Simon Rising

by Brian D Howard

  “So what are the possibilities, then?” Moore asked. “You’re positive he couldn’t have faked it? Could someone have given him something to fake the symptoms? Or did he just spontaneously get better? Did you run other scans later on?”

  “You can’t fake nerve damage like that, Agent! You can’t fake no longer having pain or reflexes. Reflexes are things the brain doesn’t control. Withdrawal reflexes are spinal reflexes. There’s no autonomous control of those.

  “Most of the time, paralysis like his is indicative of spinal cord damage, but it certainly can happen from brain damage, which was the case here. Now, patients with cerebral paraplegia can sometimes regain much of their function, over time, but usually that’s over the course of many months with dedicated therapy. It’s not something that someone just recovers from within weeks. We did run another scan three days after this set, but it looks the same. I can pull it out if you don’t believe me. Once we saw that things were stable, and there were no change in symptoms, there was no call for additional scans.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Thorne interjected, “is that he could not have faked it, that it was genuine paralysis, and that it could not have recovered by now.”

  “Not in any realistic way, Lieutenant. I’ve heard the stories about a few people with seemingly miraculous healing powers, although so far there hasn’t been any medical evidence of it. And he certainly did not show any indications anything unusual. Other than not being even worse off than he was. Which he’s going to be if you can’t find him so we can get him back on antiepileptics. He’s almost certain to have seizures. We had him on levetiracetam. He’s going to need that daily for at least a year. Given the extent of damage, I wouldn’t be surprised if he needed it for the rest of his life.”

  “I think the couple or few people that might have weird healing abilities have been avoiding hospitals,” Thorne suggested. “Probably because they maybe don’t need them. But the only footage I’ve seen was someone who healed within minutes, not waiting a few weeks and then healing out of the blue.”

  “No medical precedent, yes. And certainly not Mr. Ambrose. Surgical incision healing was normal, bruise healing was normal. So there’s no medical answer to where he is or why he isn’t here. That’s something you people will have to figure out.”

  “We have camera footage that pretty clearly shows him walking out of this hospital by himself, Doctor,” Moore said. “I need some kind of explanation for that.”

  “What...more...can I tell you?” Anger, more than just simple defensiveness, increased the sharpness he spoke with. “Are you even sure what you saw? Maybe someone else?”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Moore said, knowing better than to even respond to where he was trying to go. She pulled Thorne aside and waited a moment for the doctor to huff away.

  “I saw Ambrose pretty quickly after he woke up,” she told Thorne. “He seemed disoriented and confused. I don’t think he was faking that. I don’t want to sound all conspiracy-theorist, but I suppose the right people could have faked his symptoms for him and doctored the test results. We don’t have chain of custody to know for certain that those scans were even Ambrose’s brain. If something like that’s what happened, Pierce was either in on it, or wasn’t looking at things closely enough to see what was going on. Right now I can accept either possibility, unless you’ve got something better.”

  “Nope,” Thorne said, shaking his head. “I got nothing.”

  “We’ll come back to the doctor. Right now we’re going to need to speak to everyone on the staff that has had access to or been part of his care.”

  “Um, that’s not going to be a short list,” Thorn suggested.

  “I hope you didn’t have anything planned for today. Let’s go get Weber and have him start on the list.”

  CHAPTER 8 – APARTMENT SHOPPING

  At first Steven couldn't make sense of the subtle flashes he sensed from his body as he woke; it seemed like random ‘noise.’ Cold air stung at his face—he was shivering. He supposed that was some involuntary thing controlled by some more primitive, undamaged part of his brain. What other damage might there be he wasn’t aware of?

  Sunlight lit the mostly blue sky, but a shadow cast by an air conditioner next to him blocked any warmth from it. He had lost track of direction and whether it was evening or morning. He would know in another hour or two, at which point it would either be coming up on nighttime or the sun would be higher in the sky.

  Whichever the case might be, what could he do about it? Plus, it wouldn't change what he needed to do. He either needed to cover a lot of ground evading the police manhunt likely to be out in force or he would need to find shelter to hide in.

  He was not in the hospital anymore. He was free. That freedom would never be taken from him again. He would be damned sure of that. He could not explain why or how he had this strange telekinetic power, but it gave him power. Maybe that was all he needed to know. He still did not know how much he could lift. At some point soon he was going to have to experiment with it. He wondered if he could lift a car telekinetically or not.

  Lift a car? That was the kind of thing costumed people in movies did, not something actual people did. Stories in the news had mentioned vigilante crime fighters in the city. The reporters had said nothing about costumes or capes, although he remembered seeing footage of someone in what looked like futuristic black body armor with a visored helmet.

  Right now he had other things to focus on. His freedom might be short-lived if he spent it all laying on a rooftop thinking. The longer he loitered here the greater the likelihood of police pursuit finding him, and then he would have to test his power against armed and trained men. So no more dallying, he chided himself.

