TPG (11 page)

“I assume, like
hypnosis, it won’t work if you fight it.”

“That’s why I go
through the opening techniques. It usually relaxes the mind enough to allow the
transfer and cleansing. But there’s more here than your refusal to relax.
You’re not just tensing, your mind is unwilling to let go.”

Kyle’s eyes
narrowed. “Let go?”

“Yes. Let go of
the negative energy. That’s the essence of a transfer. It’s not just a parlor
trick, it’s a cleansing. It’s an influx of new energy, positive energy, clean
energy, to replace and wash away the negative and polluted. That’s the climb
toward enlightenment, the path toward peace and tranquility. It is the
attainment that will bring us closer to the internal, and then external, utopia
we all seek.”

“So you’re saying
it won’t work at all? You can’t perform a transfer with me?”

Ahmed shook his
head. “Not now.”

Kyle considered
the statement. “But then how can Deeksha and other energy transfers cleanse
negative energy if they can’t even penetrate
because
of that negative energy?”

“The mind must
first resolve itself enough to allow a cleansing. As the saying goes, you
cannot draw blood from a stone. I cannot force an uncooperative mind to
cooperate.”

The statement
piqued Kyle’s curiosity. “Can anyone?”

“Force a transfer
unwillingly?”

“Yes.”

“In my opinion?”

“Unless you want
to offer someone else’s.”

“Anything with the
mind is possible,” Ahmed said, smiling.

“Have you ever
seen it before?” Liam asked. “Have you seen someone force an energy transfer?”

“I haven’t.”

“Heard about it?”

“I have not.”

Kyle thought about
Liam’s theory. It relied upon someone raiding another’s energy. Forcing
themselves on another. “So all the energy transfers you know about have had
willing participants?”

“Correct.”

“So then what
are
your thoughts about what Liam thinks
happened to Allie?” Kyle asked, catching a glimpse of Liam’s small eyes
narrowing with interest at what Ahmed was about to say.

“My thoughts,”
Ahmed said as he walked deeper into the room, “are that the mind can accomplish
most anything.”

“So you think that
what I’m saying can happen, right?” Liam asked. “It’s possible, right?”

“There are no
limits to what one’s mind can do.”

“But you just said
you’ve never seen or heard of something like that happening?” Kyle asserted,
trying to rein Liam in. “You’ve never heard of someone being able to force an
energy disruption of the consciousness so strong that it physically damages the
brain.”

“Alters the brain?
Yes,” the man said. “It’s what I do. It’d be what any practitioner could do
with a willing participant. But damage the brain to the degree that an aneurysm
would form, and then burst?” Ahmed let his gaze gently fall upon Liam. “I have
not.”

Kyle nodded. “So
you don’t think someone could have tried to raid Allie’s energy? You don’t
think she was attacked?”

“I’m neither a
doctor nor a scientist,” Ahmed explained with a smile. “I believe in the soul.
I believe in our energy, and I assist in its transfer. But if you are asking me
whether the fundamentals exist in nature to accomplish such a thing—or
could
exist—I would have to say
yes. But explaining what mutations of the mind would be needed for realizing
such an accomplishment is well beyond my expertise.”

“But not beyond
the expertise of others,” Liam quickly pointed out. “Look at what those guys at
PEAR did.”

Ahmed crinkled his
brow. “Pear?”

“Princeton’s
Engineering Anomalies Research program,” Kyle said, knowing exactly where Liam
was heading. “He’s referring to a study one of their neuroscientists performed
in India that suggested there’s a shift in neural activity during the practice
of Deeksha.”

“That’s right,”
Liam said. “Their data proved that different people react differently to the
practice, and that some practitioners are able to transfer more energy than
others. One guy had the EEGs dancing like crazy for the same people other
practitioners had barely budging. So there are people out there who are
naturally better at it than others.”

“But none of them
were able to do anything on the level of what we’ve been seeing,” Kyle said.

“So?” Liam
challenged. “That’s not so odd. What are the chances their small study would’ve
come across that one in a million person who has the ability to do this? Think
about when they do a random study on memories. Are they actually going to come
across someone with a photographic memory or, better yet, hyperthymestic
syndrome in a simple random sampling?”

Kyle was again
impressed with Liam’s level of knowledge. He was right. The cases of people
with true photographic memories, or eidetic memories, where you could memorize
something after having just seen it for a short while, were extremely rare. And
those with hyperthymestic syndrome—remembering every day of your life—were
even more rare. There were only a handful of cases ever documented.

So if someone
could do what Liam was saying, and it was as rare as hyperthymestic syndrome,
or even rarer, then yes, he highly doubted that such a person would’ve appeared
in a random study.

“So let me just
put it right out there and cut right to the chase,” Kyle said. “Because young
people are dying of burst aneurysms right before every one of his starts, Liam
thinks a pitcher for the Yankees is raiding energy so he can pitch better. What
are your thoughts on that?”

Ahmed rubbed his
chin. “Makes sense.”

“
It makes sense
?” Kyle asked
incredulously.

