Kaleidoscope Read online

  I pushed the thought away. It has to be someone else. I closed the study door and placed a call to Joseph Talbot, one of the College-Five. Joe worked for the FBI—he’d know what to do.

  Joe was what some called a ‘good old boy’ from Vicksburg, Mississippi. We were both on scholarship and new to the big life of being away from home and parental guidance in general. That was only part of the reason we’d struck up an immediate friendship as freshmen at Columbia. Since it was too expensive and too far for Joe to travel home for holidays and long weekends, he’d become a regular at our family dining table during that time. Today, Joe was head of the resident agency in Brooklyn-Queens. I gave my name to the receptionist and she put me through to him right away.

  “Hello, Mike,” Joe said jovially. “What’s up?”

  “I’m holding some weird listening device that Maria found on my pillow this morning. Could you take a look at it and tell me what the hell is going on?” I responded.

  “Hell, Mike,” he chuckled, “I don’t have x-ray vision and I’m not psychic. I’d have to see it up close to identify it correctly.” After a brief pause and muted conversation with others, Joe reassured, “I can meet you around noon.”

  “Cavenders?” I asked.

  “Sure, sure,” Joe replied. “The one on Park Avenue?” We agreed, and Joe hung up. I searched through online photos of electronic listening devices, bugs, trying to find something similar to the one I held in my hand. I suddenly realized with some trepidation that someone was spying on me. How is that possible? And, even more disturbing, how long has this been going on? I left the study and further questioned Maria.

  “Oh, Señor Mike, I change the linens on your bed every Monday whether you are here or not,” Maria replied.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  “No, Señor, never,” Maria adamantly replied.

  “And you’d have noticed it if it had been there last Monday?” I asked the question a different way.

  “Si, Señor. When I change the linens, I remove the pillows from their cases and then must push them back inside the clean case. I would’ve seen this had it been there last Monday when I cleaned for you,” Maria replied again with conviction.

  This is new. This is something that wasn’t here last week. It happened after I told Nelson and after I met Casey, too.

  Maria continued her routine, and I continued to brood about the device I held in my hand. My stomach lurched. I didn’t want to believe that the device involved either of them. I wasn’t aware how deeply I stuck my head in the sand.

  At the coffeehouse on Park Avenue, I’d already gotten coffee when Joe arrived. He didn’t order anything and came straight to the back table where I sat. Joe, always strictly business, didn’t bother to sit down either. He leaned his hip against the table and faced me with arms crossed.

  “Well, let’s see it!” he demanded.

  Joe had thrown himself into his work ever since his marriage went south, literally. He’d married Savannah Fields, his high school sweetheart, after the first FBI promotion. Savannah left all that was familiar in Vicksburg, Mississippi, specifically a more gentle way of life, to move to New York with her new husband. She’d once confided that every corner of New York was as different as visiting a new country. To be honest, Vicksburg had only two cultures, white and black, and even though the south had experienced its racial battles during the 1960s, it’d come to an amicable peace over the last fifty or sixty years.

  Vicksburg life was as slow and relaxed as the southern drawl spoken there. Here, the city was represented by every race and religion, every culture known to man, and was a true melting-pot of every nationality. Savannah had given it five years, but she could never find a balance in the quick-talking, fast-paced, and over-crowded city. She kept a far-off, longing in her eyes as if she’d lost something of great value.

  One day, without any warning, she packed a suitcase, got on the bus, and left only a note for Joe. It simply read, “I’ve gone home.”

  Joe tried the singles scene for a while then threw himself into work, making promotion after promotion as he tried to forget that he’d failed with Savannah. The last he heard, she’d returned to Vicksburg, married a dentist, and now had two children. Joe made the trip home every five years or so, and although he deliberately avoided seeing Savannah, his sisters kept him well-informed about every detail of small-town gossip.

  Now, I looked up at Joe and shrugged helplessly before taking the white square of hard paper out of my shirt pocket. I handed it to him. It was his area of expertise and I trusted him.

