Brad pulled in the driveway of Melanie's place of
business slightly after six thirty, knowing quite well that
it would make him five minutes late. This was no accident,
since he had been sitting in the parking lot of a nearby
grocery store for half an hour. He could have waited at the
house, but he felt that she might get the impression that he
was interested in something more than her psychic abilities.
It was true, of course; but that wasn't something that he
wanted to make too obvious.
He parked next to the blue Mustang convertible and
noticed that the top had been put up since his earlier
visit. The fact that the car had moved, proved his theory
that Melanie did not live in the same house where she
practiced her trade, which Brad saw as another good sign.
If she could afford to keep an office and a home, it meant
that she was good at what she did. Before he reached the
porch of the house, Melanie opened the door, and Brad
stopped in his tracks.
In the time since they had last spoken, Melanie had
changed clothes. She no longer wore the dress that had
defined her waist and bust lines so perfectly, but instead
wore a pair of slightly faded Levy's that had shrunk to
exactly the right size (meaning one size too small). Her
blouse was white cotton, had been meticulously fitted to
accent every curve of her upper body, with about twenty
small buttons on the front. The sheer number of buttons
might have been enough to scare off any perspective suitor
that might have thought of venturing beyond them, if it had
not been for the way the blouse so sensually packaged its
contents. As if to tease anyone that might allow the
thought to cross his mind, Melanie had left the top six
buttons undone.
Again, Brad found himself wondering if Melanie could
tell what he was feeling, but he quickly decided that any
woman could sense lust, whether she was psychic or not. He
had never been the type of man to catcall, or even whistle,
when a woman walked by but Brad had never been above turning
his head to follow a good-looking pair of legs. He tried to
tell himself that the trip was strictly business, but his
hormones were telling him something different.
"So, are we ready to go?" asked Melanie, as she dropped
her keys into her purse.
"Ready when you are. I thought I'd drive, if you don't
mind."
"No problem. But... I do think we should take care of
my fee, before we leave."
Brad reached into his coat pocket and removed five
fresh twenty dollar bills from the envelope that contained
his expense money. He wasn't completely sure that the paper
would except Melanie's fee as a justifiable expense, but if
she provided him with some conclusive evidence, he might
cover it himself. As things stood, he had thirty dollars
left, which was hardly enough for tonight's hotel room.
Melanie walked to the Mustang, placed the money in the
glove compartment, and took a hand-knitted shawl from the
back seat. She turned and walked toward where Brad held the
passenger door of his Firebird open for her, but stopped
when she noticed the front end. "Wow! What happened to your
car?"
Brad's lovelorn lustfulness instantly changed to
disgust at the reminder of the days wreck, and the glow of
his aura flashed through the spectrum to a color close to
magenta. "Don't ask," was all he said before slamming the
door and stomping around the front of the car to the
driver's seat. Melanie suppressed a laugh as she watched
Brad stare at the damaged front end during his trip.
It took only a few minutes to reach the interstate from
the house. Once on the open road, Brad set the cruise
control, and turned to look at his passenger, only to find
her eyes closed. He figured that she had either drifted off
to sleep to rest for her assignment, or she was already
trying to make contact. Either way, it was alright with
him. For several moments he continued to drive in silence,
until Melanie stretched her arms, took a deep breath, then
exhaled. He turned to look at her and noticed a playful
smile and almost mischievous look in her beautiful blue
eyes.
"Why did you smash into the gate?" she asked.
The question startled Brad so much, he almost lost
control of the car. He stared at her for as long as he
could safely take his eyes from the road, and realized at
once how truly gifted a psychic she was. While writing the
article, he had seen several impressive demonstrations
before, but never one as incredible as Melanie's guess about
the car. It quickly became apparent that she hadn't been
asleep at all; but undoubtedly reading his mind. This
frightened him, not because he had someone else prowling
around in his head, but because he was afraid she might see
one of the many fantasies that were floating about in there.
Considering she was the focus of them at this particular
moment, it could make for an embarrassing evening.
