Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller (10 page)

“Yes.” Jeff fells like an
executioner as he walks towards him. “Thank you, Casey.”

“How was your little trip?”

“I need to talk to you about
that.”

“I thought you might. Shall
I put you out of your misery, or would you like to put me out of mine?”

“I’m not sure how to say
this Casey.” Jeff takes a deep breath in a bid to stop himself from
hyperventilating. “But I thought it best that you hear this from me, rather
than anyone else.”

“How very noble of you; I’m
surprised you’ve managed it this far.”

“This far?” Jeff’s in no
mood for games.

“Come, Jeff. If I’m psychic;
I already know what you fear so much to tell me.”

“What do you know?” Jeff’s
curious; he can’t possibly know.

“Would you like to hear the
words come out of my mouth?”

“Yes.”

“My mother’s dead.”

“Oh God.” Not only is Jeff
in a bizarre situation, now he’s bewildered. “But, but how?” Then guilt for
such an awkward, and selfish question. “I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, how
insensitive of me.”

“Why? What do you dread so
much? My loss or your awkwardness?”

“Both.”

“In the future you’ll
understand. I may seem cold, even callous, now, but how do you think she knew?”

“Through you?” Jeff’s
astonished at this turn of events.

“Yes, through me.”

“It’s not possible.”

“Everything’s possible.”

“The future can’t be
predetermined. We can't possess the knowledge of a date, time or place for our
deaths.”

“But why not?” Casey’s
smugness shines through. “How did you find the step, Jeff?”

“The step?”

“Yes, the step.”

“At your mother's.”

“Yes.”

“The one you didn’t fix because...?”

“You wouldn’t have tripped
otherwise.”

Jeff’s mind twists in
inconceivable torture; this was how he thought Casey would feel.

“And the date you carved
into the beam?”

“A celebration of your
arrival.” Casey takes no pleasure in watching Jeff suffering.

“No. It’s not possible.”
Jeff feels his world and his belief systems crumbling. “This goes against all
the laws of nature!”

“Nothing’s impossible. Our
experience of reality - yours as well as mine - are the same.” Casey’s pleased.
He’s breaking Jeff down. “One you can touch, test and feel. Where our sensory
organization, stability and our experience is our basis for knowing. These are
your words, Jeff. Incoherence in thought is only the uncertainty between the
dream and the waking state.”

“I’m not incoherent, nor am
I in a dream state.” Jeff raises his voice. “Answer me! How do you know?”

“Maybe I’m just a
controlling psychopath. A clever cold reader who will leave his audience
mesmerized; after all, it’s all information gathering, misdirection or pseudo-prophetic.”

“You use my words?” His
ordeal gets worse by the minute.

 
“I do, but why ask me when you have all the
answers?” Casey possesses a smile that could belong to either a devil or a
preacher. “You already know everything about the track, don’t you?”

“The track?”

“Your little railway track.”

“You can’t know that.” Jeff
has a pain in his temple. “You can’t get inside my head.”

“Can’t I?”

“Stop.” Jeff’s
hyperventilating. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

“In time, all in good time.
You have to learn to trust me first.”

“I do.” Jeff's appalled to
hear himself say this, knowing at this moment he’s surrendered his authority.

“You don’t, but in time you
will.” Casey goes quiet, his face becomes stern.

“What’s wrong?”

“A presence; it’s time for
you to go.”

“To go?”

“Yes, to meet my opposite.
My advice to you is to seek and ye shall find.”

“Seek and ye shall find?”

“You’re the scholar; work it
out for yourself.”

Casey leaves Jeff with his
riddles. After a moment, Jeff walks back out of the room, all color drained
from him.

“Tell me this is some kind
of elaborate hoax.”

“It’s no hoax, Jeff.”

It takes a few seconds for
Jeff to register the presence of others in the room. One of them is the prison
governor, a man with the body of a matador who has maintained his agility and
strength, yet one cruelly betrayed by old features, lines deeply carved into
his Italian-style poker face. The other man blossoms with youth. His face is as
smooth as silk beside the old decaying thorn. Both men display
whiter-than-white credentials; the only difference between them is the color of
their ties.

“Jeff this is Governor
Troise.”

“Pleased to meet you sir.”
Jeff steps forward and shakes his hand, he’s still trembling.

“Likewise Dr. Davies.”

“And this is Mr. White. He
oversees operations and offers guidance.”

“Guidance?” Jeff may be in
shock, but mentally he’s still sharp.

“That’s correct, Dr.
Davies.”

