Mind of My Mind (14 page)

"Oh, but . . . we don't have suits. I didn't know we were coming here when we left the

house . . ."

Jesse glanced around, seemingly casually. "That girl over there has a new one that

will fit you," he said, nodding toward the female half of the nearby fully clothed couple.

"Oh." He was in one of his moods again, she was thinking. She was going to be

humiliated. This wasn't like taking food from the cafe. That had been more like a gift. But

this girl had brought her bathing suit for her own use.

Jesse smiled, reading her every thought. "Go on. Go get it. And while you're at it, get

the guy's trunks for me."

She cringed inside but got up to do as he said. He watched her walk toward the

couple.

The distance was too great for him to hear what she said to them clearly, so he picked

up the conversation mentally.

"Could I borrow . . . I mean . . . Jesse wants your bathing suits." She could not have

felt more completely foolish, but she expected nothing more than that the couple would

hand her the suits and let her escape back to Jesse.

The girl took one look at Tara and at the watching Jesse and started to get her suit out.

The man didn't move. It was his reaction that Jesse was waiting for. He didn't have to

wait long.

"You want to borrow our what?"

"Bathing suits." Tara looked at the girl. "You're from town, aren't you? Tell him."

"You tell him." The girl didn't particularly resent the loss of the suit. Donaldton

people never resented giving Jesse what he wanted. The girl resented Tara.

Tara didn't want to be there. She didn't even want the damned suits. If the girl couldn't

realize that . . . "Never mind. I'll have Jesse come over and tell him." She started away.

"All right, wait. Wait!" When Tara turned back to face the girl, the girl was holding

out her own suit and the man's trunks. But before Tara could take them, the man snatched

them away.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The girl was angry now, and the man was the only one she could take her anger out

on safely. "He's Jesse Bernarr and he wants to borrow our suits. Will you please let me

give them to him?"

"No! Why the hell should I?" He glanced at Tara. "Look, you go back and tell Jesse

Bernarr, whoever he is . . ." He stopped as Jesse's shadow fell across him. He looked up,

confused, and by now angry. He was a big man, Jesse noticed. He would be tall when he

stood up. Massive shoulders and chest. He looked a little bigger than Jesse, in fact. And

he did not like not knowing what was going on.

"You've got to be Jesse Bernarr," he said. He paused as though he expected

confirmation from Jesse. He got only silence. "Look, I don't know what the joke is,

mister, but it's not funny. Now, why don't you take your girl and go play your kid games

somewhere else."

"I could." Jesse plucked the man's name from his mind. It was Tom. "I don't feel like

swimming any more. But there are a couple of things I think you ought to learn."

And there was a simple, effortless way of teaching them to him. But sometimes Jesse

liked to expend a little effort. Especially with characters like this Tom who took so much

inner pride in their physical prowess. Sometimes Jesse liked to reassure himself that even

without his extra abilities he would still be better than Tom's kind.

He said, "You visit a place for the first time, Tom, you ought to be more willing to

listen when the natives try to warn you about local customs." He smiled at Tom's girl.

She smiled back a little uncertainly. "It could save you a lot of trouble."

Tom got up, watching Jesse. "Man, you sure want to fight bad. I'd give a lot to know

why." They faced each other, Tom looking down at Jesse from his slightly superior

height.

Tom's girl stood up quickly and stepped between them, her back to Tom. "He'll listen

to me, Jess. Let me talk to him."

Jesse pushed her out of the way gently, casually. If he hadn't, Tom would have. But

Tom resented Jesse doing it for him. Resented it enough to take the first swing. Jesse,

anticipating him, dodged easily.

A stray child saw them, yelled, and people began to take notice and gather around.

Only people from outside Donaldton who didn't know the odds against Tom came to

watch a fight. Donaldton people came to see Jesse Bernarr having himself some fun. And

they didn't mind. Even Tom's girl didn't mind Jesse having a little fun with Tom. What

frightened her was that Tom didn't know what he was up against. He was liable to make

Jesse angry enough to really hurt him. If she had been out with a Donaldton man, she

wouldn't have worried.

As the two men fought, though, it was Tom whose anger grew, silently encouraged

by Jesse. Jesse mentally goaded Tom to fight as though his life were at stake. Then an

explosion went off in Jesse's head and Tom got his chance.

