Asher parked the LTD in the long-term parking lot at
the airport, because, he explained, its prolonged presence
would not cause suspicion. He removed the rucksacks from
the trunk, handed Brad his, and led the way to the terminal.
Once inside, the two made their way to the baggage claim
area where they found Melanie Chatham waiting for them, as
instructed. Brad felt as if he were blushing as he
introduced Asher to Melanie.
Asher picked-up on it, and ribbed him several times, as
they followed Melanie to her car.
When they reached the Mustang convertible, Asher and
Brad tossed their packs into the back seat. Brad offered to
sit in the back because he figured a man as old as Asher
might have trouble getting out-- what with arthritis, and
all. Truthfully, he wanted to sit behind Melanie and
fantasize about the slacks and silk blouse she was wearing.
More correctly, he wanted to fantasize about her not wearing
them. For some reason, Brad thought that the wind of the
moving car might blow the psychic energy of his lustfully
erotic visions out of Melanie's range. Truthfully, she
probably could have sensed his desire from a couple miles.
For some reason, women seem to be able to do that. It must
be nature's idea of self-defense.
Melanie followed the route that Brad had driven her
nearly a week earlier, but this time it was Asher that she
chatted with. Their conversation was innocent enough, yet
it somehow angered Brad that she would talk with a stranger
so comfortably. Had he not known that he was much more
attractive than any old man, like Asher, he might have been
jealous. Actually, he was afraid that she was equally at
ease with anyone, which meant that their conversation had
not been as 'special' as he had hoped.
"Dartmouth says you're a psychic. Can you read minds?"
asked Asher.
"Some times; it requires concentration, but it's
usually not that hard."
"Well, this is definitely the right town to be a
psychic in!"
"Why do you say that?" inquired Melanie.
"Why? Because of the casinos, of course. If I were
psychic, I'd be gambling my ass off! The casinos wouldn't
be able to pay me enough to stay out," laughed Asher.
"I'll admit I have tried gambling a time or two, but it
isn't as easy as you think it is. Games like craps and
roulette are controlled strictly by chance. Since you're
not playing against a human, there aren't any mental
vibrations to read. Even blackjack has too much chance
involved to be guaranteed of winning. I would be able to
sense what the dealer had, so I could choose to take another
card to beat him if necessary."
"The problem was that the dealer didn't know what card
was next in the deck. That meant that I had no more idea
what I'd get than the average player. Now, if I could have
touched the chute, I might have gotten a feeling for what
was next, but the rules expressly forbid that kind of
thing."
"If I was lucky and ended up with, say nineteen, and
the dealer had fourteen, then I'd beaten him-- but only for
the moment. Unfortunately, house rules say he has to take a
card until he beats me or busts, since he'd already lost.
Once again the fact that neither of us knew what card was
next made it difficult to win."
"Yeah, I can see your point," started Asher, "but I
would have been playing poker. That's where the big stakes
are."
"I tried poker, but it's the same situation. The deck
controls who gets what card. It's fate."
"Bullshit. Poker is skill, just like combat. If
you've got balls enough-- no offense intended--"
"Oh, of course not," laughed Melanie.
"If you got the balls, you can win a hand with a pair
of deuces."
"You're right, and that's the only way I could win: on
bluffs. See, I'd know he was bluffing, but he wouldn't know
that I knew. He might think I suspected, but nine times out
of ten, he'd believe he could bluff me anyway."
"That's what I'm talking about! Call his bluff and you
got it made."
"But you know it doesn't always work out that way,
because when you call his bluff and find he has two deuces,
you've got to have at least a pair of threes. If fate had
not chosen to give you a winning hand, you still loose."
"Yeah, I see your point," admitted Asher. "So how do
you make your money? This car's pretty flashy."
"I made the money for the car playing the stock
market."
"Now, I can't buy that. It seems to me that the stock
market's all luck, too. Can't be too many brain waves
bouncing around Wall Street-- it's a fact of life that a tie
constricts the flow of intelligence from the brain."
Melanie and Asher shared a laugh, and Brad looked at his tie
questionably.
"I play the stock market like a water witch looks for
wells."
"With a forked stick?" inquired Asher.
"No. The stick is just a crutch-- a person can either
feel the presence of the water, or they can't. As for
choosing a stock, I just run my fingers through a copy of
The Wall Street Journal until I feel a tingling sensation.
When I do, I buy the stock. If I already own some, I sell
it."
Brad hated the thought that Melanie might have actually
read the WSJ, because it wasn't a real newspaper: it was an
ultraconservative, elitist, propaganda rag meant to
perpetuate the fact that the rich get richer, and the poor
get poorer. His train of thought was quickly derailed,
however, when the image of his fingers running across her
body until he felt a tingling sensation, crossed his mind.
"So, then, it's the stock market?" asked Asher.
"No, I'm a psychic consultant."
"Like a crystal balls, palm reading, ouija boards, and
shit?"
"No. I like to think I'm a little more professional
than that."
"Then how do you counsel people?"
"Mostly by contacting spiritual guides to help them
cope with their situation."
"You mean like ghosts?"
"No. It goes much deeper than that. Most people see
the universe as thousands of scattered and isolated planets.
