The Summer Man

Chapter EIGHTEEN





Bob called Amanda early, and they agreed to meet at John’s office. When he called John at home to confirm, there was no answer, but he got through on the cell. Ten o’clock. John didn’t work Mondays; they would have privacy—and Bob wanted Amanda to be able to concentrate, somewhere quiet where she felt safe.

At a quarter to ten, Bob pulled up in front of Devon’s house. Amanda and her boyfriend were on the front step, smoking. Amanda had said that Devon had gone, that he’d taken off for Portland, but it was still strange to see her without him. Her boyfriend, Eric, was quiet, with that vague insolent sullenness that seemed to attach to too many teenage males. Obviously, Amanda wanted him to be present, although Bob wished she’d left him behind; the kid seemed jealous every time she turned her gaze to anyone besides himself, and he was constantly touching her, distracting her. They drove to John’s office mostly without speaking.

John met them in the small waiting room, wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before. He looked like he hadn’t slept, but his smile was open and sincere as he shook hands with both Amanda and Eric. He led them back to his office, pausing along the way to grab a few sodas out of a minifridge next to the empty receptionist’s desk.

John’s office was as Bob remembered—soft colors, soft furniture, and a window that looked out over Water Street. He could see the tall masts of sailboats at the far end, although the marina’s pier was blocked from view by the third story of the hardware store, the tallest building on the downtown waterfront.

Amanda and Eric sat on the pale-green sofa adjacent to John’s desk. John sat across from the couch, his office chair turned toward them. Bob stayed standing. He reflexively scanned the papers on John’s desk, saw the words traumatic bereavement at the top of one of them, heavily underlined.

“Thank you for coming in,” John said.

“Not a problem,” Amanda said, her tone neutral. “Although—maybe this is a dumb question, but why did you want to meet me, anyway?”

“Our mutual friend here believes you have a gift,” John said. “I didn’t think—I thought he might be wrong, but after last night, I wanted to meet you myself.”

“What happened last night?”

John shot a look at Bob, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Dick Calvin committed suicide yesterday.”

Amanda’s soft, round face twisted. Eric put his arm around her, but she pulled away from him, turning an accusatory glare to Bob.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she asked.

Bob shook his head, suddenly uncomfortable with his decision to let John break the news. “I figured we’d be talking about it soon enough,” he said. “I thought with John here, we might be able to come up with some ideas, about how to handle things better from here on.”

“I know it’s a shock,” John began, but Amanda interrupted him, still looking at Bob, her voice rising.

“No, it’s not, I told you he was going to do it. You said we could save him, you said I might have saved him!”

“I was wrong,” Bob said, wishing for a drink. John didn’t step in, only watched patiently. Thanks, Doc. “And I should have told you already, I was just…” He resorted to the truth. “I thought John would be better at it, I guess.”

“So what’s the use of knowing anything?” Amanda snapped. For the anger in her voice, she looked miserable. “Why f*cking bother?”

John was professional, his tone confident. “Because if there is something going on in Port Isley, and if you can actually see some of it—see things that other people can’t—then we can use that information. We might be able to stop more people from getting hurt.”

“Right, like we stopped the Lawn King from hanging himself,” she said.

John raised his eyebrows. “How do you know he hung himself?”

“He did, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but how did you know that?” John reached over to his desk and picked up a legal pad and a pen. “Did you see it? Tell me what you saw, or thought, exactly.”

Amanda hesitated, shooting another unhappy look in Bob’s direction…then told him the same things she’d told the reporter only the day before—about sensing things, about getting into people’s heads, about Devon and the kids she’d gotten stoned with, about her dreams. She said that when she’d sensed what she had, about Dick Calvin, she’d just known. “Like, if I said, how did Elvis die, you’d say…”

John blinked. “Uh, cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose and—”

“On the crapper,” Bob said, and Amanda nodded at him.

“Like that,” she said. “I just knew.”

John wrote quickly as she talked, only glancing at the paper occasionally. Bob was impressed that he managed to write in a mostly straight and even hand. Practice, he figured. He’d known a couple of reporters who could do that, one of them with a cigarette in his writing hand, watching people talk while they took down what was said. Bob had never gotten the hang of it, himself, though he’d fashioned his own private shorthand over the years…

Pay attention, old man. The devil was so often in the details.