“To guide means you must
have navigated these waters before?”

“We have not.”

“Then you’re here as an
observer and reporter, not to offer guidance.”

“I accept your correction.”
White says, almost with a bow.

“To whom do you report?”

“I am only at liberty to say
that I act on behalf of government.” Mr. White possesses the smile of a shark,
or a salesman. “Mr. Jones holds great promise in many areas; we do not wish to
alert him to our presence, and require your full cooperation in maintaining our
anonymity.” Unbeknownst to Jeff or Eve, and even to Governor Troise, White is
the individual who stood over John Martin at the university, and instigated his
cooperation.

“You have my word.” For Jeff
this plot is thickening by the minute. “But doesn’t he already know that you’re
here? He said it was time for me to leave and to meet his opposite.”

“The opposite of evil is
good, Dr. Davies. Under all circumstances deny any knowledge of my existence.”

***

“Seek and ye shall find.”

“What’s that honey?” Eve’s
half asleep.

“Casey said seek and ye
shall find.” Jeff’s been unable to sleep; his mind racing. “He can only be on
about Marcus.”

“Who?” Eve can’t be bothered
with his ramblings. “What time is it?”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“Go back to sleep, honey.”
Eve snuggles back into her pillow.

“I can’t.” He lets out a
sigh. “I‘m going to get a drink.”

“Don’t be long.”

Jeff makes himself a coffee
in the kitchen. It’s chilly; he puts his coat on before stepping outside and
taking a seat on the porch. It’s cold in the desert at night. He looks up to
the stars; without the glow of city lights illuminating the sky they seem that
much brighter. He recalls a quote by Vincent Van Gogh: ‘I often think that the
night is more alive and richly colored than the day.’

He can see his breath, and
takes a sip of hot coffee to enhance the effect. The timber weathervane is
blending into the sky. He can see the outline of the old Ford truck at the side
of the barn. A slight movement catches his eye. A fox or coyote? He isn’t sure.
Jeff believes this land belongs as much to the animal kingdom as it does to
man. The shadow continues to flicker around the barn for quite some time. Intrigued
and entertained, he watches the show, until then a shadow steps out.

“What the fuck?”

A human shadow can only mean
one thing: an intruder. Jeff tries to stand but is unable to move. He can’t
even shout to warn Eve. The malevolent presence keeps advancing. The closer the
cloaked figure steps, the greater becomes a pressure, heavy on his chest. The
dark reaper starts to climb the steps. With each agonizingly silent step Jeff
trembles with fear. The apparition glides over the porch to stand over him. Jeff
feels his heart about to burst. Inside the cloak there’s only darkness. The
hood is pulled back. He tries to scream, and then realizes he’s staring into
the eyes of someone he knows. Someone he knew. Casey’s mother. An abhorrent
silence hangs for a heartbeat before she speaks.

“Do not trust him.”

“Who...? Casey?” Jeff
receives no answer. He manages to whisper “Aimee?”

Her face bears no
expression; her eyes bulge as they stare into his. Her lips pucker before she
shouts.

“White!”

A flash and she’s gone. Jeff
finds he can move again. Shaking, chilled to the bone, he makes his way back
inside. Just a dream, he tells himself. The coffee beside him was after all
stone cold.

***

One week later Jeff sits
opposite a doctor, watching the second hand slowly ticking on the clock. The
framed anatomical drawings displayed as artwork on the wall remind him of
diagrams of choice cut meats at a butchers. The doctor thumbs the paperwork
before looking up.

“Dr. Davies, eighty five
percent of all diagnoses we make are made in the laboratory. I have your
results here, and thankfully all your tests have come back clear.” The doctor
looks down at his notes. “We can safely eliminate dementia, psychosis,
epilepsy, partial seizures, delirium, lymphoma and schizophrenia.”

“That’s a relief.” Jeff
physically relaxes; inwardly, he sighs.

“Indeed. I would try to keep
your blood sugar up, and reduce your caffeine intake. Take a holiday, relax; it
will do you the world of good.”

“Yes, thank you doctor. I
will take your advice. But this was such a vivid dream. A waking experience,
and I feared that I may have been delusional.”

“Forgive me for asking; do
you take any illegal narcotics?”

“Certainly not.” Jeff’s face
expresses his repulsion at the suggestion.

“I didn’t think for a moment
that you would. However, it’s my job to ask. I’m sorry,”

“I understand.” Redeemed,
his guard drops.