  “Oh, this is good; this is very good,” Joe finally mumbled.

  “Do you think it’s still active right now?”

  “Yes,” he thoughtfully replied and slid the device into a plastic evidence bag. “But they’re done listening for today.” He smiled as he put the bag in a metal container. “It’s a wireless bug, Mike—of that much I’m sure. If someone put this in your home, they were nearby listening. They were close enough to watch as well as listen. But why the hell did they put it on your pillow, Mike? What kind of pillow-talk are you having these days?” Joe had a quizzical smile and humor in his eyes.

  We’d never been a group to kiss and tell, even in the good old college days. I didn’t think now was the time for that to change, so I didn’t mention that I’d met Casey or even that I was seeing anyone. Besides, it was too soon to tell if the attraction we felt was anything more than a chance meeting by two coffee buffs.

  “Honestly, Joe, I haven’t a clue why anyone would want to listen to me in the bedroom or anywhere else. Other than work, my life is dull and boring, just like yours,” I said giving Joe a weak grin to humor him. Joe noticed it was more of a grimace, but he let it slide.

  “Well, by now they know you’ve discovered this and they know you’re meeting with me. They’ve heard everything that transpired since Maria handed you the device and until I put it in a metal box. I bet you had it in your hand when you called me, right?” Joe asked and then chuckled softly.

  “Yes, I was looking at it when I made the call, so I guess they heard me agree to meet you here,” I admitted sheepishly.

  “Then, chances are good that you were followed,” Joe stated the obvious. “Listen, old friend, I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger. If you were, they’d have grabbed you before our meeting. For now, I have to get back to the office. We’re working a big case, but I’ll get the lab to check this out and then give you a call as soon as we know more. Be careful, Mike. That is high-tech stuff and for whatever reason someone is very interested in you.” He turned to go, but abruptly turned back. “Oh, and you might want to get a professional security system installed with cameras and the whole bit. We’ll probably want to sweep your entire home. I’ll let you know as soon as I can, but it’s been a busy month at the bureau. Don’t get your panties in a wad if it takes me a couple of days,” Joe said with a curt nod.

  After he left, I sat there for a while trying to absorb what was said… Although I hadn’t mentioned it to Joe, it wasn’t a fluke or coincidence that the same two men were in Terni with me and then followed me home. Someone is interested in me… Someone is watching and listening. This particular device targeted my bedroom.

  Is this about the kaleidoscope images or Casey? Does she have a jealous lover watching her every move? Is she being stalked or am I? Why is my initial instinct to suspect Nelson first? Casey’s the only one who’s been in the bedroom.

  I pushed the thoughts aside. I didn’t want to believe that either Nelson or Casey was involved, but I couldn’t discount either of them. Casey didn’t know the secret I’d shared with Nelson, but she’d been in and out of my home like a ghost the last few days, I rationalized. I didn’t give her a key and I’d put off asking her about it.

  Am I so enamored that I’m ignoring something right under my nose? I’ve been alone too long and I want her in my life. Am I overwhelmed by the mutual attraction? Am I avoiding the t
ruth? Is Casey somehow involved in this?

  I walked out of the coffeehouse and carefully looked up and down the street. Have I seen that car or van before? Did someone follow me to Cavenders? Are they watching me now?

  I sound like a fucking paranoid idiot!

  Still, the hairs on the back of my neck rose, alerting me to the possibility that eyes were observing and waiting for a chance… a chance to what? I felt vulnerable and began to sweat. To be perfectly honest, I’d been in a stupor all my life, never questioning much of anything or truly seeing anything. I’d been living life the way an architect follows blueprints, by rote. This oblivion might cost me more than I’m willing to pay. Without a doubt, ‘change’ has forcefully erupted into my life. It’s what I’d sought only a few days ago, and now, there was no going back from it.

