close. Damn. This gives me an idea for an assignment. The paper should like it.
He grabs his phone and calls his editor Mardi Sylvestro.
“Hey Mardi, it’s me Peter. I have a great idea for a piece. Can we talk?”
…
Weary eyes are rubbed free of the previous night’s sleep. After brushing his hair, splashing on some drugstore cologne, and letting his car warm up, Peter gets to The Bombay Kitchen and sees his editor through the window as he slurps Chicken Vindaloo and slugs down fistfuls of Naan bread. Peter once tried to make Naan but burned it into thin pucks of charcoal. Mardi looks up to see Peter walking over from the front door and waves for him to sit. The scents of coconut, curry and slow roasted meat dazzle Peter’s senses. The bland diet of the past week keeping his nervous stomach at bay has left a debt of spice that he now wants to repay.
Peter pulls out a chair and tucks himself under the white tablecloth.
“Hey Peter, once again sorry about your brother. If there’s anything I can do let me know,” Mardi says and forks in a mouthful of chicken.
“Actually, you could do something. I want to get back to work. Help get my mind clear. I came up with an idea for an investigative piece. Sort of off-beat but definitely has potential,” Peter says.
Mardi stops chewing, puts his fork down, gulps, and leans into the table.
“All right. Glad to here you’re still with us. So, what’s the scoop?” Mardi says and then puts his hands on the edge of the table as if he were getting ready to push back if someone attacked.
“I want to infiltrate the secret world of psychics and expose them as frauds. You know like those TV mediums who supposedly talk to dead people,” Peter says.
“Those TV guys have lost popularity lately. I don’t know,” Mardi says and picks up his napkin.
“Not only those guys, but also the storefront psychics with crystals balls and tarot cards. The ones who take cash from little old ladies because they want to talk to their dead husbands,” Peter says as his eyes enlarge with the fire of determination.
“How would you do it?”
“Don’t know yet. I saw there’s going to be a psychic fair at a hotel down the highway and I could start there.
“Nah, they’d see you coming and not in a clairvoyant way. You’d just get the run around. You need to get them where they’re relaxed and not doing business.”
“Where’s that?”
“Don’t know Pete. You’re the reporter. Investigate.”
A prim waiter, wrapped with the white apron, comes over with a pencil and pad.
“What can I get you sir?” the waiter asks Peter. He looks up to the man and smiles.
“Nothing thank you. I’m leaving,” Peter says and the waiter bows at the shoulders and slips off into the kitchen filled with hardwood smoke and the rattle of pots and pans.
“I’ll find a way,” Peter says as Mardi wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
“And I’ll allot you money for expenses, if you find an in,” Mardi says.
“What about Gloria? I know she’s into that New Age stuff. You think she’ll block me?”
“Don’t worry about that. You just find a way in.”
“I will. I’m going home now to do some research online. Probably won’t really jam on it until I get my brother’s web memorial up but that shouldn’t take me too long. Thanks Mardi.”
The days pass in folds like a letter being prepared for an envelope. Peter finishes his online tribute to his brother. After he saves and publishes the page on the site, a side advertisement selling career enhancement seminars gets his attention.
“Holy monkey balls. That’s the way in. They must have conferences. I’m going to get them Andy. I promise. Then we’ll find out what really happened to you,” Peter says.
The next Friday, among the rumors about his brother’s death, Peter passes through the offices of the Observer and finds Mardi in the break room having coffee.
“Hi Peter. Did you find a way to infiltrate the psychic underground?”
“I found an in and wanted to tell you in person.”
“What is it?”
“Remote View.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like psychic summer camp.”
…
Closed eyes open to watch ten comments pop up on Andy Miller’s memorial page in the Digital Eternity website. Peter swivels in his home office chair as he reads the kind words filling his monitor. He wipes away the tears. An aching grin forms on his face. His greasy hair tumbles across his eyes and reminds him that he hasn’t showered since he started posting new photos and videos on the site the day before. The clock on the monitor reads 12:30 AM and Peter can’t help but yawn. He must get some sleep because his assignment starts the next day.