“OK,” John said, as her brief story dried up. “And Bob said you’ve had some success trying to see things. Have you done any more of that?”

“No,” Amanda said. She shifted on the couch. Eric watched her, intently focused on her; Bob got the impression that if asked, the kid wouldn’t be able to remember John’s name or how they’d gotten to his office. “I mean, it’s—it’s like eavesdropping, or something.”

John nodded. “Do you think…do you think it’s possible that this empathy you’re experiencing is a reaction to what’s been happening in Port Isley?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I got here this morning, I looked up some things,” John said lightly. “About what sudden, unexpected violence can do to the people who are affected.”

Traumatic bereavement, Bob thought.

“What, some of them turn psychic?” Amanda asked.

“Not exactly,” John said. “But sometimes our perspectives can be skewed, by events beyond our control. Violence, murder, suicide—sometimes these things are so hard to accept, to even face, that our minds try to find a way to make sense of them for us. It’s a way to deal with pain.”

Amanda looked at Bob again, and he saw that her defenses had snapped shut as quickly as that, neat and solid as a European bank’s. “He thinks I’m full of shit,” she said. “Is that what you think? Is that why you wanted me to meet with a shrink?”

John held up his hands, a placating gesture. “Hold on, that is not what I think,” he said. “You knew about Dick Calvin. I can’t just discount that, can I? I’m trying to keep an open mind, believe me, but to do that, I’ve got to look at all this from more than one angle.”

Amanda was still staring at him, and Bob shook his head, firmly. “He doesn’t think you’re lying, and neither do I. We’re just trying to work this out, that’s all. To be fair, you didn’t believe it either, when this first started.”

“She’s not lying,” Eric snarled, and if Amanda was pissed at the unspoken hint of disbelief, Eric seemed positively homicidal. He stood up, glowering at the two men, his lanky body poised as if to fight. “This is bullshit.”

Amanda stayed where she was. “No, it’s OK,” she said. When Eric didn’t sit down again, she added, “You can leave, if you want.”

Eric hesitated, then sat. He didn’t look happy about it. He slumped away from them, his posture telling them all what he thought.

John studied Amanda a moment, then sighed. “With my background being what it is, my training, I have to look at it from a psychological point of view. Strong, unpleasant emotions like guilt or grief or fear, witnessing violence—these things can have an intense effect on the people who experience them. I’m not trying to discount what you’re experiencing, I’m only looking for a way to explain what’s happening.”

“Show him,” Eric said, turning back to Amanda. “Do it. Tell him something you couldn’t know, about him.”

His tone was almost vindictive, but Bob didn’t disagree with the proposal. He’d hoped that she’d be willing to demonstrate her ability to John, to wipe out the doctor’s uncertainty once and for all. And wasn’t that why Bob had suggested John’s office, a calm environment, so she could focus?

“I’m not a f*cking monkey,” she said. “I don’t perform.”

“It’s not like that,” Bob said. He moved to the couch, crouching in front of Amanda, wanting to be sure she could see his sincerity, his belief. “We don’t know what’s going on in Port Isley. Maybe nothing at all, maybe it’s just a bad summer, a dark summer. A run of coincidence, hard luck, law of averages…I don’t believe that, but I don’t know, I don’t think anyone knows. What I do know is that for whatever reason, you’ve been tuning in to these things. And we need your help.”

Eric snorted, a mean half laugh, but Bob ignored him. “I’m sorry about Dick Calvin, I really am. You know it’s not your fault, right?”

Amanda looked away.

“I know how you feel,” Bob agreed. “If I’d acted sooner, or if John had gone by to check on him earlier…maybe things would be different. Maybe not. All we can do now, though, is move on from here.”

He glanced at John, back at her. “Can you show him something? Tell him something? Think of it as practice. It’s like you’ve got a new tool, a powerful tool, but to know how best to apply it—to even know what your skill might apply to—we need to push the perimeter, a little.”

“We?”

“You,” Bob amended quickly. “And only if you want to. It’s your choice.”

Amanda didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, she nodded. “OK.”

“Try doing what you did yesterday, with Devon,” Bob said. “Only…John, come over here, sit by her. Try focusing on John specifically. Don’t pull away from whatever comes to mind, don’t let yourself be surprised out of it. Tell us everything you think, no matter how small or seemingly unimportant.”