  I hailed a cab, and as I got into the backseat, I realized that either Nelson or Casey had some explaining to do. Consumed by these thoughts, the rest of the day blurred by. The workout was particularly grueling. I felt betrayed, and took it out on a punching bag, the ropes, and the bench presses. I was particularly aggressive in the ring with Troy, but I couldn’t blurt out what had happened. I held it in and let my fists lash out instead.

  Chapter Nine

  Nelson called; he suggested that we meet earlier than planned. I agreed to a four o’clock appointment. There was an excitement in Nelson’s voice. He’d seen the news about Cambodia.

  I took Joe’s advice and found a high-tech security company who’d install the kind of system needed. The technicians arrived in record time, and when they’d finished with the installation, I had streaming video covering each entry point of the home. All the doors were rekeyed and alarmed; cameras were conspicuously placed at each doorway. The tech assured that just seeing the cameras was a big deterrent to most criminals.

  Nelson opened the door to his office before I had a chance to sit down in the waiting lounge. He immediately launched into the news report and was more than a little excited there was evidence to support the visions. Nelson seemed uncharacteristically jovial, talking nonstop about the implications of the proof, and then, noticing that I’d hardly said a word, he finally slowed down.

  “Mike is everything all right?” Nelson asked.

  Even though I hadn’t shared the information with Joe, I now filled Nelson in on meeting Casey, the tab of paper found on my pillow, and the meeting with Joe. I watched Nelson’s reaction carefully and, from the look of surprise he exhibited at each detail, he appeared innocent of any wrongdoing. I felt bad about doubting his involvement, but as a principle in Occam’s razor so aptly states, ‘All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.’

  The simplest explanation in this situation—it has to be either Nelson or Casey. It was the only logical conclusion. Still, I didn’t want it to be true.

  “Nelson, someone is keeping tabs on me or a jealous lover is stalking Casey. If they’ve been following me, they know about our meetings. I’m not saying that they know what we’re meeting about or that this is about me at all, but they do know I’ve been coming here to see you,” I said. I realized I was tap-dancing around the conclusion. My voice trailed off with uncertainty and I finally said, “I guess I’m trying to tell you to watch your back, ok?”

  Nelson nodded solemnly.

  “You’re probably being paranoid because I’m the only person you’ve told about your ability. That might be the reason you’re suppressing a natural instinct that this involves Casey. The device was on your pillow, not in your office where you research the images, right? It’s most likely a jealous ex-lover,” Nelson concluded. Then he asked what he’d been burning to know since the moment I arrived for the appointment. “Well, Mike, after the Cambodian report, did another set of images occur right away?”

  “Yes. As soon as one set of images manifests, a new set of images are shown to me through the kaleidoscope.”

  “What did you see this time?” Nelson asked as he enthusiastically rubbed his palms together, anxious to get down to business. His eyebrows rose while his eyes gleamed; both gestures urged me to spill it, but I also felt reluctant to do so.

  “I saw a city where, street by street, the lights went out. There was panic and mayhem, one woman was trampled to death in the ensuing disorder. It was horrifying, and even though I’ve researched power grids and cities that are most prone to power outages, I haven’t found anything that could suggest a location,” I said flatly and without the same eagerness that Nelson displayed.

  Nelson tapped his pen on the desk, his brow wrinkled in deep thought. I stopped talking and looked at him. I was familiar with that particular look of concentration. He was about to suggest something I probably wouldn’t like. He looked up, cleared his throat, and then spoke slowly and deliberately.

  “You know, Mike, I’ve suggested to you before that you might allow a research group to assist you with these images. That perhaps someone who specializes in this sort of thing could be of great benefit in helping you sort…,” Nelson began.

  “Hell, no! That’s completely out of the question, Nelson.”

  “Well, if that option is out of the question then hear me out, Mike. We’d probably make a lot more progress with this if you’d truly allow me to help you! We only have three more weeks to make some progress!” Nelson nearly shouted. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened while his body remained tense. “We need to find out how the sixth sense you had twenty-five years ago changed into broken images of unrelated future events. I think I have a solution for this. After you left last week, I remembered a class I took in grad school about the power of dreaming…,” he began.

