BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (6 page)

“Marsh, what’s up?”

“Hey, man, I’m glad you picked up.” 

Jake heard tightness in his friend’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, sort of. It’s kind of a good-news, bad-news thing.”

Jake sighed.
More
bad news? “All right, lay it on me.”

“So, I’m over at Sammy’s, and Lacey told me there was a woman here snooping around asking questions about you.”

 “Par for the course these days. What makes this one so special? She want me for the cover of
Men’s Health
, or what?”

“Yeah, you wish. Actually, she’s a psychologist doing some sort of brain research. I guess she came all the way out here from Venice, Italy, to talk to you.”

“Great. Another doctor. I won’t see her. End of story.”

“I know, Jake, I know. But here’s the bad news. Lacey told her where you are. The woman’s on her way to the library now.”

Jake couldn’t believe it. “Son of a bitch, man. You’ve got to be kidding me. What was Lacey thinking?”

“You know Lacey. She was just being nice and it kind of popped out. I’m with her now.”

Lacey’s voice chimed in behind Marshall’s. “Jake, I’m so sorry!”

Jake scanned the sidewalks outside the library to see if anyone was approaching. “I’ll deal with it. Tell Lacey no worries. I’ll meet this woman but I’m going to make it short and sweet. After that, I’ll stick it out here until the library closes and then I’ll risk going home to crash.”

“Got it. But my couch is still available if you need it.” Marshall paused before adding, “Ah, how’s the research going?”

He really wants to know about my health, Jake thought, not the research. This was Marshall’s way of honoring his request to stop asking how he was feeling, and to keep things light and easy between them. That’s exactly what Jake needed right now and he appreciated his friend’s effort. “I’m having a ball. I’m learning a ton and I’ve barely started. Wish I had this brain when I was in school.”

“Listen, man. I just want you to know that no matter what happens—and I mean anything—Tony and I will be there for you. We’ve got your back. You got that?”

So much for light and easy.

“I do, Marsh. And thanks. I mean it. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Dude, wait!”

“What?”

“Don’t you want to hear the good news?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot. So what is it?”

“This doc that’s coming over to see you? Well, according to Lacey, she’s the spitting image of Penelope Cruz. Enjoy!” He hung up.

Interesting. Jake let his mind wander for a moment. He’d had a crush on Penelope ever since she played Sofia in
Vanilla Sky
. 

If only things were different. 

But they weren’t.

Sorting through his memory of the many messages he’d received on his voice mail over the past two days, he recalled two of them were from Doctor Francesca Fellini from The Institute for Advanced Brain Studies in Venice, Italy. She claimed to have critical information about his condition, and had asked if he would accept an invitation to visit the institute, all expenses paid, first-class tickets, blah, blah, blah. If only.

He opened a search window on his laptop. He wanted to learn a bit about the institute before she arrived. The more he knew, the sooner he would be able to get rid of her. 

**

It had been a long flight—Venezia to Roma and finally Los Angeles. With the layover, delays, and US immigration, the trip had taken over seventeen hours. 

Francesca was tired, anxious, and irritated. Why had
Signor
Battista been so insistent that she make this trip? What was it about the man she was going to meet that made him so special?  Sure, she had seen the replay of the broadcast as well, but was he really that different than so many others they had tested? The broadcast was barely two minutes of video, and from that
Signor
Battista arrived at the irrefutable conclusion that this American barhopper was the golden key to their research? Because he caught a flying beer mug? Yes, it had seemed rather spectacular. Perhaps a bit too much so. After all, Hollywood was only a forty-minute drive from here, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine that the video had more than a little creative editing. 

And she was supposed to convince this Mr. Bronson to visit Venice, just like that? She should be back with her students, continuing to help the latest arrival—an eight-year-old autistic boy from the Ukraine with an extremely high IQ—not running this fool’s errand in crazy California.

Pushing open the glass door, she removed her sunglasses, and like a general reviewing the battlefield, scanned the interior landscape of the small library.

She spotted him at a table in the corner, huddled over a laptop, a dozen or more books creating a fortress around him. She studied him for a moment, tried to get a sense of him, of his nature.

Francesca had always been able to do that with people, even when she was a child. Without speaking, without questioning, without touching, she was able to
feel
someone’s prominent emotions—fear, hope, sadness, anger, love, whatever was beneath the surface. 

Before she learned that she was different, she couldn’t understand why some of her friends couldn’t see the obvious evil or ill intentions of some of the other kids in the village, or of the old man who lived by the river who offered them warm bread with sugared butter. They laughed at her when she warned them. She begged them to stay away from him. After the old man did those terrible things to her classmate, Paolo, the police took him away. The old man never returned. Her friends paid closer attention to her warnings after that, though most of them also drifted away from her in time, awkward about being around someone who so easily sensed their innermost feelings. Some of the mean kids at school called her a witch.

Now that she was older, she could control her empathic gift, appreciate the advantages it offered. It was an invaluable tool in her work with the children at the institute, allowing her to connect with them in unique ways, without words getting in the way.

This American, he seemed normal enough, engrossed as he was by the computer screen, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. Rather good-looking in a casual sort of way, with disheveled hair that spilled over his forehead, faded jeans, and the sleeves of a white jersey pushed up to reveal well-muscled, tan forearms.

He looked up and his green eyes locked on hers, as if measuring her. His gaze was unusual. It seemed to focus on who she was rather than what she looked like. She appreciated that, but for some reason she found it a little unnerving. She braced herself and opened her senses to his emotions. 

