Yesterday's Thief: An Eric Beckman Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller (7 page)

The article went on to describe how energy theft was becoming more common with skyrocketing electrical rates and that the practice often resulted in injury or death.

The puzzle pieces fell into place. I looked out at the bay. “So maybe McCrea died after kidnapping and imprisoning Donny. Does that sound right?”

She spread her hands. <
Sounds right, but I’m going to stay out of this.
> “I’m sorry, Mr. Beckman. I’ve told you everything I know.”

On my way out of the building, I called Stan and filled him in. Maybe Donnatello Winkel was locked up and starving somewhere. Time was critical, and I figured the police could find him faster than I could.

* * *

I needed to find out where McCrea might have stashed Donny. I followed false leads throughout the day and into the evening, and I needed a break.

The kidnapping scenario made sense, but Roman McCrea was dead, and dead men tell no tales. That’s something private eyes say. Or maybe it’s pirates.

In any case, I was done for the day. I walked into the Golden Gate Brew Pub. Time to use my painstakingly developed mental talent for something of a more personal nature.

Over the years I’d worked hard at improving my mind-reading skills. On that night with Naomi Wasserman, twenty-three years ago, my talent had been undeveloped. Think of the first time a concert pianist touches a piano. He might play a few notes with his index finger, unable to produce a tune. That’s how basic my talent was. I wouldn’t even have picked up Naomi’s thought had I not been nibbling her substantial earlobe—inches from her brain.

With years of exhausting practice—scales, arpeggios, sight-reading—the pianist becomes a maestro. He or she learns to control the instrument, creating rich, wonderful music without effort. In the same way, I devoted hours per day to practicing my mind reading. I’d wander around a busy mall, focusing on thoughts. I learned to turn up the gain. I could soon read the thoughts of someone thirty feet away. Just as important, I learned to turn down the volume, focus on one person’s thinking, and even block out everyone’s thoughts. By 2020, I may not have been a maestro, but I could exert exquisite control over my gift.

I even studied neuroscience with the hope of figuring out the physical basis for my ability. Had no luck with that. I still don’t have a clue as to how it works. Thanks to my selfishness, no one else will, either.

I walked over to the bar and ordered an Anchor Steam.

The place was quiet, and as soon as I walked in, the thoughts of a farm-girl-fresh brunette in a booth by herself grabbed my attention.

<
Never should have listened to Susan. What, a man is going to just sit down in the booth and say ‘Hi’? I’m a fish out of water. A lonely fish.>

I took my beer over, sat down across from her in the booth, and said, “Hi.”

She laughed. <
What? Maybe that
is
the way it works. Huh.>

“I hope you don’t mind that I joined you. You looked a little lonely over here.”

“No, I don’t mind. I wasn’t laughing at you. You just surprised me.” She cocked her head. “And in what way did I look lonely?”

“I don’t know, you just had a lonely look.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me what lonely looks like.”

“You want me to look lonely?”

She nodded, smiling.

“Okay, give me a second to get into character.” I looked down and shook out my arms as if getting ready for a competition, having no idea what I was going to do. I peeked up at her.

She leaned back and crossed her arms. “I’m waiting.”

Okay, she was on board. That gave me confidence. I pouted out my lower lip like a child who’d lost a puppy and looked slowly around the room.

She laughed and I joined in.

“So, that’s what I looked like?”

“But with freckles.” They gathered on her cheeks and gridlocked her nose. I hoped she wasn’t self-conscious about them.

>

Okay, not self-conscious about them.

We went through the introductions. Her name was Jessica Holiday, a veterinarian who’d just taken over a practice in Marin County. She had a wonderful smile. Made me think of Miss Romania, but Jessica’s hair was lighter and her face, rounder. She was in her early thirties and wore down-to-earth clothing.

After the kidding around, we both got a bit shy. I played with the label on my beer bottle. “This may seem strange, but I’d like to tell you that I’m not interested in a quick hookup—”

“Oh, neither am I!” Her face lit up. “I’ve never done this before. Not in a bar.”

“You stick to grocery stores.”

She laughed. “Right. In the meat department.” She blushed and put her hand on mine. <
Whoa! That feels nice. Been a while. Hmm
.> She left it there a few extra seconds.

It felt nice to me, too.

She looked down at the table. <
I have no idea what to talk about
.>

I gestured toward the other people in the bar. “Look at these people. What do you think they’re talking about? People who have just met, I mean.” What a manipulative phony I can be. Disgusting.

“Right … Right! I have no idea.” <
Wow, we’re on the same wavelength
.>

Our shyness dissipated as we talked. By reading her thoughts, I could make her night more enjoyable, make her feel more at ease. It wasn’t just for my benefit. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Her eyes were expressive, flashing wide or squinting depending on what she said. We chatted for hours. Another small quake gave us more to talk about—she’d never felt one before.

I was about to deep-six the no-sex plan. Then again, if I was looking for a candidate for a long-term relationship, she fit perfectly. A real hometown girl-next-door with a genuine personality. Trustworthy, too. Maybe she’d be my salvation.

I pictured her in a cozy home, weeding vegetables in the garden, laughing with me in front of a fire. On the other hand, her thoughts told me she was “in the mood” right now. And wouldn’t it be a blow to her self-confidence if I said, “not tonight, dear”?

A text from Craig saved me from breaking my vow of chastity: Miss Romania is awake. Come stat!

After explaining the situation to Jessica, I gave her my card and she gave me a kiss full of promise. I hightailed it toward UCSF and caught Jessica’s last thought as I left the bar:

CHAPTER FIVE

Craig met me in the lobby. He looked at his watch. “C’mon Eric, let’s hurry. Wait till you meet her.”

