four months.
He turned from the window and smiled at Cindy. She was sitting on the couch sipping her coffee and watching him with a curious look on her face. She was probably still trying to figure out her husband, the enigma. The poor girl, she had a lot to be puzzled over and she'd only heard the half of it.
Mike sat down beside her and glanced at his watch. "In all the years we've known Bob, he's never been on time. We're always kept waiting. What's the deal with that?"
In answer to Mike's question, the door opened and in walked Bob, resplendent in a black linen suit, white shirt with gold cufflinks, all accented by a red silk tie. "Hello Baxters! Nice to see you again." He gave Cindy an extra-long hug, which made Mike flinch just a bit. Then he grabbed Mike's hand in a hearty handshake and Mike could feel that the squeeze was a little on the aggressive side. It took a couple of seconds for Bob to let his hand go but strangely it seemed as if he was trying to squeeze as hard as he could. Mike winced.
"Let's sit down, shall we?" Bob pulled one of the guest chairs closer to the couch and motioned for Mike and Cindy to resume their seats.
"So, Mike, we'll skip the small talk and get straight to it. This is Saturday after all, and I'm sure we'd all rather be doing something else, right?"
"Agreed. I'm willing to leave right now if this is an inconvenience."
"No, no. I wanted to see you. It's been quite a while since we last talked and I've been worried about you. Cindy's been keeping me posted, but I was hoping you would pop in once in a while yourself."
"Too busy—and you've known me long enough to also know that I'm not a big believer in head-shrinking. I'm here because Cindy asked me to be here. I'd rather just meet you out on the golf course."
Bob crossed his legs, and put on his most serious psychiatrist face. "You have to realize that you've had a serious accident that may have long-term implications for you. Already, you're out of your own home because of some of the symptoms."
Mike turned to Cindy and gave her a look. Cindy shrugged. "I've been keeping Bob up to date, Mike—for your own good. We don't exactly have a normal life
right now, and I want it to get back to normal, quickly. Don't you?"
"Sure, but every aspect of our private lives doesn't need to be shared." Bob quickly changed gears to break the tension. "Tell me about any new symptoms you've been having."
Mike stirred his coffee, and answered him while staring into the swirling liquid. "Nothing other than what you know already. We talked about this last time—my adoption of some of Gerry's characteristics. I still think there's something weird going on with that."
Bob was writing some notes on his pad. "So, you've had some more incidents like the one on the subway?"
Mike squirmed. He took a quick look at Cindy. "I don't want to go into details, but there have been a couple of other cases where I became a boxer. Quite a good one too."
Cindy leaned forward to catch his eye. "You didn't tell me about those." "No, I didn't want to worry you. They were just minor incidents anyway, nothing sensational like the subway thing."
Mike could hear Bob's pen furiously scratching away at his pad. "Cindy told me about your visit to Mrs. Upton's house, and the things you said to her there. What are your thoughts on that?"
Mike glared at Cindy again. "No thoughts at all. I got caught up once more in a Gerry memory, and it didn't seem as if I had any control over it."
"Mike, I told you I would be keeping in touch with Dr. Fenton down in Sarasota. We've been talking quite a bit, and you agreed before you left Florida that it would be okay if we shared information with each other. Do you remember that?"
Mike shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, I have no problem with that. If it helps the scientific cause, and could possibly help me too, no sweat."
"Good. Well, he's as intrigued by your case as I am. You're the only known subject of a lightning bolt accident who seems to have adopted the characteristics of another person. This is quite extraordinary."
"I'm thrilled to be such good entertainment for the two of you." Mike didn't hide the sarcasm. Cindy nudged him with her elbow, clearly annoyed.
Bob laughed. "I'll ignore that crack. I'm learning a lot from Fenton and his Keraunopathy specialists. There is still much to learn, especially from a case such as yours." Bob got up from his chair and sat on the edge of his desk. "Mike, can you remember how you were feeling each time, just before these changes came over you?"
Mike sighed. "For the fighting—and I'm not a fighter by nature—it was anger that seemed to trigger it. But not every time I got angry, only those few times that I've mentioned. So it seems to be a bit selective."
"How about fear? Did you go into fighting mode when you've been afraid?"
Mike remembered back to when he was standing naked in the alley in front of a madman with a gun pointed at his head. "No, I would have to say that when fear was predominant, the fighting stance was not triggered."
Bob wrote some more notes. "How about when you started thinking of Mrs. Upton as your wife—when you called her Mandy, when you said things to her that could only have come from Gerry's memory, when you got affectionate with her. Also, when you were in a tender moment with Cindy and you called her 'Mandy' by mistake. What were you feeling at those times?"
Mike ran his fingers through his thick hair. "That's a good question, Bob." He paused for a couple of seconds. "I would have to say I was peaceful, melancholy, not really thinking of anything too deep."
Bob nodded and scribbled again on his notepad. "You usually have a temper, don't you Mike?"
"No, I wouldn't say 'usually.' I can lose my temper at certain times, but I'm never out of control. I'm demanding, sure, anybody who has ever worked for me will tell you that. But there's a big difference between being demanding and assertive, versus having out of control temper fits."
Bob nodded, wrote a couple of notes, then put his pad down and strode directly to Mike's side of the couch. Then, out of nowhere, he slapped him hard across the face. Mike felt the blow but didn't really comprehend the source. He thought he was dreaming. Did Bob really just slap him across the face? He jumped to his feet, and in the background he could hear Cindy shouting, "Bob, what are you doing!"