Peter lugs himself into his bedroom, the blinds drawn tight, and flops onto his unmade bed. Images of his brother on life support tear through his mind. The only way he can block them is to think of his boss Gloria strutting by his office at the Eastport Observer with the same walk she used on the runways in Paris. Her slinky gowns always held her toned body with a tight grip. He rolls out of bed to go see if he can find some pictures of her on the Internet and his search reveals gallery upon gallery of sexy photos.
He clicks through the galleries and they fill up his fantasy until overload. Before he exits the last site, he spies a picture of Gloria announcing her retirement from modeling next to a woman of almost equal beauty in a white business suit and turban.
“Wow, that lady looks like a nut. Might as well check the memorial one last time,” Peter says.
The Digital Eternity URL is clicked on in his browser and the sign-in pops up inside a garland of white roses. There is a private message. His teeth grind as he realizes it’s from Sybil. Peter reads a two paragraph message of clichéd condolences. At the end, he is asked to remind his mother about her appointment on Thursday. He squeezes the mouse until his knuckles almost burst through his skin.
“You fucking parasite. Here’s a reply.”
Sybil,
You have the balls to write me after what you said about Andy’s death! I thought your parlor tricks were harmless until you convinced my mother it was a suicide. Crawl back under that rock you came from and don’t contact my mother again. All you psychic frauds are going to be exposed soon enough. Go to hell.
Peter hits send and says, “At least my assignment idea came from her crap.”
The last Ambien in the small brown bottle rattles in front of the open medicine cabinet. Peter wrenches the faucet on, tosses the pill on his tongue and takes a sip. The chemicals enter his bloodstream as he makes it to his bed and collapses. His eyes flutter and dreams cast a wide net.
…
Eyes roll behind closed eyelids.
“Who are you?” a round voice says.
Peter’s eyes open to the sheen of night. His face wrinkles like a pug as he pushes himself up in bed. He is certain he heard something, someone, but there is nothing but a dim orange glow coming through the window from the street light.
“Who are you?” he says and sniffs the air. The scent of onion and vinegar drift off his t-shirt.
Headlights from a passing car track down the wall above his head.
“Who are you?” the round voice says again.
Peter springs up to his feet with his hands coiled in tight fists.
“Who the fuck are you?” Peter yells and thinks run, call the cops.
“I am a Thought Rider!”
“Thought Rider? Get the fuck out of my house.”
“This is not a real house.”
“I’m calling the Cops. I, I, I have a gun”
“There is no gun. Please calm down. I have something to tell you about the psychics.”
“Come out of the darkness.”
“If you wish to see me, fine.”
A three dimensional photographic negative of Peter steps out from the wall. Peter kneels on the bed and whimpers, ?
??This is a dream.”
“Yes and no. Let me explain.”
“Just a dream. Just a dream,” Peter says.
“No Peter, not just a dream and don’t be afraid. I have come to warn you of a common enemy. These psychics as you call them do not talk to the dead. They communicate with others like me. Time is limited and be forewarned. You must go close the door we opened.”
The photo-negative man burns away like a square of celluloid film stuck in front of the searing light of a projector. Peter falls face first flat onto the bed.
He wakes up on his back thinking that was one hell of a dream.
…
Eyes open, the morning sun of autumn burns Peter’s face through the windshield of his beat up Honda Accord. His right hand acts as a visor as he steers one handed down a rural four lane highway flanked by corn fields. He comes upon a gravel road that cuts through a plank fence and scrub brush where a green sign reads Remote View Ranch. Off in the blue horizon, an expanse of dappled foothills embrace the sky and a hundred yards up the driveway two giant Spruces flank the road where an iron gate of twisted bars halt all entry. A guard station, a thatched roof hut, is posted there. Dirt and gravel spit from under the tires until he comes to a stop. Greeting his sight through the iron bars is a glass dormitory that reminds him of the ice hotels in Sweden.
“Just like on the website,” Peter says as he looks for an attendant.
A man with a radioactive green afro pops out of the hut. A baggy sky blue jumpsuit holds the plump man inside but it cannot restrain the biggest smile Peter ever saw. He thinks if that’s natural, I’m the Pope.
The greeter wobbles forward on springs for feet. Peter hits the button and