“Anomalous experiences, such
as the benign hallucinations that you have experienced, may occur even if
you’re in a state of good physical and mental health without the absence of a
trigger such as intoxication or fatigue. We now understand that hallucinatory
states are experienced by a significant cross-section of the healthy
population. There does not need to be any abnormal situation or stress.”

“So as I understand it, this
is normal, or within the range of normal. You’re saying I shouldn’t worry?”

“Yes. When you were outside
on the porch, the fact that you felt pressure on your chest and were unable to
move is symptomatic of sleep paralysis. When you awoke, your coffee was cold,
supporting evidence that you had been asleep.”

“And the apparition?”

 
“A hypnagogic image, and not uncommon. The
apparition appears external, however it’s an illusion, one located within your
own mind. Commonly they happen at the transition between sleep and waking.”

“And that’s normal?”

“It can happen to anyone, at
any time in their life, and without the presence of any underlying disease.”

“You have no idea what a
relief it is to hear those words.”

“More comforting than the
alternative, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.” Jeff smiles for
the first time since entering the doctor’s office. “You’ve eased my mind,
Doctor.”

“That’s good news. Now
remember, relaxation is the key; too much stress and you’re asking for
trouble.”

“I’ve been under a lot of stress
recently; I’m sure that will account for it.”

“I’m sure it will. Do you
have any other questions?”

“I believe that’s
everything.”

“Good. Now I don’t wish to
alarm you, but if you have any further hallucinations, or any other symptoms,
you must come back.”

“Of course. T
hank you, Doctor.”

“Have a good day Dr.
Davies.”

It's with relief that Jeff
steps out of the doctor’s office and onto the busy sidewalk. He understands
what’s been happening to him. This isn’t the paranormal, and he isn’t slipping
into psychosis, or going mad. His apparitions are merely illusions at the threshold
of sleep; all symptoms are apparently normal. He can now concentrate on the
matter in hand. Casey’s words 'seek and ye shall find' are now the focus. He
believes this is a play on Matthew 7:7: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you, seek,
and ye shall find, knock, and it shall be opened unto you.’ There are no secret
tricks or magic to study. The world is based on verifiable knowledge, the most
noble pursuit. He'll need resources: books and people. This is where Jeff
intends to start his search.

The un-imagined
delicacy of the Rocky Mountains, with erect fourteen thousand foot peaks, are
gently kissed by the breeze. This eternal beauty dwarfs the surrounding
landscape. Below, at the foot of this great erotic backbone, lies the city of
Fort Collins and the Colorado State University. This beating heart is cradled
within contemporary architecture and the designs of the past, with its
carefully crafted neoclassical oval. The architecture is comfortably surrounded
by lush elm trees, and a beautiful collegiate expanse of green space, populated
with the brightest of enquiring minds. Vast atria host libraries as inviting as
treasure chests; books patiently waiting to be discovered and opened. It’s here
that the key to unlock the burning questions in Jeff’s mind might be found.
Time is precious yet envious, always running away from us. Together Eve and
Jeff sit in the library, engrossed in literature.

“It states here that ever
since records began, it’s been recorded throughout all cultures.” Eve raises
her eyebrows for effect. “That certain individuals have possessed the gift of
second sight.”

“You also have to be aware
that they may have been delusional.” Jeff pauses; Eve notes he puckers his lips
whilst in thought. “The voices they claim to have heard from spirits, Angels or
God may have been the effects of herbal potions, or nothing more than the inner
workings of schizophrenic minds.”

“Are you trying to tell me
that every miracle, religion, messiah, or prophet have all been built on
schizophrenia?”

“No, I’m not saying that.
However we now know that it’s common place for people to have anomalous
experiences.”

“Yes, and just how common is
it for people to accurately predict a future timeline of events; one you were
personally involved in?”

“It’s not that common.” He
doesn’t like admitting defeat, although Eve does make a valid point.

“Precisely. So let’s make a
start with the sixteenth century French seer: Nostradamus. One of the world’s
most widely known prophets, and has worldwide fame for his book
Les
Propheties
.”

“You’re correct he’s one of
the world’s most widely known and read prophets. However, his quatrains have
been retrofitted to match past events, not ones foreseen beforehand.” Jeff
doesn’t mean to sound patronizing, however even he recognizes the tone of
arrogance in his voice. “Vague observations don’t make worthy predictions.”

“His supporters claim that
Nostradamus had to write cryptically or the inquisition would have killed him.”
Eve ignores Jeff’s arrogance, testing the strength of his argument as well as
playing the devil’s advocate.