Yet everything in the universe is connected to every other
thing in the universe through its energy. The absence of
any given thing changes the entire order of the universe.
For that reason, nothing is ever really destroyed; it's
merely transformed."
"So, what you're saying is when I die my soul remains.
That doesn't sound too innovative."
"It's not innovative. What make this philosophy
different is the thought that any, soul as you put it, can
travel to any point in space or time and make contact with
any other. Some entities do not have bodies like you and I.
They exist only on the astral plane, that place which is
neither time nor space, yet binds all things. These
entities are the spiritual guides I contact."
"Now you're talking about angels and heaven."
"If that's how you want to view it, yes."
"I don't believe in angels, heaven, or any of the rest
of that religious hogwash."
"Oh... What do you believe in, Carl?"
"I believe in the NATO 7.62mm FMJ cartridge. What
about you, Dartmouth? What do you believe in?"
"I believe in freedom for all men through truth."
"Somehow, I knew he'd say something like that," said
Asher to Melanie.
"I think it's very noble of Brad to be willing to make
a stand on an issue regardless of the consequences,"
responded Melanie, looking in the rear view mirror at Brad.
"Ahhh... Isn't that sweet," interjected Asher. "Turn
left at the next road." Melanie slowed the car and watched
for the turn Asher had indicated.
"Tell me one thing, Carl," continued Melanie, after
returning the car to speed on the new road. "What do you
think happens to the soul of someone that you shoot with
your seven point six-what-ever bullet?"
"Well... One day, I hope to find that out first hand."
Asher's answer caught both Brad and Melanie off guard. So
much so, that neither of them could devise a comment.
"Okay, slow down... we need to find another turn to the
left."
Asher strained his eyes in the fading light for just
the right road to lead them to the north edge of the Nellis
bomb range. From their present location, they were two
miles northeast of the border. Several moments passed, but
Asher saw nothing that interested him. Finally, convinced
that no better opportunity would present itself, Asher had
Melanie stop beside a deep gully.
"Melanie, do you think you can remember this spot?" he
asked.
"I think so. I'll measure the mileage on my way out."
"Good girl. Out of the car, Dartmouth, social hour's
over... time to work!" Brad stepped out of the back seat,
and began to slip his backpack over his shoulder. "Wrong,
Rambo! You're not going into the desert dressed in a sport
coat and penny-loafers. Get those fatigues out of that
pack," stated Asher, as he stripped off his shirt.
"You can't be serious? If we were going to change
clothes, why didn't we stop along the way?"
"Think, boy: we might have looked a little suspicious
riding along in desert fatigues. Especially considering I'm
too old for the military, and your hair is too long. We
change clothes here."
Brad looked at Melanie, who flashed her beautiful
smile. "Don't worry, I'll turn around." Asher roared a
laugh and changed his pants. Brad began to undress, and
remembered his dirty underwear. Maybe this was the kind of
accident they meant.
"Melanie, we need you to be here at four AM tomorrow.
Wait fifteen minutes; then go home and come back at four the
next morning. Give us three nights. If we're not here by
then, assume the worse." The thought of assuming the worse
didn't appeal to Brad.
For several moments Brad fumbled with the laces of the
combat boots Asher had lent him, while Asher collected
Brad's clothes and put them in a cloth sack. "When you're
waiting for us, don't signal or flash the headlights or
anything. Just sit in the car and wait. I'll find you. If
anyone asks you what you're doing, say you're looking at the
stars." Melanie nodded.
Brad stood and pulled the floppy, camouflaged, hat that
matched his fatigues onto his head. He felt stupid in the
loosely fitted military surplus garb, and noticed how the
same style clothes seemed to suit Asher much better. Asher
lifted his pack, bid Melanie farewell, and started across
the road.
As Brad started after him, Melanie called to him from
the car, and motioned for him to come closer. He moved to
the driver side of the car, and kneeled beside the door.
The thought of the beautiful woman passionately kissing her
man as he marched off to battle, entered his mind. For a
kiss from Melanie's soft, rose petal lips, Brad would allow
himself to condescend to the level of a soldier.
He could smell the hint of her perfumed body, and
admired the way the fading sunlight glinted on her blonde
curls. His eyes met hers and for a moment, he allowed the
word 'love' to enter his mind. He waited for her to part
her lips or allow her eyelids to slide closed before
succumbing to his embrace.
Instead, she pulled the brim of the hat over his eyes
causing him to almost loose his balance and tobble-over. He
lifted the hat off his face, and stared at her playful smile
in total amazement. His surprise caused her to laugh
quietly.
She reached for Brad and readjusted the hat. "Brad, I
can tell you haven't told Asher about the aliens."
"The man's a mercenary. It doesn't matter as long as
he gets his money."
"When I look at you, I see an aura that is full of
ambition and fire. I see a man who believes in the cause
for which he fights, and believes in himself. When I look
at Carl, I see a man who lives for today... who doesn't look
back at the past. I see a cold, heartless, man with no
remorse or pity-- Don't make him angry. Tell him about the
alien."
"I will," stated Brad.
"You're lying... I can tell. Be careful." Melanie
reached for the ignition key, and started the engine. Brad
considered reaching for her in a last-ditch effort to get a
kiss, but decided against it.
After all, he knew she was was right: he was lying.
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