“Yes,” Ahmed said.
“It shows the natural progression for the practice, and for sports, where a
slight edge means tens of millions of dollars. Especially for a sport like
baseball where concentration and focus mean so much. And it’s not that much
different than why young people like Allison seek to immerse themselves in the
practice. They don’t want to pop amphetamines anymore to get that edge at
school and then have to take sleeping pills at night so they can fall asleep,
but yet they still want that edge. They still want those grades, and to get
them they need the focus. So they turn to something holistic. Perhaps baseball
players are no different.”

“Exactly,” Liam
said, wagging his chubby finger for emphasis. “Professional sports ban
amphetamines now. And with the statistics showing the number of players
diagnosed with ADHD is more than twice the national average, doctors are being
pressured to prescribe the drugs only to those with actual need.”

“I get that,” Kyle
said, focusing on Ahmed. “But do
you
actually think someone’s killing people for that energy?”

“Unfortunately,”
Ahmed said, “people have killed for much less.”

“And you really
think this is possible? That it can be happening?”

“I think there’s
an easy way to find out,” he said. “Just have the police follow the pitcher the
night before he pitches.”

Liam smiled. The
meeting had played right into his plan. But it wasn’t going to be the police
following Evan Hillier the next night. It was going to be the two of them,
trying to catch a killer.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After his meeting with Liam and
Ahmed, Kyle called Eddie and asked if he could borrow his car Wednesday night,
the night before Hillier’s next start. When Kyle told Eddie he needed the car
because he and Liam were going to stakeout Hillier’s place, Eddie insisted on
coming along.

And Kyle didn’t
try to dissuade him.

The plan called
for Kyle to meet Liam at a bar a few blocks from Hillier’s place then wait for
Eddie, who would park somewhere on Hillier’s block. They’d then watch the rest
of the Yankees game and wait for Hillier to return to his apartment and leave
at midnight, just like the doorman said.

Although staying
out after midnight wouldn’t be the best timing for Kyle, as he’d been hoping
for a good night’s sleep since he had the Trotter mediation the next morning,
he was too curious not to go. A feeling he definitely didn’t share about the
mediation, though he
did
want the
case over. He wanted to move on with his life, which was why he agreed to the
mediation in the first place. It was a way to short-circuit the case and
resolve it before ramping up for trial.

His attorney said
to review his deposition transcript the night before the mediation, so Kyle
took the bound copy of his testimony with him on his way to meet Liam, perusing
through it on the subway down to Eighty-sixth Street, then on the bus as he
headed crosstown, all of the grim details once again returning to the forefront
of his mind.

A flicker of
lightning lit up the gathering clouds as he exited the bus on Lexington and
tucked the transcript under his arm. The booming thunder that followed made him
realize the day’s muggy sky had been taken over by a bundle of dark clouds, the
building humidity all but screaming for the inevitable buckets of rain that
were going to emerge any minute. A few drops began to fall as he made his way
into the half empty dark bar. Liam was already there, wearing an ill-fitting
tracksuit and sitting on a stool at the long bar, his eyes glued to the
television playing the Yankees game.

“Can you effing
believe it?” Liam asked without even looking at Kyle as he approached. “Already
gave up four runs. And it’s the fifth friggin inning. Even the rain can’t help
us now.”

Kyle looked up at
the screen, seeing the four to nothing score. The brooding clouds up in the
Bronx hadn’t opened yet, but it was only a matter of time.

“Hit the friggin
ball!” Liam screamed as one of the Yankees hitters struck out. He took a swig
of the large draft beer in front of him, shook his head and looked at Kyle.
“Wanna get a table?”

“Sure,” Kyle said.

They sat down at a
booth in the corner and a waitress brought over two menus.

Liam rubbed the
scruff of his beard. The jacket of his tracksuit was unzipped, displaying an
old blue T-shirt with a very faded Star Trek print on the front. The type of
shirt people now paid designer prices for and considered “vintage,” though Liam
probably bought it twenty years ago and ironed the decal on himself.

“Wanna hear
something pretty weird?” Liam asked after they sat down, his glassy eyes
grabbing Kyle’s attention.

“Weirder than
following the Yankees’ ace to see if he’s a murderer?” Kyle asked with a smile.

Liam ignored the
sarcasm, drew closer to Kyle and rested his beefy arms on the table, and
lowered his voice to a whisper. “So I had this dream last night,” he said. “A
really weird one that I can’t get out of my mind. I was back at my house. My
old house. The one I grew up in. And my parents were both there. It was before
my dad left.”

Kyle didn’t say
anything about knowing from Liam’s sister where their father had gone, that he
died when Liam was six. He just listened.

“So they start
talking to me like I’m a little kid, right? Not a baby. Not goo-goo gaga, but a
little kid,” Liam whispered even lower. “And my mom picks me up and puts me
over her shoulder, then carries me into the living room and puts me down and
colors with me. My dad starts tussling my hair and telling me I’ve gotta stay
in the lines when I color. But the thing is, I’m me. I’m my size. A grown up.”

Liam leaned back
as the waitress came over. A few more flickers of lightning lit up the sky
outside. “Another Michelob Ultra in a frosted mug, please,” he said.

Kyle ordered a
Stella and couldn’t help but peer down at Liam’s sizable girth, unsure if the
man was joking by ordering a beer so light it bordered on simply water.