“They’d have to claim that
to perpetuate such nonsense.” He’s frustrated, and has to rationalize the
discussion to calm the inner workings of his mind. “Let’s say for one moment,
that he did predict the rise of tyrants, nine eleven and the atomic bomb. Then
my question to you is, how did he do this outside of his own timeline?”

“I don’t follow you?”

“Nostradamus was famous
throughout France for his predictions in his lifetime only. It’s only after his
death that his predictions became vague.”

“That’s almost an admittance
from you that he did at least prophesize within his own lifetime.” She waits a
moment for a response, and doesn’t receive one. “It says here that Nostradamus
predicted his own death, and during the French Revolution his body was
disinterred. However when the workers dug him up; they were astounded to find
him wearing a medallion, and it was engraved with that day’s date on.”

“So they say, but where’s
the medallion now?”

“I would presume still
around his neck.” Eve frowns in thought. “Anyway what’s the difference between
an engraved medallion and a date carved in wood?”

“Yes, yes I take your
point.” Jeff’s dismissive and doesn’t wish to take Eve’s comments on board.

“And I state my case.” A
small victory, she knows, but it feels good.

“Hmm.”

“You’ve already studied
Nostradamus; have you found no credibility?”

“I personally found no
credence to his prophesies.”

 
“I see.” Eve has a hunch. “The more I think
about this, the more I believe it’s all directly connected to you.”

“How?”

“Is it coincidence that
you’ve spent your life striving to find the very answers we’re seeking now?
Coincidence that Casey specifically asked for you? Coincidence that the date
carved in his mother’s cellar prophesized that you were to be there that day?”

“That someone was to be
there.” He dismisses the notion. “My name wasn’t inscribed.”

“Oh Jeff.” Sometimes it’s
like dealing with a stubborn child. “You were involved and that ties you in
with Casey’s timeline; it was predetermined. The date was already in place,
it’s undeniable proof of fate.”

“I can’t accept the notion
of fate.” His hands rise up, like that of a politician in debate. “If that’s
the case then everything is predetermined, and we have no say in our future
experiences. I’m not a mindless puppet and I have free will. If I choose to
walk out of here now, that’s my choice, and if I choose to stay longer that’s
also my choice. We give ourselves far too much importance. Why would fate, God
or whatever name we choose to give our beliefs, be interested in mapping out
and connecting each and every individual experience during the course of each
person’s life?” Eve smiles as his hands thrust forward, bringing forth past
memories of university, watching him stand behind the lectern. “That’s what
we’re talking about here. Fate as a concept means that every single connection
and interaction would have to be predetermined rather than a random event. I
don’t believe a supercomputer could map out every single interaction for
everything that coexists on Earth, and then Earth’s interaction with the
universe.”

“Well when you put it that
way, I guess that random events make a more plausible explanation.”

“Exactly.” At last she’s
beginning to see sense.

“But.”

“Here we go.” Jeff rolls his
eyes.

“It says here that within
his own lifetime many believed Nostradamus was either the servant of the Devil,
or was just plain insane. It states that in 1555 Catherine de Medici, the wife
of King Henry the second of France, summoned Nostradamus to Paris after reading
one of his almanacs. Inside she had read of future potential threats to her
family.” Eve clears her throat, and is hopeful that Jeff’s listening; so far he
hasn’t interrupted. “Nostradamus drew up horoscopes for her children and reassured
Catherine. This procured his future, and he went on to become Counsellor and
Physician-in-Ordinary to the King’s court. It was here Nostradamus explained
another prophesy that referred to the King.”

“The young lion?”

“Yes. The young lion will
overcome the older one, on the field of combat in a single battle, he will
pierce his eyes through a golden cage, two wounds made one, then he dies a
cruel death.”

“It’s one of his more
successfully fulfilled prophecies.”

“It would appear Henry
ignored all of Nostradamus’s warnings, and participated in a jousting
tournament. The opponent, the Comte de Montgomery, was six years younger than
Henry, and both their shields were embossed with lions. Montgomery’s lance
shattered when he failed to lower it in time to prevent it from hitting Henry's
visor. First a splinter pierced the gilded visor and destroyed the king’s eye,
and there was another mortal wound entering the side of his temple. Two wounds.
Henry died in agony through infection ten days later.”

“He wasn’t the first man and
I’m sure not the last to die through pride.”

“What’s a man without
pride?”

“Indeed.” In response Jeff
straightens his posture. “Anything else?”

“The Kennedy assassination.”

“Yes.” It’s with sadness
that Jeff nods his head.