  He lifted himself to sitting to better take in his surroundings. His vantage point from this part of the rooftop was not the best, and even sitting up the big, commercial air conditioner blocked his view, but he was also reluctant to stand up just yet. He felt safe and hidden where he was. His freedom was still a little tenuous, and he hesitated to do anything to get noticed.

  He had covered several blocks from the hospital in the dark before setting on this building. He had been unsure about levitating himself five stories up, but he needed a place to hide.

  He had passed several traffic cameras. Noticing them in places he expected them felt reassuring and odd at the same time. However he knew where to expect them, he did. Different parts of the brain, he supposed.

  There was another building the same height—across the street based on the gap between them. It did not seem like anyone would see him if he stood up though, so he did and he moved around to get a view of the area. Making his body walk came naturally. He had taken several steps before he realized he had done it without thinking. Maybe his damaged brain was already rewiring itself. People always talked about how remarkable a thing the brain was. He smiled, proud of how well he was adapting. He had not tracked the days since he woke up, but he thought it had only been a few weeks—a month at the most.

  Similar looking apartment buildings spread out on all sides. He should have paid more attention last night. He would pay more attention to his surroundings from now on. If he did run into police, he would need to know what was around him to have escape routes, or things to create barricades behind him.

  And it would not just be police, he realized with a concerned start. There was an FBI agent that first day. What had her name been? That meant he was a federal fugitive. The subtle light of his heartbeat quickened at the thought. They would have helicopters to look for him. The rooftop did not seem as isolated and secluded as it had.

  A strong need to be somewhere else—somewhere inside, ideally—threatened to overwhelm him. Apartment buildings did not seem the best places to hide in; there would be too much risk of being found by the people who lived there. That might lead to dangerous confrontations. That, in turn, would lead to police reports, which would point his pursuers to him.

  The apartments had
things he needed though. He hesitated a moment at the thought. Was he comfortable stealing from people? Whether he robbed banks in the past or not, did he want to be the kind of person who stole from people’s homes? It was not, but he conceded he did have needs important to his survival. He at least needed food, hygiene supplies, and clothes. Or he needed money to buy those things with. For now the simpler, practical solution was to take what he found. He would take just what he needed, he rationalized, just enough. He could gather what he needed from multiple apartments to reduce what he took from each person. That would at least minimize his impact on the people he was taking—he did not want to call it stealing—from.

  With multiple apartment buildings around him it should not be hard to find apartments whose occupants were out for the day—or evening, if that was what it was becoming. He could detect people by their movements through walls and on other floors, he remembered. That also meant he could determine how occupied or unoccupied a building was. Incredibly handy, he thought with a grin and a chuckle.

  The top floor apartments were mostly dark with stillness. He moved himself around the rooftop to survey the building beter. Some of the spaces below him held small movements he assumed to be pets, but only one apartment at the end seemed to have enough movement to be a person home. His fears of being discovered settled themselves some at that. Anyone coming home would be moving, so he would sense them before they could tell he was there. Probably with plenty of time for him to escape back outside. He could get in and out through their balconies, he realized, seeing the rows of balconies across the street, many with chairs or bar-be-cue grills.

  He made another pass of the building and checked for any movement that might mean a sleeping occupant. He detected heartbeats smaller and faster than his own. Dogs and cats, he assumed. One top floor apartment had a small area with several small moving things—an aquarium!

  Reaching out with his mind to scan for movement multiple floors below him he sensed people in the building, and even a person walking on the street five stories below him. That seemed unreal. Not for the first time he questioned why and how it was all happening. Again he had no answers or explanations, and he let the questions go.

  It was too much to take in. He paused to observe the building across the street. For a moment, he only wanted to focus on what he could see. Blinds or curtains covered most windows. The open ones showed no signs of anyone looking outside. He let his other awareness sweep through the building. There were people, but he was not worried about that. None of them were too near windows, and he saw no reason they would suddenly move to look at what was going on across the street.

  The building he was on had people, though not many. Only one was on the top floor, all the way at one end and appearing asleep. He ought to be able to get into at least a couple of apartments and get most of the necessities he would need to get through the day. The rest he would figure out after that.

  He stepped to the end of the roof and lowered himself like a drifting ghost to a balcony. How many people locked their fifth-floor balconies? The first one held when he tried it; it actually was locked. He lifted himself to the next balcony, and the door slid aside when he tried it.

  If I don’t touch anything I won’t even leave any fingerprints, he thought to himself with a chuckle. That would not be a problem. He hardly needed his fingers to move things, and there was certainly little risk of him absent-mindedly touching something. This was an ability he would probably have loved to have in his criminal days, he thought, wondering if his criminal days would ever be over. No matter how many laws he obeyed now he was still a wanted fugitive who escaped from police custody. Still, a criminal past did not mean he had to behave as a criminal now. Yes, he was about to burglarize an apartment. Yes, it was an illegal act. He could still be compassionate and minimize what he could, right? There was no way around being criminal with it, but he believed what he was doing would be understandable and forgivable. He hoped so, at least.

