Vision (30 page)

Dad picked up the guitar and began to strum, his sweet, sad tenor the most beautiful sound Bobby had ever heard.

There was a soft knock at the door. Max Friend stood in the doorway with a giant bouquet of flowers and a large manila envelope.

“Hey, Bobby! How’s the world’s most efficient busboy?”

Bobby nodded and tried valiantly to lift his mouth into a full smile.

“The restaurant, as you might know, was a total loss. But with the insurance, I’m planning on taking over the old granary a few miles up the road and renovating it. Thing is, I’m going to be out my best busboy.”

Bobby tried to protest, but the sounds came out more like barnyard animal noises than intelligible speech.

“Now, relax. It’s not because I don’t think you can do it. Problem is, you’re not going to be around.”

Bobby shrugged, or at least tried to, restrained as he was.

“It’s probably going to take a good, long while for you to be well enough to go, but once you are, you’ve been accepted to the Morton Academy’s upper school with guaranteed admittance to the college program.”

Bobby let loose a barrage of noises until, finally, one hoarse word popped out of his mouth.

“What?”

“Relax. Because you’ll be going there, I’ve convinced Gabe to go back to school, as well. She’s had enough of piano, so she’s going to study the electric bass.”

Max settled into the chair beside him, let out a long breath and patted the fat manila envelope on his lap.

“It’s not going to happen overnight, Bobby. You have a long road to full recovery. But your prognosis is great.

“So, let me get to the meat of it. This envelope on my lap is the last will and testament of Kenneth Carl Galloway Cooper. His entire history, his diary, a log of the individuals he routinely kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. All in here.

“However, Kenny Cooper was a very, very rich man, sitting on a huge inheritance. In a posthumous attempt at making amends, he divided his fortune among his victims, with the addendum that, if there was no close family available, the money would go to you.”

Bobby managed to grunt out a single hoarse word. “Me?”

“Yes. Plus the portion from your mother, one of his many victims. Aaron will share in that. Strangely, in Cooper’s twisted mind, you were like a son to him—or more like the person he wished he could have been. It’s all very sad. I got to know Kenny very well, or at least I thought I had, and despite the evil he harbored inside, I can’t help but believe there was something good in there, struggling to prevail. Tragically, he failed.

“The long and the short of it is, you’ve got a nice chunk of change waiting for you in the bank. More than enough to take care of your Dad
and
send Aaron to college. He’s left some for Gabe, as well. See, the reason you were accepted into Morton is, before his alter-ego, Carl, went off on his terror spree the night of the performance, Kenny had made a CD of your rehearsal that afternoon. He had the application in an envelope, ready to mail.”

Max Friend smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “So I mailed it. I figured, what the heck? I must admit, I did have ulterior motives. Gabriella had already been accepted and was refusing to go. I figured, somewhat selfishly, that if by some miracle you recovered and were able to attend, she’d agree to go, too. It was a long shot, I know. But here you are!”

Bobby stared at him, unable to do much of anything else as his brain struggled to process all that he’d just heard.

Max continued, “And one more thing. That blind woman—Agent Maura Reston? Dr. Constantine was able to trace how his confidential medical evaluation was compromised and wound up in her hands. You’re very lucky you did not sign with her and her band of rogue hooligans. The whole special unit is under a Congressional investigation for exploiting brain-tumor victims, lying about their prospects, and deliberately tricking them into going without treatment, rather than have the medical interventions that could save their lives. Many of the folks who signed on served for a few years and suffered terrible disabilities from the unchecked growth of their tumors.

“You have a lot to be grateful for, Bobby. And now, Gabriella has a surprise for you.”

Bobby nodded and lifted a corner of his mouth in a lopsided smile. Even smiling was hard work these days.

A few moments later, Gabe walked in, and Bobby realized immediately that the important parts of him were still very much alive. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was, and how he’d almost given up the privilege of looking at her. He wanted to kiss her, throw himself all over her. If only he could move.

