Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (5 page)

No, I’ll keep my mind-reading ability a secret a while longer.

I had discovered my talent on May 5, 1997. I was sixteen and making out with Naomi Wasserman in the reclined front seat of her parents’ Chevy Malibu. Her thought whispered into my mind: <
Why won’t he put his hand on my breast?>

I froze for two seconds but played it cool. That is, I didn’t spin around and say, “Did you hear that? Who said that?” There was no question about it. I had just heard what she was thinking. Yeah, it was shocking and impossible, but I put off thinking about it. I was occupied at the moment.

Up to that point I’d been a little fuzzy on whether girls enjoyed having their breasts fondled. I was pretty sure they just let their boyfriends do it to keep them happy. The boyfriends, that is. But I responded to Naomi’s implied desire, and her moan confirmed I had indeed read her mind. Two revelations in one night: Girls liked guys to touch their breasts and I could read minds.

My relationship with Naomi didn’t last. I discovered that even while she was professing her love for me, she was thinking of other guys. <
He’s okay, but he’s no Pete Logan. And Pete’s a better kisser.
> Perhaps that’s where my lack-of-trust flaw got its start. How could I trust people after that? Especially women.

Humans can’t live without trusting. You can’t drive a car, for example, without trusting that the other drivers will be sober and stay in their lanes. But hearing others’ private thoughts can make trusting difficult.

Being trust-challenged turned me into a lone wolf. Not a good thing if you want to settle down and have a family. Maybe I can pass my mind-reading talent on to my children. What a disaster if I never had any.

We arrived at the hospital, and I received a text from Stan: “meet me at the stadium at 4.”

I got stuck in the ER waiting game until Craig came to rescue me. The downside was that he put me through a much more thorough exam than a normal ER doc would have.

“C’mon, Craig, it wasn’t bad, let me go.” I checked my watch. “I’ve got to be at the stadium in an hour.”

“Yeah, you’re probably fine, but you know me. You’ve got some swelling in your ankle. Does this hurt?” He moved it back and forth.

“No, that feels good. You should have been a masseur. What do I have to do to get you to release me?”

He laughed. “Nice try, Beckman. I’m not going to think it. Changing the subject, the umpire recovered fine, by the way.” <
I’m not going to think about discharge no no I’m just going to think this stuff that isn’t relevant yada yada yada I’m paying attention to the exam do the reflexes discharge against medical ad—no, things didn’t go well in the bedroom last night I think my wife—oh god paying attention to the exam now …
>

I looked away, putting a hand over my smile. Over the years, I’ve let Craig think his blocking technique is more effective than it is. I try to respect his privacy, but I’m no saint, remember?

When Craig was checking my eyes with the ophthalmoscope, he put his hand on my head, then jumped back. “Jeez, Eric, that’s a huge hematoma. You didn’t lose consciousness did you? That could be serious.” He looked me in the eye. Without the scope.

“No, no.” I reached up and felt the bump on the crown of my head. “I knocked my head against the guy’s chin.”

“Did you feel nauseous? A little loopy? Do you have a headache?”

“I’m fine, Craig, really.” I knew enough to monitor my condition. I snapped my fingers. “Hey, I can get discharged AMA, against medical advice.”

He stood and did a little running-man thing with his fingers on his chin. “You should stay for observation overnight, but let me do a quick neurologic exam, and I’ll let you go AMA. You’ve got to promise not to drive.”

* * *

Some minimal paperwork, and I caught a cab to the AT&T stadium parking lot. Stan was leaning against an unmarked car with his arms crossed. I’ve seen Stan move pretty fast, but when he’s stationary, he doesn’t move a muscle. No wasted motion.

I got out of the taxi. Stan pushed off from his car and started walking toward the entrance to the park. When I joined him, he said, “Fight?”

I touched my facial bruises and gave him the abridged bridge story.

He turned to me. “Guess you were a do-gooder today.”