Mike could feel his muscles tensing, and a rage building inside of him, right down in his gut. He was now standing toe to toe with Bob. Through clenched teeth he seethed, "Don't fucking touch me again!"
Bob laughed in his face, then took his glasses off and set them on the coffee table.
"I'll bet you use that temper on Cindy and the girls, don't you? I'm guessing you're an abuser, a control freak! Aren't you?" Mike saw too late Bob's other hand swooping up from his side and striking him on the other side of the face. He turned his cheek to soften the blow, and could feel his fists clenching, then rising quickly to a now familiar position. He had no control anymore. Cindy was crying, coming around the coffee table.
Bob demanded, "Answer me!" This time Mike was ready. He saw the hand coming up again. He blocked it with his left forearm, and delivered a crushing blow with his right to Bob's mid-section. Bob grunted and doubled over. Then Mike followed up with a left cross to Bob's jaw, sending him flying back against his desk and crumbling to the floor.
Mike watched as Cindy ran over to Bob and knelt down beside him, cradling his head. Bob groaned, rubbed his chin, and struggled to his feet. "I'm okay. I can take a punch—used to do a little boxing myself a long time ago. I must say that was one amazing combination you laid on me."
Cindy glared at Bob like an angry schoolmarm. "Why did you do that? You provoked him!" Then she turned to Mike. "Did you have to hit him so hard? I've never seen you like that before!" She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Are you sure you're okay, Bob?"
"I'm fine. More than you realize."
Mike's muscles were starting to relax. He started seeing flashbacks of the last few moments, and couldn't believe what had just happened. Why did Bob slap him? What was the purpose of that? Bob was a professional, and they were friends. This was just so out of line for someone of Bob's caliber that it was hard for Mike to believe it.
Bob was still rubbing his chin as he came back over to his chair and sat down. He calmly put on his glasses, picked up his pad, and wrote some more notes as if nothing at all had happened. Mike and Cindy didn't say a word. They were both in a state of shock.
Finally Bob spoke. His jaw was starting to show signs of swelling, but he didn't seem to notice, or care. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Mike. Believe me, it was a hard thing to do to someone I care about so much. But I had to see for myself. I had to see what it would take to provoke you into the boxing mode. I was watching your physiological reactions very closely. It was amazing how quickly you changed right in front of my eyes. It was real—and, well, eerie."
"So you deliberately baited me? Quite frankly, that pisses me off."
"I don't blame you for being upset. But let's get things into perspective here. We just did a controlled experiment, and it worked. You demonstrated an incredible transformation. I had to see it first hand, in order to be able to understand it and help you."
Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What the fuck did you learn from slapping my face that could possibly help me?"
"I used that provocation technique at the suggestion of Fenton. It's a technique that's used sometimes in the States to ascertain degrees of latent aggression. I'd never heard of it before, but it makes sense. How can I help you? First of all, I can prescribe pills that can keep this reaction of yours in check. Secondly, I'd like to take you to Florida for further testing with a team of Keraunopathy specialists that Fenton will assemble. You've created quite a stir amongst the medical community that has heard of your case. Further study will teach us a lot, and will probably help you as well."
Mike stood up. "So, I'm a curiosity now, am I? A guinea pig? Someone you doctors can all poke, squeeze, provoke, videotape—and slap—then put in a straitjacket?"
"Come on now, Mike. It wouldn't be like that at all. It would be a professional study that would probably culminate in your attendance at a medical convention where your case would
be studied and presented."
Mike shook his head in disgust. Cindy grabbed his arm. "Mike, maybe you should at least listen."
Mike sat down again and Bob grabbed the opportunity. "What I'm hearing from my colleagues in Florida is that what may have happened to you is indeed scientifically possible. Think of your brain as a hard drive—in fact the most sophisticated hard drive imaginable. You're familiar with how we can easily transfer data from one computer hard drive to another, or to a flash drive. No problem. It's feasible under the right circumstances—such as when the lightning bolt hit at the exact moment your head and Gerry's were in contact—that some data along with motor skill memory could be transferred just like with computers."
Bob paused to let that sink in. Mike was listening, but he also had an uncontrollable urge to just get up and leave. Bob continued. "Mike, it's apparent that when anger is the predominant emotion, the fighting mode is triggered. From what you told me, when fear is predominant, no such change takes place. When you are at peace or feeling content and romantic, the memories of Amanda Upton and her children creep into your brain. So it seems that changes take place when it's one extreme or the other, and certain triggers cause certain changes. This is quite remarkable. The best comparison for the fighting mode would be the story of, don't laugh, 'The Incredible Hulk.' But further study may discover that other emotions could also cause other aspects of Gerry to emerge. Right now we know that fear doesn't cause the fighting mode, but it could under the right situation cause an entirely different skill of Gerry's to emerge. Same thing for joy, sadness, etc. It might all depend on what skill is needed at the time, for whatever. Example: fear—if you were in danger of drowning—might turn you into an expert swimmer if that's a skill that Gerry had. Or joy might turn you into a comedian if that was one of Gerry's skills. Do you get my point?"
Mike snorted, then put his arm around Cindy's waist, gently nudging her up out of her seat. Together, they walked to the door and Mike opened it with a flourish. With his back to Bob he said, "I want no part of your experiments. I refuse to be a lab rat, allowing you and your colleagues to become rich and famous by making a spectacle out of me at your conventions and in your medical journals."