She stood at the end of the bed, beaming at him, her hair like a sunset cascading over her shoulders. He knew he sounded like a rooster crowing at the dawn, but he just wanted to tell her how he felt. It didn’t work. Frustrated, he slumped back onto his pillow.

She smiled and put a finger over her lips. In front of her, she held a large square of paper with words printed on it.

CAN YOU SEE THIS?

He nodded.

“Good,” she said.

THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY LIFE.

I LOVE YOU.

The next card said:

I’M SORRY TO TELL YOU, BUT YOUR GUITAR GOT BURNED UP IN THE FIRE.

Before Bobby had a chance to react, Aaron bounded in holding a guitar case tied with a red ribbon. Smiling, he carefully opened the case and placed the shining new acoustic on Bobby’s lap.

Aaron leaned over and helped him place his clumsy fingers on the frets.

“Dr. Constantine thought it would be good therapy for you to regain your dexterity. Kind of like physical therapy,” Gabe said.

Bobby had so much he wanted to say to her. So many songs to write for her.

“And one more thing!” Gabe threw her arm to the side like a game-show host. “Meet your service dog-in-training, Pete Townsend, mutt.”

Bobby wanted to laugh when Pete sauntered in on a leash held by Max.

“I’m helping to train him!” Aaron crowed. “Well, not officially, but we already know he can fetch remotes and stuff. He can help you until you’re better and when you are, he’s going to be able to help Dad. That’s why they let him in here!”

When Pete jumped up on the bed and licked Bobby’s face like a Popsicle, he knew everything was going to be just fine.

I
t took two grueling months in rehab and another two months at home to get back on his feet, to walk smoothly, speak clearly. Still, there was probably always going to be a slight shuffle in his step, and a hesitation when he spoke.

But the guitar—that he’d picked up easily, and right away.

No matter. Bobby was lucky, and he knew it. He could see out of the good eye, and had learned to compensate. Soon, he’d been told, after some adjustments, he’d be able to drive again.

Today, on a crisp day in late September, he stood at the end of their long driveway, Pete by his side, gazing at the reds, yellows, and oranges that painted the Catskills in a vivid blend of wild colors, grateful for every last leaf.

The house they’d rented in Massachusetts was almost ready, equipped with ramps for Dad and special, easy on the eyes lighting for him. The renovation of the old homestead behind their ramshackle modular was underway so they’d always have a home in Graxton.

Most light bothered his blind right eye, but the special contact lens helped. They’d discussed removing the damaged eye altogether, but Bobby had fought that.

Gabe had left early for Morton Academy. Bobby wasn’t scheduled to go for a few more weeks.

The day before, Dad had given him one last item—a pair of earrings he had scrimped and saved to buy for Mom as a way of apologizing for making her life a living hell after he’d come home disabled. He’d never had the chance to give them to her.

All these years, he’d kept them in a box, believing she’d rejected him, believing his wife had walked away from him and her family.

Now, he wanted her to have them.

Bobby cradled the earrings in his hand, silver and green malachite teardrops. They would have looked beautiful against Gabe’s fiery hair. But they belonged to Mom.

They’d held a memorial on the banks of Scratch Lake to say goodbye, and left her to rest in her home beneath the water. It was a fitting grave, Bobby thought, a place of restful beauty, a place he’d always felt at peace.

This last visit to Scratch Lake, Bobby wasn’t planning on fishing. He was going to ask Mongo the giant bass to watch out for Mom, and say goodbye one last time.

The autumn air like sunshine in his lungs, Bobby hiked down to the dock, Pete scampering happily ahead. Plumes of red, gold, and orange were reflected in the silver water. Jerry had rescued the old boat and cleaned it up, but the motor was a loss. Bobby planned to row out to the lake’s shining center and give the earrings to Mom.

Except sitting on the dock was a pair of bright yellow gloves.

Yellow children’s gloves.

His heart beating wildly, Bobby picked them up.

It couldn’t be.

Images tore into his mind, a tempest of wild horror.

A small child, lifted from her bed, taken away in the night. Terrified screams as the man carried her away to his waiting car
.