"Someone was chasing you," she continued. "You were in
the desert, on a road with a gate, being chased by someone
that you were afraid of. Let's see, it must have been the
Air Force."
Brad saw that she wore the same playful smile and
decided to tell her what had happened in hopes that it would
keep her from continuing her mind reading. Telling her the
whole truth would not be a wise course of action, since he
had only known her for a few hours, and the story was crazy
enough that it might cause her to back out of their
agreement.
"It's a long story, but I'll try to cut it down to
basics. I work for a Los Angeles newspaper. While I was
covering an unrelated story, I ran into a man who said the
Air Force was conducting experiments in..." In what? He
paused while he considered his cover story. "... ESP. They
were hoping to be able to read the minds of Russian
scientists and second-guess their next invention. They
found Roger several years ago and asked him to participate,
but he refused, so they imprisoned him. Now they force him
to use his ESP to spy."
"Have you checked your source's story?"
"Yes, I have. The evidence seems to point to its being
true, but unless I can pinpoint this guy's location, the
story won't amount to anything more than a bunch of hot
air."
"I understand. But, don't you think the Air Force has
a good reason for what they're doing? I mean, national
security, and all. It's their job to protect us."
"Hey, if they're holding Roger against his will, then
all the good reasons in the world don't count. He hasn't
committed any crimes, and if he's dangerous, then the Air
Force should prove it in a court of law."
"Yeah, I can see your point. You were looking for him
on the Air Force base then?"
"No, the bomb range, near Alamo." Melanie nodded and
Brad considered it a sign of approval for his actions.
Another long moment of silence passed between the two as the
desert landscape flew past the windows, and the car entered
the long valley that led to their destination. The ridge to
the west was just beginning to block the setting sun, but
occasionally it would peek between the mountain tops and
fill the car with a warm flash of light. Even with the sun
visor flipped to the side, the strobe effect was annoying,
but not nearly as distracting as the way the light bounced
among Melanie's loose blonde curls.
"You've got a nice car," stated Brad in an effort to
move the conversation, and as such their relationship, from
purely business to something closer to pleasure. "I looked
at those Mustang GT's when I bought this car. They're
pretty expensive, aren't they?"
"Not nearly as expensive as a Porsche."
"Yeah, I guess your business is doing rather well."
"Well, I haven't had enough time to build a steady
clientele. I'm still new at all this," Melanie explained.
"Still new? How long have you been a pyschic?" asked
Brad jokingly.
"I've had ESP all my life. I've just been doing it
professionally for about four months."
"I understand. How does one get into the psychic
business?" Of course, Brad knew the answer, he'd heard the
story a dozen times when he was writing the article. His
actual goal was less to hear the story than to hear her
voice.
"I first realized what being psychic meant when I was
about nine. I'd always been a good guesser, but no one gave
my ability any serious thought until that Christmas. My
father had always joked about how I was able to see through
the wrapping paper of my presents, so he handed me one that
he had specially wrapped. I made my guess, unwrapped
several layers of newspaper and aluminum foil, and saw that
I was right. I knew the only way I could have known what
was in the box was by reading my father's mind;
unfortunately, so did he."
"He didn't make that big a deal about it, but whenever
I would make a guess about something, he'd tell me that
normal people didn't do things like that. Eventually, I
learned to keep my mouth shut, and my thoughts to myself.
But things changed during my sophomore year at UNLV."
"The psychology department wanted to do some tests to
determine how much psychic ability the average person had,
so I volunteered as a joke. I never realized how unique,
gifted was the word they used, I was until they began giving
me exercises to hone my ability. They taught me how to tune
out the background noise generated by those around me and
focus my concentration on one person. That alone doubled my
accuracy."
"By the time I was a junior, I had gotten involved with
several groups that studied eastern philosophies and psychic
phenomena, but never really felt comfortable with them.
