Dreamcast 3, p.1
Dreamcast 3, page 1
Dreamcast 3
by Paul Telegdi
A paranormal crime fiction
This book is a work of fiction for adults.
Published by Paul Telegdi on Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Paul Telegdi
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
*****
Dedicated to my wife, Melanie Telegdi.
For her unfailing help and encouragement
Dreamcast Series:
Dreamcast...
Dreamcast 2
Dreamcast 3
Dreamcast 4
To enjoy other books by Paul Telegdi please search on Smashwords or go to http://www.seeWordFactory.com
*****
Contents
CASE 7: The Marble Collection ... chapters 1-6
CASE 8: The Cruise ... chapters 7-12
CASE 9: The Haunting ... chapters 13-22
CASE 10: Big City Dragnet ... chapters 23-28
Foreword
Here are four more cases for your consideration. Please be warned that I don’t revisit the past documented in Dreamcast and Dreamcast 2 so if you haven’t read the first two books, you might find the events described here puzzling.
In Dreamcast, I described how I became aware of my psychic talents, how difficult it was to accept them and what insights and techniques I had learned in their use. Each case stretched me farther, and I discovered new things about myself and the world around me.
Regarding myself, I found I was able to sense people’s emotions but not their actual thoughts. I could touch minds, read isolated feelings and in times of crisis even convey vital information. Most surprising was the out-of-body experience that allows me to project into an awareness of my surroundings. I call it flying for it resembles soaring over a psychic landscape that overlays the physical world. Unbelievable? Yeah, crazy. I certainly can’t explain it and have the further worry of not knowing what else I’m capable of.
In hindsight, I consider my gift more of a curse because it puts me on a collision course with the most evil, the most depraved situations that the rest of the world is blissfully unaware of. Like a magnet, trouble finds me. And I, sensing what I sense, because of the responsibility it evokes, can’t avoid the impact.
However, I’m fortunate that I’ve met my opponents in ascending order of power. Max was thankfully less than Tex, who was definitely inferior to Rex and so on. I would not have survived these encounters in the reverse order and these books would never have been written.
So dear Reader, if you haven’t read my first books, beg, borrow or steal them (might consider buying a copy) to get the most out of Dreamcast 3.
Travis James Howard
The Marble Collection
Chapter 1
Midway through the fall term I was unexpectedly promoted. The Dean of Fine Arts collared me after a meeting of the College Senate where I was serving a turn as liaison for the Visual Arts Department. Yes, now we had Visual Arts as well as Fine Arts, thanks to the demand in the workplace for 3D animation and CG technologies.
“Travis, my boy, it’s been decided to let you have Emmett’s chair. The Senate feels that you’ve worked hard to promote the interest of the College and it’s fitting that you should be rewarded.” A flush of pleasure washed through me. This honor elevated me to an Assistant Dean of the Arts Faculty. I’m not a very ambitious person, but the advancement was not lost on me. It meant a new home in the prestigious east wing, closer to the seat of power, closer to all the amenities. It was also a bit of a surprise: all week since the fatal coronary of the office’s present occupant, there had been speculation as to who would inherit the four-room office suite, consisting of a reception area with a secretary, a plush formal office with mahogany furniture, a large workroom, and an adjoining storage room with ample shelving and bins. Five times the space I was presently crammed into on the way to the gym. I’d have a private washroom for God’s sake.
“Thank you Dean Harvey, I appreciate the honor.” Emmett Featherstone had been one of the founding members of the College and I did value becoming his beneficiary.
“Emmett’s wife Cecilia has cleared out his personal effects, but there’s lots left over to get rid of. Forty-two years’ worth to be exact. Mostly administrative stuff. You’d best oversee that. See what needs to be thrown out and what should be kept. Anything of historical value to the college we want but the rest... well, be merciless. See Housekeeping for a fresh paint job, a new carpet, etc. Money’s been allocated for the revamp. See Davis in the Comptroller’s office.” He patted me on the shoulders paternalistically, congratulating me once more. We parted at the main stairs but he called after me.
“You might think of a few words to say at the Faculty commemorative service on Sunday.”
“A eulogy?” I asked in dismay. I didn’t know the man well: he was of the old school, a fossil, trying to hold onto the prestige of his position until the end.
“No, Professor Hewig elected to deliver that. We need you for something inspirational. You know, talk about the worth of forty years’ service. What it all adds up to.” With that cryptic remark he disappeared around the corner.
I spent the next three days overseeing the detritus of a forty-two year career, stalled in midcourse. I could tell exactly, by the dates of the books in his collection, when that happened. Midway through the 90’s he had lost direction, the books became nonspecific, more for show, using up his annual book allowance.