Jesse was only vaguely aware of the beating his body was taking as he struggled to

close out the mental blast. But there was no way to close it out. No way to dull it as it

screamed through him. Tom had a field day.

When the "noise" finally lessened, when it didn't fill every part of Jesse's mind, he

realized that he was on the ground. He started groggily to get up, and the man whose

anger he had mentally encouraged kicked him in the face.

His head snapped back—not as far as Tom would have liked—and he lost

consciousness.

He didn't come to all at once. First he was aware only of the call drawing him,

destroying any mental peace he might have had before he became aware of the condition

of his body. He didn't seem to be hurt seriously, but he could feel a dozen or two places

where his flesh was split and bruised. His face was lumpy and already swollen. Some of

his teeth had been kicked in. And he hurt. He hurt all over. He spat out blood and broken

teeth.

Damn that out-of-town bastard to hell!

The thought of Tom roused him to look around. Somebody from Donaldton was

standing over him, thinking about moving him back into town to a bed.

Not far away, Tom struggled between two more Donaldton men and cursed steadily.

Jesse staggered to his feet. The crowd was still there. Probably some out-of-towner

had gone for the police. Not that it mattered. The police were old friends of Jesse's.

Jesse refused to mute his own pain. It came as near as anything could to blocking out

the call to Forsyth. And, although Jesse had not yet analyzed what had happened to him,

the message of the call was clear—and clearly something he wanted no part of. Besides,

he wanted to hurt. He wanted to look at Tom and hurt. He started to smile, had to spit

more blood, then spoke softly. "Let him go."

Jesse moved in, anticipating Tom's swings, avoiding them. Tom couldn't surprise

him. And as angry as Jesse was now, that meant Tom couldn't touch him. Slowly,

methodically, he cut the bigger man to pieces.

Now Tom's strength betrayed him. It kept him on his feet when he should have fallen,

kept him fighting, well after he was beaten. When he finally did collapse to the ground, it

kept him conscious and aware—aware solely of pain.

Jesse walked away and left him lying there. Let his girl take care of him.

The townspeople drifted away, too. They had had a much better show than they had

bargained for. To the out-of-towners, Tom seemed to have gotten no more than he

deserved. They resumed their Sunday outing.

A few minutes later, Tara was shaking her head and wiping blood from Jesse's face

with a cold, wet paper napkin. "Jess, why'd you let him beat you up like that? How are

you going to go to your birthday party tonight, now?"

He glanced at her in annoyance and she fell silent. Party, hell! If he could just get rid

of this damned buzzing in his head, he would be all right.

So, somewhere in California, there was a town called Forsyth, and there were other

actives there—more of Doro's people. So what! Why should he run to them, come when

they called? Nobody on the other end of that buzz could have anything to offer him that

was better than what he had.

ADA DRAGAN

They were screaming at each other over some small thing—a party Ada would not

attend. Yesterday the screaming had been over the neighbors whom Ada had interfered

with. She had sensed them beating their six-year-old brutally, and she had stopped them.

For once, she had accomplished something good with her ability. Foolish pride had made

her tell Kenneth. Kenneth had decided that her interference had been wrong.

She could not tolerate large groups of people, and she could not tolerate child abuse.

Kenneth called the first immature and the second none of her business. Everything she

did either angered or humiliated him. Everything. Yet she stayed with him. Without him

she would be totally alone.

She was an active. She had power. And all her power did, most of the time, was cut

her off from other people, make it impossible for her ever to be one of them. Her power

was more like a disease than a gift. Like a mental illness.

She had gone to a doctor once, secretly. A psychiatrist a few miles away, in Seattle.

She had given him a false name and told him only a little. She had stopped when she

realized that he was about to suggest a period of hospitalization . . .

Now she wondered bitterly whether the doctor had been right. It was her "illness,"

after all, that had caused her to descend to this screaming. She said things to Kenneth that

she had not thought herself capable of saying to anyone. He did not realize the

degradation and despair this signified in her. Only one thought saved her from complete

loss of control. The man was her husband.

She had married him out of desperation, not love. But he was her husband

nonetheless, and he had served a purpose. If she had not married him, she might be