After the waitress
left, Liam said, “So then I start coloring outside the lines. Not on purpose,
right? I just can’t help it. Like a little kid, I just can’t keep the dang
crayon in the lines. And my dad says to try slowing down. Color more slowly.
And I try, but I can’t do it. The stupid thing keeps going out of the lines.
Like it’s got a mind of its own.”

Kyle looked at
Liam’s tired eyes behind his glasses and saw them narrow with focus.

“I start getting
frustrated,” Liam continued. “And I can feel my lips trembling, about to cry.
Like a frustrated kid. And my dad says to me, with a big smile, ‘It’s okay,
Liam. You’re doing your best. It’s okay.’ And then he tussles my hair again.
And I feel good. I slow down the coloring, and I stay in the dang lines. Then I
look up at him, and he’s got this big smile.” Liam paused, then cleared his
throat and lifted his glasses to either scratch an itch or wipe away a tear,
Kyle wasn’t sure.

“Anyway,” Liam
said, his voice a bit louder, more direct. “So that was the dream. My parents
treating me like a kid. Like I was four years old.” He leaned back and cleared
his throat again. “Makes you kinda wonder about the human mind, right? I mean,
think about it. I’m the same person I was when I was two years old, four years
old, six, eight, and so on. My mind is the same. Maybe it’s filled up with more
stuff, but it’s the same mind. Those other memories are still in there. So, for
years, people were treating me like a kid, and now they treat me like an adult.
Just like what happens to everyone else. But my mind has to reconcile that,
right? It’s gotta create
some
confusion.” He took a sip of his beer, paying no mind to the fact that the
glass was already empty.

“It definitely
does,” Kyle agreed.

“Yeah. It’s kind
of like as we pass each stage of our life, we die and become someone new,” Liam
said. “But it’s crazy when you think about it, about our minds being a kid’s
mind and an adult mind at the same time but how certain things seem so
different based on
when
they happen.
Like when I was a child, it was okay for my parents to treat me that way but,
now that I’m an adult,” he straightened himself up a bit in his seat, “it would
be so weird, you know? Like it was in the dream. Even though my parents are the
ones who used to tuck me into bed, tickle me, carry me, feed me, it would be so
weird if they did that now. I mean, can you imagine if my mom started tickling
me now?”

Kyle stared at
him, searching for some cue as to whether Liam truly found the concept
interesting or was looking to speak about it on a deeper level, looking to
explore the loss of his father and how it impacted who he’d become as a man.

“It would be
creepy, right?” Liam asked.

“Yes,” Kyle said.
“It would be.” He paused. “Do you dream about your father a lot?”

“My dad?” Liam
repeated the question, then squirmed in his seat and stared at his glass.
“Sometimes.”

“And that’s
natural. And it’s good. Do you—”

“I wasn’t telling
you about it for therapy,” Liam said as he looked back up. “I just thought it
was interesting, especially when you think about what happened between you and
Ahmed.”

“Me and Ahmed?”

“Yeah. Maybe the
reason he couldn’t break through with you was because you’ve got an older
mind.”

“Older?” Kyle
smiled.

“Right. But I’m
not just talking about age, I’m talking about wear and tear too. You’ve gone
through a divorce, shut down your practice, are being sued for killing someone
and I’m sure you’ve got a ton of stress with your daughter.”

“How do you know
about all of that?”

“Internet.”

“Glad it paints
such a rosy picture of my life.”

“The point is
maybe there’s a big difference between a malleable mind that’s still innocent
and uncluttered compared to an adult one. Like my innocent little kid mind
would probably be much more accepting than my adult mind of an energy-transfer.
So maybe that’s why Hillier’s going after youngish minds like Allie’s. Maybe
it’s easier because they don’t have too much clutter yet.”

“Perhaps,” Kyle
said, wondering if Liam had just come up with the connection because he wanted
to downplay the dream. “But if you do ever want to talk about your father, I’d
be more than happy to listen.”

“I don’t.
Seriously. I wasn’t looking for a therapy session, especially not from my
friend.”

Once again the
term friend came off his tongue so naturally, as if they really were friends
rather than two people who’d just met and barely knew each other.

“I know,” Kyle
said. “But I’m just saying, if you want to talk—as friends—I’m
here.”

“Okay,
doc
,” Liam laughed. “I guess I now know
for the future that you don’t like to B.S. about these things.”

“My fault,” Kyle
said, trying to absorb the blame. “I just know it’s a tough time for you right
now with Allie.”

Upon hearing his
niece’s name, Liam’s brow tightened and the ridge of his nose crinkled.
“Speaking of Allie,” he said, “I finally got a call back from the guys I gave
her phone to.”

Kyle’s eyes perked
up. “The tech guys?”

“Yup,” Liam said.
“And they only came up with one number.”

“A phone number?”

Liam nodded.
“There was only one phone number that showed up on the deleted texts.”

“Do you know whose
number it was?”

“Of course,” he
said.

Kyle swallowed
back his nerves. “Whose?”

Liam rubbed his
beard while staring into Kyle’s eyes.

“Yours.”