That night I complained to Amanda that I really hadn’t known the man. “Sure I saw him sitting in meetings, always rolling marbles is his hands like worry beads. He didn’t contribute much, but he really didn’t need to: he was a Founder and married into a power alliance that still runs the College. What am I supposed to say about him?”
“You’ll think of something,” Amanda said. Of course she had her own preoccupations: running a private practice, being the Chief Mental Health Officer of the County, elected to the States’ Interdisciplinary Medical Advisory Council, and an avid community activist. My own status as a tenured professor at Walter Edmund College and established artist with regular mention in the National Arts Review paled in comparison with her achievements. But life was about fulfillment of dreams and contentment. Even after years of marriage and the demands of our careers, we were happy with our lives and our two children, Cindy and Miles.
“I can’t recall a single thing he did in the last ten years for the College. He was a closed book, really. A professional worrier, always rolling his damn marbles. He could make them sound like a coffee grinder with his incessant fussing with them. From time to time he taught an odd humanities lecture, but his function was mainly administrative. There aren’t even a handful of people on campus who knew him. He drank, that was generally acknowledged. It probably finished him off too. But I can’t talk about that.” Amanda nodded sympathetically but didn’t try to deflect my rant.
Going through the stuff in the office, sorting outdated books, throwing out reams of outlines and old lecture notes, took up the next days. I found the beginnings of several books that died midstream. I also found half empty bottles of alcohol stashed in various hiding places. The man was a confirmed alcoholic. There were a few pictures left on the wall, smiling, now forgotten faces, looking into the camera. Hardly a validation of an academic career. Even after wading through all that stuff I was no closer to knowing the man. Even my ESP couldn’t help me. All I could smell were fumes of alcohol and the dust behind the books.
On Sunday I sat through the internal recognition service for faculty and staff. Amanda was the only guest; his family didn’t bother to show up. Professor Hewig navigated us through an uninspiring speech that on the whole listed all the acronyms Featherstone was a member of. Hewig laboriously dragged us through the details of these affiliations but could evidence little academic worth. He droned on and on. It was perhaps indicative that no students were present, only those staff who had to deal with the deceased daily.
Then it was my turn and I still wasn’t sure what I would say. I fixed my eyes on Amanda and took encouragement from her. I held up a bag of marbles, about fifty of them and rattled them loudly, waking everyone up.
“I found these all over his office. Fifteen in the top drawer, about six in the bottom. Eight in the couch, five in the filing cabinet, four in a golf trophy for a 1976 tournament, and seven in his shoes in the closet.” I rattled the marbles again. “We all know how addicted he was, incessantly rolling them between his fingers, even when he was walking. The only time he wasn’t worrying them was when he was eating or lifting another glass.” A murmur of agreement swept through my audience. I raised my voice slightly. “Perhaps it’s a fitting metaphor for his life. We all start out with a full bag of marbles. Fresh out of College, we embark with enthusiasm on a career in education. We’re set to inspire pupils, to foster thoughts and ideas to change the world. But along the way, we lose a marble or two. Eight in the couch, where we find our comfort, forgetting the high ideals we started with. Bit by bit we give up on learning we once held avant-garde and settle for conventionality. A few more marbles get lost under the carpet or go missing in some corner. Under pressure of a workday we los
During the reception, a few of the younger staff came to congratulate me on a brilliant address. But those who knew how apt my analogy was, stayed away so they wouldn’t have to agree with me. We all knew that by the end, Emmett Featherstone had been a dead weight.
Amanda joined me, offering a canapé delicately balanced on her fingers. “See, I said you’d find something to say. Kudos. I think you woke up the wake.” I gave her a wan smile as I tried to nibble on the morsel in her hand.
Simon, my best friend at the College, came over and poked me in the ribs. “Now you’ve done it. Symbolized a tarnished reputation. Wrapped it in an enigma. More than he was worth.”
“It wasn’t over the top, was it?”
“Well, you thoroughly trashed the expression ‘losing your marbles,’ but otherwise... who cares. By tomorrow no one will remember what you said.”
“Thanks,” I muttered as I sipped an indifferent red wine, to ease a cheese-laden cracker past my throat.
At home that night with some cranberry juice, I tried to wash away the odd taste the whole thing left me with. “You know, I hope my life will add up to more than Featherstone’s. I’d hate to take so little to the grave with me.”
“You’re a recognized artist, much in demand,” Amanda reassured me. “Students are pressing to get into your classes. Every year you’ve been a sellout. I like your bag of marbles.” Her face then turned thoughtful. “You know, we might be selling him short. A life is like an iceberg. Only one tenth of it is ever visible.”