“What’s the story?”

“She says she has amnesia. That’s why I stopped talking to her and called you.” He opened the door to the stairwell—the elevator was apparently too slow. “I figured you could tell if she’s lying.”

“Does she remember her name? That’s always the last thing to go.”

“Viviana Petrescu.”

I nodded. “Good. Sounds Romanian to me.”

“Let’s talk to her just the two of us. The FBI will want in, but I haven’t notified them yet.”

“Shit, Craig, you’re in trouble now.” We rounded the third floor landing.

Craig stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Do you think so?”

“I was just kidding. You’re fine. What about the FBI guard?”

“On her door?”

“Right.” I pulled open the door to Viviana’s floor.

“Oh, he’s a flake. He’s gotten complacent since she’s been in a coma. I think he’s wandering around the halls somewhere.”

We entered her room and found her sitting up in the bed, eating red Jell-O. The vertical-slat blinds were closed, and her roommate was still circling Jupiter—still in a deep coma.

“Ah, Dr. Porter, you are back.” She smiled. “You see, I remember. Maybe memory is good now. And you bring friend. Maybe is husband who I am forgetting.” She winked at me.

Rather than someone who had been in a coma for six days, she looked like she’d woken up from a refreshing nap. She must have just discovered that her left pinkie was gone, yet she seemed in high spirits. Who can joke around after losing a finger?

I couldn’t take my eyes off her hair. Deep black and lustrous, it fell in gentle waves around her neck and onto the front of her hospital gown.

Craig walked to one side of her bed. “Ms. Petrescu, I’d like to introduce my colleague. This is Dr. Eric Beckman.”

When Craig said “Petrescu,” she thought, <
Petki
,> as if correcting him. I moved to the other side of the bed and she shook my hand.

I could hear her thoughts but couldn’t understand much. It was mostly in a foreign language and fast. Imagine the spoken fine print at the end of a TV drug commercial, but in Romanian. No way I could remember enough of it to write it down and get it translated.

But she thought in English, too. Perhaps twenty percent English.

Most people imagine that thinking in a new language is the height of fluency. However, it’s not an all-or-nothing thing. Even a beginning French student might think “bonjour” when greeting a series of Frenchies even if that was the only word he knew. He wouldn’t think “hello” and translate each time.

I tried not to look at the delicious curve of her neck and shoulders. “What a lovely name you have. Could you say it for me again so that I may pronounce it correctly?”

She looked to Craig, then squinted and looked at me from the corner of her eye. Suspicious but smiling. “My name, Viviana Petrescu. Is not so difficult, yes?” Thinking: <
Viviana Petki>
followed by gibberish.

Petki, Petki. I rehearsed it to myself so I wouldn’t forget it. Also, I received one phrase twice. In her language: <
oonda yestay zaza dud nic.
>

I repeated it in my head, excused myself, went into the hall, and spoke it into my translation app. I’d preselected Romanian to English. It provided the translation, “Where is Zaza Dudnic?” Were the last two words a name? This was encouraging, but most of her thoughts went by too fast for me to remember. Memorizing more than a few nonsense syllables just wasn’t possible.

I went back into the room, and she said, “You need the break, Dr. Becksman?”

“I, um, pardon me?”

“You need break from staring at the hair. My hair?” Her impish smile returned, and she raised her eyebrows. She lifted a section of her hair, making a mustache under her wonderful nose. God, she was stunning.

Craig laughed.

“You have, uh, very nice hair,” I said.
Come on, Beckman, get a grip.

“You would like to touch, maybe?” She held it out to me.

“Uh, no, thank you, are you feeling okay?” Without thinking, I reached out and petted the hair she held toward me, as if petting a ferret.

“See. Does not bite. Yes, am feeling okay. I feel good. Like James Brown, no?”

I thought back to the hit song from over fifty years ago. I wasn’t born when it came out, but had heard it many times.

Craig consulted her chart. “Ms. Petrescu—”

“No, no, please call me my Christian name. Viviana.” She looked first at Craig then at me.

“Okay, Viviana, do you know how you got here?” Craig asked.

She knitted her eyebrows. “I do not.” She looked at her missing finger.

“What is the last thing you remember?” Craig pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat.

I let him do the talking. I didn’t want it to seem as if we were ganging up on her.

“I remember only that my name is Viviana Petrescu.”

Craig and I looked at each other. The name is usually the last thing to go, but severe amnesia like that is extremely rare.

She laughed a beautiful, musical laugh. “I am making the joke. How do you say? I am pulling on your legs. But is true, my memory is fluffy. I am from Moldova. Moved here to America, to San Francisco, one year ago, give and take.” Her eyes twinkled. “And now I am here, in hospital. But I am not sick. I feel nice. Like sugar and spice.” She winked at me, and heat rose into my face. Did it show?

She had skillfully avoided answering the question.

“Viviana, your memory will probably return,” Craig said. “Are you concerned about it? Does it worry you?”

“No, Dr. Craig, I do not worry. Know this: Am happy person. Always happy. Bad, bad times in my country. Still happy. Maybe am flawed like that. I do not worry. No point to worry about future. No reason to feel bad about past. This, I learn from my uncle.”

“Don’t worry. Be happy.” I sang it with a Jamaican accent.

A puzzled frown flashed across her face. Obviously, she had never heard that song. Most of her thoughts were still nonsense to me.

Craig asked, “Does your uncle live here in this country? Do you have any relatives here?”

She didn’t look so happy. “I do not remember.”