They always seemed offended, or maybe envious, that I could
do the things that they wished they could do, but that I
couldn't teach them to do it. They never understood that
everyone had a limit to their psychic abilities, and that
the best they could hope for was to reach that limit. As it
turned out, my limit just happened to be higher than
theirs."
"I picked up some good information from them, but by
Christmas, I stopped visiting the groups. Needless to say
that thrilled my parents, because they said I was wasting my
time and my grades were suffering. They said that a college
degree would get me further in life than my unique gift, and
that I should just forget about it and try to be normal.
The next semester I had straight A's."
"So, I guess they were right," said Brad.
"Oh no, they were totally wrong. See, by then I'd
learned that if I didn't know the answer to a question on a
test, I could just scan the room and see what everybody else
was putting down. Sometimes I got lucky, and was able to
read the professor's mind." Brad couldn't help but laugh.
"Did you get your degree?"
"Yes. I have a bachelor's in marketing."
"That doesn't explain how you got started as a
psychic."
"After college, I looked for a job, just like everybody
else, but I couldn't find all those big money jobs the
professors told us were out there. I ended up working the
temporary services for a year, before I finally broke down
and opened my business. Of course my parents were against
it, but I had some money and spent half of it on the car and
invested the other half in the business."
"I see. Where did you get the money. I mean, it must
have been a lot."
Melanie paused, causing Brad to look at her and once
again see her playful smile. She flipped her hair over one
shoulder as she considered her answer. "Let's just say I
got lucky in the stock market." Brad could imagine what
that meant, and was forced to laugh again. This time
Melanie joined in.
For another hour, the car glided through the valley on
cruise control, and Brad and Melanie talked and laughed.
Brad was amazed that he was so at ease with such a beautiful
woman on a first date, but quickly understood it was because
it wasn't a date at all. The more they talked, the more
relaxed he became, and the less he thought about Melanie's
body. He began to appreciate her for her intelligence and
wonderful sense of humor. By the time the night had fallen,
and the lights of Alamo cast their faint glow across the
desert horizon, Brad noticed that his attraction to the girl
had left his pants and risen to his heart.
He slowed the car to about thirty miles an hour upon
hitting the city limits, until he saw a shopping center with
a large parking lot to his left. The Firebird groaned
through the turn as the wheel rubbed against a piece of bent
steel, but still obeyed its master's request. Brad stopped
the car in the dimly lit parking lot and shifted into
neutral.
"Is this okay?" he asked, but immediately saw that it
was not.
"I don't mean to be rude, Brad, but, no it is not
okay." Her objection was made less pointed by the fact that
she had called him Brad instead of Mr. Dartmouth. "What
you've asked me to do is to locate someone that you can't
get to by normal means. Well, that means one of two things.
First, make contact and hope he knows where he is well
enough to give directions, or second, astral project until I
find him, then give you the directions I followed."
"Astral projection is not a simple task-- if it were
you'd do it yourself-- it requires a great deal of
concentration and focusing. It is also dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Brad asked in a surprised and
unsympathetic tone.
"For me to astral project, part of my mind, my
consciousness, has to leave my body. That means my body is
defenseless. If anything happens to it while I'm astral
projecting, I might not be able to get back. Furthermore,
there is the possibility that I might not be able to find my
body when I tried to return. This may not be the easiest
thing for you to understand, but if you think of my
consciousness as my soul, and you consider what it means
when your soul leaves your body, you might see my point."
Brad grunted in understanding. "What do we need to do
then?"
"To do this I'm going to need someplace where I can
relax, and feel comfortable that my body will be alright in
my absence."
What Brad understood her to say was that she need some
place to kick off her shoes, put her feet up, and take it
easy. She needed someplace quite, secluded, comfortable,
and safe. It was obvious the car was unacceptable, a
restaurant would be too crowded, a park was too open, and a
bar would be too noisy. When he considered all the factors,
there was only one place that would be acceptable. He had
to find them a motel room.