“The ancient work will be
accomplished, and from the roof the evil ruin will fall on the great man. They
will accuse an innocent, being dead, of the deed, the guilty one is hidden in
the misty copse.”

“The truth of that day is
lost to time. The quatrain is simply as I have stated retrofitted. Nostradamus
could have stated his name without persecution.”

“Maybe.” Eve’s beginning to
lose her enthusiasm for Nostradamus.

“Death is always prophesized
for the Presidency. President Lincoln had precognitive dreams throughout his
life, and one now famous dream he’d recited to his cabinet. In this dream he
saw hundreds of people mourning in the White House grounds, and asked a young
guard at the gate, what had made all these people so sad? The young guard
replied ‘Don’t you know sir? The president has been assassinated.’ And that was
a week before Lincoln was assassinated.”

“Is that evidence or
coincidence?”

“I would say circumstantial
evidence. Another point worth noting is that John Wilkes, the man who
assassinated Lincoln, was surrounded by dark omens. As an infant his mother lay
by his cradle and dozed; dread filled her as she became drawn to one of his
hands, and watched it grow into the paw of a grotesque monster. She wrote a
poem called “A Mother's Vision”, the first line being ‘Tiny innocent baby hand,
what force, what power is at your command, for good or evil?’ She lived to see
what that hand was capable of.”

“How awful.” Eve sympathizes
for his mother.

“Wilkes himself was told by
a gypsy ‘Oh you have a bad hand, it is full of trouble and sorrow. You’ll die
young and you’ll make a bad end. Young sir I have never seen a worse hand.’
There’s always coincidences interweaving throughout people’s lives. His mother,
and the gypsy made the connection for themselves the night he pulled the
trigger.”

“What if it’s no
coincidence? John Wilkes may have been born with that destiny, and within their
own lifetimes these people had insights into his inevitability; he simply
fulfilled his conclusion.”

“As I’ve already stated that
means we have no say, no free will in our future. It has to be coincidence.”

“Then why are we here?”
Eve’s testing his motives.

“To find answers and
disprove what’s been happening.”

“Or find the truth.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.
Whenever a presidential calamity occurs, there are always those who will come
forward, after the event, with manufactured premonitions. These supposed
forewarnings usually correspond to the data, but only once the details have
been released to the press.”

“But we’ve seen for
ourselves what Casey is capable of.”

“We can’t jump to
conclusions.” His voice softens. “We have to work on our research and keep an
open mind.”

“Best get on with it then.”
Eve speaks with determined resolve.

“Excellent, but first I’m
just going to visit the gents.”

Jeff stands and leaves Eve
sat at the desk. Alongside her is a pile of books, ranging from the religious
through to the supernatural. Walking out of the library, Jeff’s surrounded by
its clean, open plan and beautifully designed structures.

Inside the gentlemen’s room
he notes the cleanliness of the modern chrome and cream washroom. A student
smiles as he passes and walks out. Jeff steps inside the toilet cubicle, and
reaches for some tissue to blow his nose. The instant he does he’s blown off
his feet, plunged into the wall, felled by a mighty blow. Raising his hand to
his head, he stands to his feet. Dazed and confused, he takes a moment to
compose himself. There’s blood on his fingers; he realizes the air is filled
with shouts and screams. He’s in no doubt that there’s been an explosion on
campus. Yet the full horror of his situation is realized only when he steps
outside the toilet cubicle. Around him is pandemonium. Men, both young and old
are rushing around the room, many with blood on their hands and their heads.

“Shit.”

Through his clearing vision,
he can see that the washroom is now a gilded first-class washroom elegance
defined. Chandeliers mysteriously sway, and the wall’s built from Georgian
style, hand carved mahogany panels. Polished beams and carved wood columns hold
the ceiling. He’s dizzy; the room appears to roll, and his legs are unsteady.
The men are dressed in early twentieth century fashion. They maintain a stiff
upper lip; yet many, if not all, are clearly distressed. The valet wears a dark
blue and gold uniform, and tries his best to maintain order in the chaos. Jeff
walks towards him, excusing himself as he rubs shoulders with others.

“Gentleman.” The valet
shouts above the noise. “Please remain calm, everything is in order.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes sir.”

“Where am I?” Jeff’s feels
as if he's in a dream.

“The gentlemen’s room sir.
You appear to have taken a blow to your head.”

The valet reaches for a
small white hand towel and presses it firmly against Jeff’s forehead.

“Hold this sir, it will stem
the bleeding.”