  He entered a living room with an enormous television across from a sofa the color of red wine. Four cherry bookshelf units bulged with more books than they were intended to hold. A painting of a rainbow falling out of textured gray clouds hung over the couch. Did he have a TV like that? What kind of books did he read? Focus, priorities.

  He moved through the living room to the kitchen and checked to see what kinds of food supplies he found. Cabinets were stuffed tight with packaged convenience food and canned vegetables. He frowned at the boxes in distaste, hoping he ate better than this. He discovered eggs in the refrigerator, along with canned soda, stacked plastic tubs of leftovers, and shelves full of condiments.

  He brought out the carton of brown eggs. It took a little looting around to find a skillet and spatula and then he cooked up four eggs. He wondered if he had a preference for how they were cooked. Scrambled seemed easy and natural, so he went with that, sprinkling pepper on them while the spatula stirred and turned. Did he always pepper his eggs?

  The fork floating up towards his face without a hand coming along was unreal. By the time he finished eating he was still not used to it. Food helped him feel a little better though.

  Afterwards, he considered the dishes he created. He decided to clean them up and put them back where he found them. It seemed nicer than just leaving them for whoever lived here to do. A dish soap container sat empty next to the faucet at the sink. He tried the cabinet under the sink, and while it sported quite the variety of cleaning chemicals, dish soap was conspicuously absent.

  “So much for that.” He still rinsed them off, floating them through the water. He realized he had no way to gauge how hot the water was. Hot should be towards the left, he thought, so he assumed it was the case. Regardless, it was only going to do so much. He was not going to put them away dirty. That seemed too rude and inconsiderate. He stacked everything neatly in the sink, telling himself it was really all he could do.

  He moved to the bedroom. A flowery green and yellow comforter and way too many pillows covered a tall bed. Exploring the bedroom closet and dresser for clothes he found dresses, skirts, some pants and blouse outfits—all women’s. He was not surprised based on the bed, but it would have been nice to find better clothes than sweats.

  There was a mirror in the bathroom, though, and the reflection there held his attention for several minutes. The haggard and worn face staring back at him was an unfamiliar one, and not one he would call handsome. Sunken hazel-gray eyes with bags under them stared back at him skeptically. He was a mess. Fifties, maybe? Creases marked the spaces around his eyes, on his forehead, alongside his mouth. His eyes were uneven, his nose a little crooked. He didn’t like it. His mouth seemed small for his face. Did he ever smile? He tried a few smiles, but they were all missing something. They all looked either stupid or goofy. He sighed.

  “Who are you, asshole?”

  There was a scar on his chin, old and faded and hiding at the edge of stubble. What might have caused that? Anything, he supposed.

  Brown hair in need of some serious brushing showed gray in spots. He considered the brush sitting on the back of the toilet tank, but the dark hair tangled in it reminded him not to leave easy DNA evidence behind. The hair at the back of his head was short—crewcut short. Or perhaps it was shaved and was just growing back out. The beginnings of an uneven beard lined a narrow jaw. If he had not been a regular shaver before he wanted to be one now. He did not look good with a half beard.

  He searched through the drawers under the sink until he found a hand mirror. He maneuvered it to see the back of his head where two different sets of stitches sat side by side in his hair and one long vertical one ran up the back of his neck. The areas around the stitches showed only hints of red, so he thought the wounds were all healing up well. He supposed the stitches were due to come out soon. They were not a priority right now though.

  He wasn’t ugly, but nobody would call him handsome. Maybe when he was younger. Those years were gone. What sorts of adventures had those y
ears held? Surely he had not always been a criminal. He must have learned the trade somewhere. Perhaps there was some exotic teacher who showed him the ropes.

  At some point he would have to get to a computer and try to find out about his former life. There had to be more information about him than the lame public defender offered him. Perhaps he should find his old apartment after all. Then again, if the landlord hadn’t thrown out his stuff to rent the place to someone else yet he would soon. Would the police have it watched?

  He looked around for money, not seeing any lying about. There was a tall cherry wood jewelry armoire, but stealing the woman’s jewelry to pawn for cash to buy diapers just did not sit right. He groaned in frustration and kept looking around. In the coat closet he found a long, black wool coat that looked unisex enough. He tried it on; it seemed to fit well enough. It looked like it should be warm.

  The appartment had no full-length mirror, which confused and annoyed him. “What woman doesn’t have a full-length mirror?” he asked himself out loud. He went back to the bathroom mirror to decide if the coat fit. His wrists stuck out of the sleeves a bit too much, but it buttoned in the front and the back did not seem to pull too much when he moved his arms. It would do for now.

  He ghosted from balcony to balcony, finding the ones with unlocked sliding doors. He flew across the street, which was a little harrowing, but he was able to do it. At some point he would have to test his limited ability to fly. He would wait and do that later, though, when he could make sure he was over something safe so if he took things too far he would not end up falling five stories to cement. Yes, now was not the time to push that.