All of Stan’s lines are delivered deadpan. Any normal person would wonder whether he was impressed with what I did or making fun of me for being a goody two shoes. Based on his thoughts—<
Kind of impressive, but why do it?>
—he was somewhere in the middle.

Stan and I have a comfortable friendship. I like him but feel a little bad about it because I targeted him and manipulated him into being my friend. What better friend for a PI to have than the deputy police chief in charge of investigations, right? When you can read the reactions to everything you say or do and understand what someone wants, it’s easy to make them become your buddy.

In spite of that phony—on my part—beginning, we’re genuine friends now. And he’s the only person I’ve ever manipulated in that way. Well, okay, I’ve manipulated a few women to get them interested in me. I’m not proud of that, either. Some men have square jaws and chiseled cheekbones, I can read minds. It’s not so different, really.

We got to the closed-down ballpark’s service entrance, and Stan pressed a buzzer by the door. “We’re going to speak with the head groundskeeper, a Miss Lawton. She’s got some strange happenings to report. I’d like to get your thoughts on this. Maybe you’ll have one of your hunches.”

“She’s seen some animals appear, maybe rabbits or rats,” I said.

Stan turned to me. “Yeah. Like that. How did you—”

“Who’s there?” The intercom next to the door came to life.

“Chief Stanislowski with the San Francisco Police to see Miss Lawton.”

“Just a sec.”

Stan crossed his arms. “So, how did you know that?”

I shrugged. “Just an idea I have about what’s happening.” That was a genuine hunch that didn’t stem from my mind reading.

Stan waited for me to continue, but I wanted to keep the theory to myself.

The door opened and a dour woman of around sixty glanced at us, then looked down. “I’m Lenora Lawton. Come to my office.” She turned and led the way into the bowels of the stadium. She was heavyset, and her wispy white hair hung down in a ponytail almost to her waist. She walked with a stoop and a waddle, as if she were making a walk-this-way joke.

Her small office had floor-to-ceiling narrow shelves filled with bobblehead dolls. I estimated a thousand baseball players, each covered with dust. Only one doll stood on her gray metal desk: a bobblehead Jesus. He wore a white robe with a simple sash and a red cape. The base read: “Jesus Christ.” I reached for it to make the head bobble.

“Don’t touch that, please.” Miss Lawton lowered herself into the wide chair behind the desk, and Stan and I sat on folding chairs.

Stan said, “Miss Lawton, you’ve reported that—”

“Are you gentlemen familiar with the Bible?” She had fine whiskers on her chin and basset hound eyes.

I shrugged and Stan shook his head.

“‘And the Lord sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people; and many people of Israel died.’ That’s what all this is about.”

“Miss Lawton—” Stan took a breath “—you’ve seen animals appear on the field? The way the woman appeared the other day?”

“This is a religious thing. Not for the police. Not for Caesar. The first one was a snake. About five years ago. I was inspecting the field, near the plate, when it just appeared. In the air. It dropped to the ground. It wasn’t dead, but it was sick. I thought immediately of that verse. Numbers, chapter twenty-one, verse six, by the way. The Lord had sent it.”

“You didn’t report it?” I asked.

She shook her head, staring at me. “It’s a religion thing. And would you have expected anybody to believe me? I do a good job here, and I take pride in my work. How long do you think I’d keep my job if I reported that God was sending serpents to home plate?”

“But you’re reporting it now.” Stan raised his eyebrows.

“Well, duh. Now everyone’s seen it happen. Everyone saw the woman appear. So I knew people would believe me and I could report it. But I still know it’s God’s doing.”

“Has anyone else seen these animals?” Stan asked.

“You see,” she said to me. “He doesn’t believe me, even after that woman appeared.”

“I believe you completely,” Stan said. “Just want to get a feeling for how often it happens.”

“More’n ten times it’s happened, although I only saw the snake and the dog appear.”