It had not been a lucky morning for Brad, with the Air
Force chasing him and wrecking his car, but his luck had
definitely changed as the day had waned. First, he'd met
Melanie, then she'd agreed to go to Alamo with him, and now
he had found a motor lodge just a few hundred yards down the
road from where they'd been parked. The thought of checking
into a motel room with Melanie was enough to move the
aforementioned attraction from his heart back to its point
of origin.
The motel appeared to have been built in the fifties,
but was well kept for its age. There were about a dozen
small rooms built side-by-side, each with a door, window,
and one space to park a car. At one end of the row of rooms
stood a larger structure that served as the office/residence
of the manager. In front of the office was a sign emblazed
with a palm tree, and the name Bungalow Inn, and the
traditional neon vacancy sign.
Brad knocked on the door several times, saw a woman of
between sixty and seventy enter the office from the
residence. "Whatchu want?"
"I need a room," stated Brad flatly.
"Yeah, come in. What happened to your car?"
"Had a wreck." It was a good thing the old woman
couldn't see auras, too.
"Twenty dollars." Brad reached into his wallet and
withdrew his American Express. The old woman gave the card
a disgusted look, ran it through the imprinter, then slid it
and the receipt toward Brad to sign. When he was finished,
she handed him his copy of the form and looked past him out
the window. Brad turned to see what the woman was looking
at, and saw that Melanie had stepped out of the car to
stretch her legs.
"I don't give refunds, if ya don't stay all night," she
stated. "You use the bed, you pay full price."
For a moment, Brad was incredibly insulted by the
woman's innuendo until he realized that a minute earlier
he'd been fantasizing what the old woman was accepting as
fact. He wondered why he was insulted; he'd had several
dates where he'd checked into a motel for quickie. Yet,
somehow, this was different. It wasn't that he personally
was insulted, it was the fact that the woman had insulted
Melanie, that had gotten to him. Brad almost laughed when
he realized how far off the deep end he'd gone, but he
decided to give the old woman a taste of her own medicine.
Brad took the key from the counter and stepped toward
the door. "Can I get a refund if we do it on the floor?"
The woman was so appalled by Brad's comment that she
couldn't answer. Brad returned to the car smiling at his
victory and thinking that if he was lucky, he might get his
money's worth out of the room after all.
Brad parked the car in front of the room, opened the
door, and turned on the light. It was small by the
standards of modern hotels and it had a traditional bathroom
instead of the separate shower and sink. There was one
double bed, a small table with two chairs, and an old
dresser. Brad moved aside to let Melanie in, and watched
while she sized up the room.
"Okay, this is better," she started, then sat on the
edge of the bed and removed her shoes. She scooted to the
middle and folded her legs in front of her in a lotus
position. "You might as well have a seat. I don't know how
long this will take." Brad complied with her suggestion.
For several moments, Melanie rolled her head from side
to side as she went through a series of relaxation
exercises. Occasionally, she would move her hands or her
upper body in a slow and fluid motion best associated with a
ballet dancer. The speed of her movement gradually
decreased until her hands came to rest on her knees, and her
chin on her chest.
Brad sat on the edge of his chair for nearly ten
minutes before the boredom exceeded his attention span. He
rose from the chair and silently paced the room for another
five minutes, but soon grew weary of that activity. It
became apparent that the search might take quite a while,
and Brad began to wonder what he would do to pass the time.
At first, he considered exploring the town or simply
stepping outside to get some fresh air, but he remembered
what Melanie had said about her body being safe. If he were
to leave, and something happened to her, he would have a
hard time explaining it to the police. He wasn't as
concerned about explaining her self-hypnotic state, as much
as a way of clearing himself of the blame. After all, he
would be the primary suspect if Melanie ended up comatose...
or worst.
He sat in the chair once again and looked at the woman
before him. He watched as her chest rose and fell with each
successive breath. As she inhaled, her blouse seemed to
open ever-so-slightly to the point that Brad could see the
lace edge of her bra cupping her tanned breasts. Brad
watched silently, and felt as though the temperature in the
room had gone up at least ten degrees.