Bob moved out of the way so John could sit. The doc looked slightly embarrassed, but game. Eric seemed even more angry, and his expression further soured when Bob suggested that Amanda hold John’s hands.

The teenage girl turned to face John. She took both of his hands in her own and then closed her eyes, breathing deeply. They waited, all of them watching her. After a long, silent moment, one of her hands twitched, and she started talking, her eyes still closed.

“You were with her last night; you barely slept at all, and you’re afraid you might be in love with her, because you’re also afraid that you’re sick, that the whole town is sick, so maybe those feelings don’t mean anything,” she said. “Uh, you want to take a shower, you don’t want to be sitting so close to anyone when you haven’t showered. You’re worried that you smell like—” She cleared her throat, her face reddening slightly. “Like Sarah, to be specific. You’ve never believed in psychic ability, but you trust Bob, and with the strange, strong feelings you’ve been having about Sarah, and…Lauren? Annie, for sure. Annie’s dead but you aren’t looping anymore, whatever that means.”

She opened her eyes but stared down at their hands. “Anyway, you think you might be wrong, about everything, but you don’t know and your brain just keeps trying to make the pieces fit, and they won’t. Also, you think you’re getting a headache because you skipped breakfast.”

John’s eyes had widened. Bob felt a deep satisfaction, saw it mirrored in a spiteful way on Eric’s triumphant young face. John let go of Amanda’s hands and sat back a little. The expression he wore was one of deep awe and not a little embarrassment. Bob wondered faintly who the hell Sarah was.

Amanda smiled, was transformed from pretty to beautiful in that instant. “Ka-pow,” she said. Eric laughed, but the sound was high and anxious.

John was speechless for what seemed a long time, then he sighed and nodded and looked at Bob.

“OK,” he said. He looked at Amanda again. “That’s some talent you got there.”

She was pleased with herself, Bob could tell, her eyes bright with it. “It’s getting stronger,” she said. “I’ve been pretty freaked-out, overall, but I’m starting to…to get the hang of it a little better, I guess.”

“You got all that, just now,” John said.

She nodded. “Yup. Other stuff, too, but that’s what—that’s the biggest stuff. Like, where your head’s at. So to speak.”

“Just out of curiosity, what other stuff?” John asked.

“Um…something about a guy named Phillip? He’s, like, your…colleague? And I think you were wondering if there’s anything in the office for the headache…” She trailed off and frowned. “The smaller stuff isn’t as clear. There’s—”

“What do you mean by smaller and bigger?” John interrupted. “In what way?”

Amanda looked at John like he was a moron. “What do you think? Bigger, smaller. Uh, more important in your brain, less important.”

“OK,” John said. “Just trying to clarify, that’s all.”

Amanda relaxed, nodded. “OK. So. There’s also, like, this static, underneath that. Like, with an old radio? Some of the signals are totally clear, and some are coming in on different channels that aren’t so clear, and most of them don’t send out anything. Does that make sense?”

“Sure, why not?” John asked. He looked slightly dazed. “You get this kind of…of depth off everybody?”

“I’ve only done it on purpose twice,” she said, and her sincere smile crept back. “I think I could, though. If I tried. It’s, like…” She shook her head. “The power, or ability or whatever, is changing. Evolving.”

“In what way?”

“It’s stronger, I’m pretty sure,” she said. “I mean, it’s getting easier to pick up people’s…I don’t know, inner dialogue?”

John nodded. “Bob says you’ve had some precognitive experiences. Did you get anything like that just now?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so, anyway. But the dreams I’ve been having…a lot of the same imagery keeps repeating, and it feels real. Like the other stuff, anyway. And I don’t think it’s happened, yet.”

John stood and walked back to his desk, picking up the notepad he’d written on earlier. “A smiling woman with blood in her hair. A big fire. A boy in a darkened house of mirrors. Gunfire. A woman bathing an infant.”

The whole list was creepy, but that last sent a shiver down Bob’s spine. Not a scary image in itself, but considering the rest of the list…he hoped that they’d find a way to track the young mother down before she did anything…irreparable. And so far as he could see, Amanda was the only chance they had. She’d seen these people, or been them, or however it worked; she was the key.

“How can we use this?” Bob asked, looking at John, then Amanda. He felt hungry to make it happen, to do something. Amanda was willing, and surely John could figure out how to make the most of her ability. “How can we track them down?”