“You saw a dog?” Stan looked up from his notebook.

She shuddered and pulled the Jesus statue toward her, making its head jiggle.

We said nothing and she continued. “It was an abomination. Half dog and … and, oh Jesus, my savior, and … half inside-out dog.” She made the sign of the cross. “It tried to bark … I put it out of its misery.” She shuddered again. “But other times I’ve come to work in the morning and found dead animals behind the plate. A lizard, a rabbit, twice, and a turtle. More animals recently.”

“No people?” Stan asked.

“That, I would have reported.”

After giving us some more dates and times, she led the way through the halls and onto the field.

“Have you noticed anything else weird here?” Stan asked.

“Like what?”

“Strange feeling. Electrical charge. Funny smell,” he said.

“Nothing.” Lawton bent down, lifted a corner of home plate, and set it back down. “And why are the police interested. Do you think this is a crime?”

Stan shrugged.

I stood right behind the plate and gazed around at the stands. What a trip it would be to come up to bat here.

An incredible pain jolted me out of my daydream—as if a chef’s knife had been plunged deep into the back of my shoulder.

Stan’s and Lawton’s eyes went wide. The groundskeeper reached over, then changed her mind and drew back. She kneeled and started praying.

“What is it?” I yelled and pulled a muscle in my neck trying to see. The pain was intense. Whatever it was it was brown and flapping furiously. It bit me.

That did it. My thoughts flashed white and my primitive brain took over. I ran, flailing at it as I headed toward first base. Faster than any all-star.

Stan ran after me. “Stop, Eric.”

As my higher brain functions recovered, I thought, “stop, drop, and roll.” Yes, I know. That’s for when you’re on fire. Close enough. I smashed myself down on my back, crushing the monster that was biting me. I got on my knees and did it again, a Fosbury flop onto the turf.

Stan arrived. He had his hand on the gun in his shoulder holster.

“What are you going to do, Stan, shoot me?” I yelled.

“Hold still. Lie on your stomach.”

“What the fuck is it?” I couldn’t see it.

“It’s a bat.”

“Shit. A bat? Get it off me!” I craned my neck, but I couldn’t see it. It was still moving.

Stan took out the knife in his Leatherman tool and cut away my shirt. “The wing goes into your shoulder.”

“Shit!” I slid my right hand to the front of my shoulder and cut my finger on the claw that protruded from my skin. A thin, bony, pointy thing with something membranous attached. “Pull it out,” I screamed, but I knew it wasn’t a good idea.

“That’s not going to work, Eric.”

“Well, cut it off.”

Stan held me down. “It’s evidence for the scientists. We should—”

“I don’t care if it’s the holy fucking grail. I want it off me. Now.”

“There’s a pretty big bone here. The ambulance is on its way.”

“Now, Stan.” I knew I wasn’t being rational. That can happen when you have a wild animal, like, say, a vampire bat, stuck in your body.

Stan sawed away at it for a while, then broke it off with a rip and a snap.

“The crack of the bat,” he said, deadpan as usual. He tossed it on the ground, along with part of my shirt, and I jumped up.

“Jeez, it’s still alive.” The thing was writhing around. I raised up my leg to stomp on it, but Stan held me back.

“We might learn more if it’s alive.”

“Hey, who’s the ex-scientist here?” I pushed past him and stomped on the bat's head. Two heads, actually. It had one regular head, and one malformed head on its neck. The pain in my shoulder wasn’t getting any better.

Stan looked at me. "Double-header."

CHAPTER FOUR

I opened my eyes and the Day-Glo cavern full of pink, bobbleheaded Jesus-vampires morphed into a normal hospital recovery room. Back to real life. I peered around as the last cobwebs of anesthetic cleared from my mind.

The patient to my left snored with a goofy look on his face. His long hair and shaggy beard made him look like a mountain recluse. His leg was in a cast. On my right, a woman with bandages covering much of her head sipped water through a straw.