  “Nelson, these aren’t dreams!” I interrupted again with exasperation.

  “Oy vey! Damn it, Mike! Just hear me out,” Nelson was shouting again. He’d gone from zero to ten in a few seconds; the excuses and interruptions I made were annoying him and he was now obviously irritated. “I know that you’re not dreaming, but I want us to treat these images as dreams or visions for lack of better terminology. Just hear me out and listen, really listen to what I have to say.” Nelson paused and looked at me expectantly. I finally nodded agreement and then he continued.

  “In grad school, we studied dreams from the perspective of passive observer. It was an unusual class, Mike—in fact, I’d forgotten about it until after our appointment last week. In this particular class, we experimented with another person’s dream. Our professor took us through a guided meditation and then read the dream out loud. As we were in a meditative state, we visualized what he was reading as if we were observing the dreamer’s memory. From the position of the observer, even if it was a nightmare, we remained objective. This allowed us an unbiased and unaffected assessment of the dream, free from emotion. It also allowed us to grasp more details that could help explain it to the dreamer and dispel any fears. What I’d like to suggest is that you learn how to become an objective observer with the images you’re having,” Nelson paused briefly. “Mike, I can teach you these techniques. I can teach you how to watch the kaleidoscope images, free from emotion, as an observer rather than a participant.”

  I remained utterly still and didn’t say anything. Nelson studied his hands while I sat stiffly in the chair across from his massive desk. We sat that way for some time before he continued. “I hope that once you learn the techniques, you’ll feel comfortable enough to close your eyes right here in the safety of my office and tell me everything you see through the kaleidoscope. I could record it and we could go over the details, making notes. While you’re watching the vision, I can attempt to keep you focused as the passive observer by asking questions about certain scenes of the event. It will give both of us a clearer understanding of how it works and exactly what you see. It might even tell us why you have this ability, what its purpose is, and how it changed so drastically.”

  I still didn’t say anything.

  “You know, Mike, you came to me because you
trust me and want my help. I need you to let me help you,” he continued in an unusually quiet voice.

  Again, the silence was thick and lengthy. I leaned forward with elbows on my thighs, studying my size thirteen shoes, but no answers existed there. I knew he was right; I came here for his help. Nelson’s hands rested on his desk, but he began to pick at an imaginary object on his thumb, turning the digit over and over as if to make sure something really was there. All the while, I wondered why I was resistant to the help he offered.

  “Look, Mike,” Nelson finally said, “I’ve known you for a very long time. During the early part of our friendship, you were a different man. You were outgoing and vivacious, full of life and its possibilities. You were like a god to the rest of us. You could look down the road and, as if by magic, give us the best damn advice we could hope for. I have to ask, are you still able to do that? Can you shift your gaze or stare at something and see the best solution for the situation?”

  I shook my head in response. I didn’t recall ever having done what Nelson described. I didn’t recall much except for the last fifteen years of fighting the kaleidoscope visions.

  “Mike,” Nelson continued, “you were the one who told Tasha to buy a camera. You told her she’d make a great photographer. It was as if you saw it. Are you telling me that you don’t have that ability any longer?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying Nelson, and I don’t recall ever having that ability,” I adamantly replied.

  “Then somewhere along the way you lost it, because you had it in college,” Nelson said as he shook his head in frustration. “I’m going to guess from what you’ve told me that you lost the ability after you went to work for GMS, because that’s also about the time all of us began to notice a change in you. You became moody and repressed. We used to see you at least four or five times a year and then it dropped to where we barely saw you once a year. You stopped by to see Tasha on a regular basis while traveling and then you didn’t. None of us knew why. I couldn’t figure it out either until you came here last week. It finally made sense—you lost the natural ability and it was replaced by this distorted version.