Bobby crouched on the dock, squeezing his eyes closed against the onslaught. As soon as he remembered to drop the gloves, the visions stopped.

No headache, no red blindness followed. Just the same gray blankness in the right of his field of vision, vivid color and detail to the left. He stared down at the gloves, their cheerful yellow challenging him.

He turned quickly, tears in his eyes. The tumor was still inside him, his freakish ability as active as ever.

A black sedan rolled smoothly into the sandy parking area.

A trim blond man in a suit, his arm looped in that of a regal woman with short auburn hair, a dark skirt suit, and dark glasses, approached him, her cane shifting to and fro across the sand.

Arm in arm, they walked to the dock and stopped. Bobby remained crouched, looking up at them.

The man whispered in Agent Reston’s ear. She extended her hand downward to him. “Bobby Pendell. I’m guessing you thought we were done with you.”

“You could say that,” Bobby snapped, rising to his feet. He left the yellow gloves where he’d dropped them. His Alternative Functional Sight told him the gloves had come from very far away, and that they’d been planted there especially for him to find.

“Things turned out very nicely for you, I hear,” Agent Reston said. “You have perfect sight in one eye.” After an uncomfortable pause, she finally pulled back her hand. “How very, very fortunate you are. But even more so than you realize. It just so happens we received a copy of your pathology report.”

Bobby felt his cheeks color. “Aren’t you guys under investigation for snooping around in people’s personal medical stuff?”

“We get a slap on the wrist,” Maura Reston said, laughing mildly, “then we go ahead and do whatever needs doing. It’s all in the name of national security, Bobby. All in the name of the greater good.”

“Greater good, my blind eye. You’re a pack of liars. You were willing to let me go blind so you could make me your psychic slave.”

Maura Reston raised her chin. “I’m sorry you see it that way. Certainly you understand a good deal of my own motivation is personal.”

“Misery loves company,” Bobby said forcefully. He’d never been one to speak out of turn to a person of authority, but ever since his speech had come back, he’d been looser and freer with his words. Less tongue-tied, rather than more so.

“I envy you, Bobby. You are a rare one, in that you have a choice. You can lead your life for your own fulfillment, or choose to serve the voices that will never leave you in peace. A small portion of the tumor was deemed too risky to remove. As luck would have it, that small bit of growth is the source of your AFS.”

Agent Reston reached into a pocket of her suit jacket and pulled out a slim silver box. Slipping out a white card, she held it between two manicured fingers.

Bobby took it. One side of the card was printed in plain black type, the other side embossed with raised bumps. Braille.

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Special Psychic Unit

Agent Maura Reston

He flicked the card into the water.

The tall blond man whispered in her ear again. Agent Reston nodded. “No matter. While that remnant of your tumor remains in your brain, the voices and the cries for justice will never stop. The killers will never stop killing. You’re very lucky, in that you still have part of your sight. You don’t need to depend on anyone. You don’t need us. You can go on with your life.”

Bobby pulled in a deep breath and studied the bright red leaves reflected in Maura Reston’s dark glasses.

“But ask yourself, Bobby,” she continued, “do you have it in you to simply walk away? What happens if the tumor starts to grow again?”

Bobby remained silent. Agent Reston and her guide returned to their car.

The yellow gloves sat where he’d dropped them, like an unanswered question.

THE END

Acknowledgments

I first want to acknowledge the author, psychologist, and blogger, Carolyn Kaufman, who passed away suddenly on Saturday, September 7, 2013, from a brain aneurysm. I knew Carolyn from back in the very early days of my writing career, when a bunch of us used to hang out incessantly on the Querytracker forum. I was called Justwrite. Carolyn called herself Archtype, which we shortened to Archie. Though I was not close with Carolyn, per se, she was accessible and made herself available to help anyone who needed it. So, when I approached her with questions about my ideas for a serial killer in
Vision
, she came to the rescue, advising, suggesting further reading, etc. I purchased her indispensible book,
The Writer’s Guide To Psychology
.