On the surface there was anger and frustration, ill portents for the conversation she needed to have with him. She dug deeper to cut through those superficial feelings. Her breath caught in her throat. This man was drowning in a well of hopelessness. There was an emptiness there that was overwhelming. It tugged at her heart.

And there was more—a uniqueness about him she couldn’t define.

Francesca blinked and looked away, quickly raising a barrier around her gift. 

The attraction she felt toward him was primal. It frightened her.

Exhaling slowly, she steeled herself, hoping that the flush she felt was not obvious. Her blush always pinked her chest before reaching her cheeks and she was suddenly very conscious of the fact that the V-neck of the blouse she wore under her belted jacket was cut fairly low. She tilted her head forward slightly and gave it a barely perceptible shake, hoping the bottom waves of her long hair would provide some cover. The manicured fingers of her left hand went up impulsively to touch the tiny gold cross dangling from her necklace, causing a clutch of thin silver bracelets to slide from her wrist to her forearm in a shimmering tangle.

He was still looking at her, absorbing her.

Ignoring the appraising stares from two young men behind the checkout counter, Francesca secured the shoulder strap of her Gucci briefcase and marched to the American’s table. The click of her heels on the tiled floor suddenly seemed loud.

He rose to meet her, uncharacteristically gallant for a beach boy. She extended her hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Bronson. My name is Francesca Fellini.”

He shook her hand. His crooked grin made her want to smile back. Lord, she felt like a smitten teenager around this man.

“Hi, Ms. Fellini. I know why you’re here.”

Francesca sat down opposite him. “Please call me Francesca.”

“Okay, Francesca.” He sat back down. “But like I said, I know why you’re here, and I’ll tell you right up front that I’m not interested. In fact, I’m getting pretty tired of all you doctors wanting to poke and prod me like I’m some sort of lab rat.”

Francesca bit off her disappointment at his blunt, if not rude, demeanor. After her unexpected reaction to meeting this man, more than a part of her had secretly hoped for something more. But she needed to focus on
his
feelings, not hers. This man was hurting.

She contemplated how to guide the conversation without opening her empathic senses to him again, refusing to risk an embarrassing repeat of her blushing response. She glanced at the books scattered around him. “Have you found the answers to your questions?”

“What questions?”

“Questions about what happened to you, why it’s happened to you, and how far-reaching it is.” She nodded at the books. With a raised eyebrow, she placed her fingers on one and spun it around so the title was facing her.
Paranormal Realities.

He pulled the book back and flipped it upside down on the stack beside him. “I’ve learned quite a bit.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you really think you will get your answers this way, without professional help?”

“I’m willing to risk it. But not until you leave me alone so I can get back to it.”

It wasn’t what he said as much as how he said it that bothered her. He had followed his words with a look that said the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. After her long and tiresome trip, her frustration got the better of her. She picked up the book and shook it at him. “Your answers are not in here, Mr. Bronson.”

 He wasn’t fazed, at least not on the outside. Instead, he needled her with a fake smile. “Please call me Jake.”

She waited a beat, biting her tongue. She put the book down so the title was facing him. “And what did you learn from this book?”

Jake leaned forward, glancing to both sides as if to ensure that no one was eavesdropping. In a hushed and serious voice that appeared intentionally laced with melodrama, he said, “Well, I didn’t actually learn it from that particular book, but it opened my mind to testing the range of my new abilities since the accident. And one of the coolest things I discovered is that I have the ability to predict the future.”

Francesca sniffed. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Bronson.”

“I said, please call me Jake.”

He was maddening. “All right,
Jake
. I’ll play your silly little game.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands on her lap. “So, you can predict the future?”

The man looked hurt. He sank back in his chair, his face somber. “It’s not a game.”

Was he serious? Of course what he was saying was not possible, but that didn’t mean he didn’t believe it. She was tempted to open her senses to him, but even the thought of doing so made her shift uneasily in her chair. She remembered the report that
Signor
Battista’s staff had put together about this man’s terrible incident in the MRI. The report didn’t include his medical records, but Battista had assured her they would soon have a copy of those as well, though how they were able to obtain such confidential information was beyond her. In any case, this man had gone through a terrible experience, and he needed help.

The trained psychologist in her took over. She wanted to see where this would lead. “I’m so sorry, Jake. Please continue.” 

Seemingly appeased, he kept his voice low. “It’s not like I can predict that there’s going to be an earthquake, or what the stock market is going to do. It’s nothing like that. It’s limited to things that are going to happen in the immediate future.”

The poor man was completely delusional, but Francesca maintained eye contact with him, silently encouraging him to continue.

He said, “Do you want me to show you?”

She laced the fingers of her hands together and placed them on the table. She leaned forward. “Yes, please.” 

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and released it slowly through his mouth. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and said, “First, you are going to tell me how special I am. Then you’re going to realize that no matter what you say, I’m still not going to allow you to make me your lab rat. Then you’re going to stand up, all in a huff, sling the strap of that fancy briefcase over your shoulder, and storm out of here, never looking back.” He crossed his arms on his chest and flashed a steely gaze.

The man was intentionally trying to make her angry. And he was doing a good job of it.

In slim control of her temper, she recognized the web page on his laptop as the home page of the institute’s site. She grabbed the top of the screen and slammed the laptop shut. “So, you know all about me then, is that it?”