John put the notepad down, shaking his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “And I’m not sure that our primary focus should be on rescuing these people, necessarily—”

“What the hell do you—” Bob began, and John held up one hand.

“Not these specific people,” he said. “I mean, of course we want to help, we should help. I think our big goal should be tracking the source of…of whatever’s going on here. If we can pin down the x factor, the influence, then we’ll have everything we need to call in some real help. We can get the town evacuated, get the CDC involved, whatever government labs are applicable…we could save all of them.”

He turned back to Amanda. Eric had finally let a few air molecules pass between them; for the first time since Bob had met the kid, Amanda’s boyfriend wasn’t glued to her side or some other part of her.

“I’ve been considering the possibility that everything that’s been happening here is due to some chemical influence, a poison, something biological,” John said.

“Yeah, I got that,” Amanda said. “Like, spores or something.”

“Do you think—is there a way that you can think of, to track down something like that?”

Amanda thought, her sharp gaze looking inward. After a moment she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had any feelings about places or things, only people. I think you’re right, though, about everything being connected.”

“What if we start with a timeline?” Bob asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “You said you’ve been overbooked, lately—what if we try to figure out when the first, ah, cases popped up? Maybe we can trace it that way.”

John was nodding. So was Amanda. “Yeah, that’s good,” John said.

“Plus, like, hospital reports, and police reports, stuff like that,” Amanda said. “You guys can get those things, can’t you?”

“Already on it,” Bob said. He didn’t mention that he’d been too drunk, digging through the police reports, to notice any common denominators among the recorded incidents, or even to make note of the dates. No matter, he told himself. They’d be looking through all of it again.

John flipped through some of the loose papers on his desk. “I had a list started…there’s a social services worker in town; I thought I could ask her about anything unusual. And I was thinking we could talk to some of the local clergy, see if they can give us an idea about what their parishioners are up to…” John paged through the papers for another moment, then gave up, a look of irritation on his face. “I might have left it at home.”

“We’ll start a new one,” Bob said. He felt good, hopeful; they had a plan, of sorts. A place to start, anyway.

“What should I do?” Amanda asked. “I mean, I can’t exactly go around trying to read everybody in town; that’d take forever.”

Eric watched her talk, his gaze fixed on her moving mouth. He still hadn’t touched her again, even sat away from her a little, as though afraid to touch her. Considering what she’d told John about himself, Bob thought he understood. Having a girlfriend who read minds made lying or cheating pretty much impossible, and if she was tapping into feelings…Bob didn’t know anything about the kid, but he’d been seventeen himself, once. Surely the major components of male adolescence hadn’t changed that much.

John frowned, a thinking face, and crossed his arms. “Let’s get some facts down, times and events,” he said. “And I’ll make a few calls, see if we can get someone out here to run tests. Once we have something substantial, we can go to the police.”

Bob thought about Stan Vincent, how he’d been at the hospital. “I don’t know that the local cops are going to be much help,” he said. “Chief Vincent seems…unreasonable.”

“If we have evidence, though, he’ll have to listen,” John said. Bob considered pointing out that his statement was wishful thinking at best, but let it slide; if Vincent wouldn’t step up, there were the state cops. Even the feds, if it came to that.

John turned back to Amanda. “You could go with us, try to get a read off whoever we talk to,” he said. “Until then, you should keep a journal. Write down everything you see. The police have those sketch-artist computer programs; maybe we can find some of the people you’ve been dreaming about that way.”

“There’s the poetry night, next week,” Amanda said. “Bob said it might be a good idea to go somewhere there are a lot of people, see if I can, uh, pick up anything big…”

“Hopefully, you won’t have to,” John said. “By then, we should have this thing figured out.”

Bob didn’t feel as certain as John suddenly seemed, but the doc’s confidence was heartening, and contagious. If their suppositions were true, if Port Isley had been infected somehow, they’d make a case for it and get the proper authorities involved. A whole town couldn’t self-destruct without anyone from outside noticing, not in this day and age…or even people inside the town, for that matter. He’d made the connection, and if an aging, drunk reporter could see that something strange was happening, there were bound to be others.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bob affirmed, and Amanda and John both nodded, and Eric only watched Amanda, still not touching her.