That led me to take stock of my life. Sure I had a career as an educator. I knew I was making a difference. My students were active and engaged, creating, communicating. My private work was well received and gaining recognition. The prices people put up with were increasing. I had a happy family life and two great kids. Cindy was now fourteen, lively and active, dancing, horseback riding and painting. She had inherited her mother’s discipline and openness to listen to different views without stumbling over her own reactions. She was incredibly intuitive, sensitive to others, and unfailingly generous. Like Amanda, she was articulate, able to express herself both eloquently and precisely. From me she got a healthy dose of creativity, the ability to showcase herself in the nonverbal language of art. She drew with authority and her sense of color surpassed mine. For the present she dreamed of becoming an actress, shining forth, being admired, dancing and singing jazz. She had easy access to her feelings with none of my inhibitions. Wasn’t afraid to admit not knowing something or being wrong. She was pretty much fearless when it came to reaching out and making contact with people.
Cindy was also developing her own independent personality. This insight was brought home to me by her disclosure about a recent visit with Shanna, an acquaintance from her riding academy days. “Shanna’s family live in a mansion with a tennis court, swimming pool and a greenhouse for orchids in the back. They’ve got original paintings, statues and archeological artifacts all through the house. Deep carpets, posh sofas, two grand pianos and a room for a pipe organ. Bouquets of fresh flowers everywhere, sparkling crystal, polished wood and gleaming marble wherever you look.” Cindy was trying hard to impress me with the opulence she’d seen. “But you know what really got to me?” I couldn’t guess. “As we were having lunch in the dining room, my eyes kept going to this picture of a young girl on the wall opposite me. After the meal, I went over to look at it more closely and found your name in the bottom corner. I was shocked that the picture was of me when I was about eight years old. Me, in that summer dress I remember so well. No one there made the connection, and probably after so many years of it hanging there, they didn’t see it anymore. It was weird, as if they owned a piece of me. I wanted to buy it back but of course I knew that I couldn’t afford to pay for it: you’re too famous for that. It made me think, how many pictures of me and our family are hanging someplace? It was uncomfortable knowing you’ve auctioned us off to strangers. I’ll never be able to walk by a picture and not look to see if it’s one of us. It just doesn’t feel right. Maybe the primitive peoples are right, a picture or a photograph does steal a piece of your soul. All I know is I was missing that part...” What could I say to defend myself? The family was the centre of my life and that’s what I painted most often. I apologized to her and promised not to sell another picture of her without her permission.
I often took credit for Cindy’s development; as I told Amanda, “Between you and me, we gave her our best traits.”
“All of that would mean little without the love we invested in her,” she replied smiling. Yes, Cindy was a love child: protected, respected, nourished by caring and love. She thrived in the sunshine.
Miles was a different story. Locked into his own world, almost apart from us, he was a bit strange in many small ways: a little uncoordinated and inhibited in expressing himself. He seemed not to understand people and struggled to make and keep friends. He felt uneasy in social situations, not knowing how to act in company, and felt more comfortable playing by himself. Years ago, he’d invented a superhero personality called Agent Crimson, who interacted with the outside world for him. It was often difficult to separate who we were dealing with, Miles or Agent Crimson. Neither reacted well to the unexpected, and Miles often retreated into a sullen silence when something surprised him.
For a long time I thought he’d grow out of it but once he turned eleven, I had to face up to the fact that something wasn’t quite right. He tended to be bossy and insisted on his rules being observed. A few times I tried reasoning with him, using logic to lead him to a conclusion, but each time slammed into his rule-bound philosophy. On the other hand, he had a wonderful persistence, and if a task interested him, he continued without getting tired of it. It seemed consistency mattered most to him, more than affection. In fact he seemed immune to the usual emotional needs of other children; he only got upset if something was withheld from him that he felt he had a right to. He didn’t spontaneously hug or kiss, but would get upset if he was overlooked or skipped; he had a fixed sense of justice in that regard. By and large, for sake of harmony, we accommodated his quirks and moods. I often wondered why Cindy and Miles were so different.
“It’s Asperger’s,” Amanda finally told me, explaining the details of the syndrome. It fit Miles to the inch: his social awkwardness and isolation, his ritualistic rigidity of doing things in a prescribed way, his reluctance to face change and deal with the unexpected. His aloofness, his detail orientation, his absolute focus on something he liked. It was all made to measure for Miles.
“How long have you known this?” I asked.
“Since he was five.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to influence your feelings for him or change your perception of him.”
“For God’s sake, he’s my son too. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“No, nothing will or should. I know that,” Amanda said, her voice sympathetic and earnest, trying to ease the revelation past my resistance. “But there are limitations?”
“Limitations?”
“Miles will never be able to appreciate fully all you do for him. He doesn’t know how to value your generosity, your kindness and caring. He doesn’t see our sacrifices. He’s locked out of all that. He’ll act a certain prescribed way but not beyond it.”