How helpless was she, he wondered? What if he leaned
toward her and unbuttoned just one button on her blouse?
Would it be enough to disturb her concentration, or was she
actually so oblivious to her surroundings that she would
never know? If he could unbutton one, why not undo them
all? Perhaps he could even unlatch the clasp of her bra and
fondle her perfect tits before she regained consciousness.
She'd never know what happened.
Brad fell back in the chair and let out a deep breath.
It was hard for him to believe the thought had crossed his
mind. It was even harder for him to understand why it had
taken so much willpower for him to resist the temptation.
To touch her was nothing short of rape. Violating her in
this state would be no different then beating her into
submission, than handcuffing her to the bed. Besides, he
didn't know when her mind would return.
After what seemed an eternity, but was actually only
fifteen minutes, Melanie made a sound. Brad had been
wearing out the carpet by pacing when he heard the faint
sound from his companion. Not quite a cry, it might have
been something between a whimper and a whine. It was
followed by another sound similar to a cough or perhaps a
snort, then another whine. Brad moved closed to Melanie,
and noticed she was trembling.
At first, Brad considered shaking her to bring her out
of the trance, but decided it wouldn't be a good idea for
the same reason you weren't suppose to wake a sleep walker
(what ever that was). The tremble became a spasm, the whine
turned to a wail, and Brad was instantly overcome by a fear
of impending doom.
Within a second, Melanie's head jerked upright and she
let out a full fledged scream that curdled Brad's blood.
Her eyelids snapped open, exposing only the whites of her
eyes, and she shook uncontrollably. Brad backed further
away from the woman in horror, unsure whether her head was
about to spin around or explode. Her eyes dropped from
below her eyelids, the scream stopped, and she fell flat on
her back across the bed.
Brad stood across the room shaking with fear, his eyes
as wide as baseballs. He was afraid to move closer, yet
afraid to run away. What if one of the other guests heard
the scream? How could they not have heard it? Maybe they
called the police? How could he explain what had happened?
What if she were...
His fear turned to panic and he stepped toward her.
Her eyes were closed now, and her face was covered with
sweat. He reached to touch her neck to feel for a pulse,
but she slowly opened her eyes and looked at him. Relieved
that she was unharmed, he let out a sigh.
Melanie sat up slowly and held her head in her hands.
Brad moved next to her to help her up. He reached to put
his arm around her, but she leapt to her feet and violently
slapped Brad across the face. "Get away from me, you son-
of-a-bitch!"
Brad recoiled from shock and shook his head to clear
the stars from Melanie's blow. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me!" she screamed, as she struggled with
her shoes. "You're taking me home, and I mean now!"
"Melanie... What happened? What's going on?" Brad
pleaded, but Melanie was already out the door.
Brad stepped out to find the audience of concerned
bystanders that he'd been afraid of, and Melanie standing at
the door of his Firebird. "Melanie, come back inside. Tell
me what's wrong."
"Go to hell!"
"You want me to call a cop, babe?" asked the man in the
neighboring room.
"No... Everything's okay," Brad answered.
"It doesn't sound okay," responded the man, whose wife
had moved into the open behind him. "What about it, girl?
You want me to call the cops?"
Melanie stood, boiling with anger. "No, he's going to
take me home, and everything will be alright."
Without another word, Brad opened the passenger door
for her, walked around the car to the driver's seat, and
started the engine. For the first ten miles, Brad asked
Melanie what was wrong a dozen times. By the time they had
covered another ten, Brad realized that she had no intention
of talking to him. For the next two hours, Brad was as good
as alone-- Melanie didn't say a single word.
When they reached her Las Vegas office, Melanie hardly
waited for the car to stop before stepping out. Brad tried
to say he was sorry for whatever it was that he'd done, but
Melanie cut him off.
"I trusted you! You have no idea how much trust it
took for me to go with you!" With that, she slammed the
door, and stormed to her own car.
As Brad watched the Mustang speed away, he began to
realized how much her words had hurt.
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