The Other Brother (16 page)

Chapter 2 8

he next morning Gabriel visited a neurologist, Dr. Gulati, in Decatur. Dr. Robinson's office had called Gulati and managed to secure Gabriel an appointment on short notice.

Dana accompanied him. While they sat in the waiting area, Gabriel perused a recent issue of Fortune. Dana was reading another of those suspense thrillers she always carried around. The one she was currently reading was titled In the Shadows or some such thing.

"Hmph," Dana said. She tapped the cover of the paperback novel. "One of the main characters in this story is going to a neurologist because he's been having hallucinations and other problems. Isn't it weird that I'd happen to be reading this right now? Serendipity."

"Do they decide that the dude is crazy?" Gabriel asked.

Dana skimmed the page. "Doesn't look like it."

"Then I'll take that as a good sign."

A nurse called Gabriel's name and beckoned him into the exam area.

Gabriel underwent a cranial CT scan, a test to evaluate the brain for abnormalities and to visualize vascular masses. According to the scan results, there was nothing wrong with him. But Dr. Gulati, alarmed at Gabriel's confession of suffering intense hallucinations, scheduled an MRI for the following Monday.

When they left the physician's office, they went to the Flying Biscuit Cafe, a restaurant in Candler Park, for a late breakfast. Candler Park was a historic neighborhood of big elms and maples, winding streets, and charming bungalows and Cape Cods festooned with kudzu. An eclectic hodgepodge of businesses-cafes, an antiques place, a bridal shop, and a used-record place that still sold vinyl albums-lined the stretch of McLendon Avenue where Gabriel parked his car.

The Flying Biscuit Cafe was a cramped, New Age-style spot that attracted a diverse, loyal clientele. A sunflowerthemed mural that looked as though an artist tripping on acid had painted it decorated one wall. Mismatched tablecloths covered a maze of tables that stood on creaky legs on the unfinished floor. The cheerfully inconsistent decor would have spawned nightmares for the president of a chain restaurant, but the quirky ambience-and superb food-kept the safe packed.

Their waiter was a tall, slender black man with a nose piercing who clearly had a lot of sugar in his tank, as Gabriel's mother would have said.

Gabriel ordered the Smoked Salmon Scramble-three scrambled eggs with salmon and dill cream cheese; Dana had an omelette with cheese, mushrooms, basil, and tomato coulis. Each of them had the fluffy biscuits and apple-cranberry butter for which the restaurant was famous.

"So it looks like going to the doctor was a waste of time," Gabriel said.

"It wasn't a waste of time," Dana said, slathering butter on a biscuit. "We've just narrowed down the possibilities. Medicine works that way quite often. You rule out one diagnosis and search for another"

"I still don't understand any of this. Why is it happening to me? Why the figure in the mirror? Why snakes?"

"The snakes probably come from your fear of them," Dana said. "You were bitten by a water moccasin, you know."

"I get that. But what about this shape in the mirror? Am I secretly afraid of blurry shadows?"

"Are you?" She gave him a probing gaze.

"I was joking, Dana"

"Well, I don't know why you see that stuff. But we'll figure it out soon"

Gabriel looked out the windows. His breakfast and coffee were growing cold, but, disturbed by his thoughts, he'd temporarily lost his appetite.

"Earth to Gabe," Dana said and waved her hand in front of his eyes.

He blinked. "I think we're going down the wrong road here. Gut feeling."

"Elaborate please."

"I think the real answer has nothing to do with my concussion. It's something ... else."

"What?"

"I don't know."

"I've got to approach this from a scientific standpoint," Dana said. "I'd be doing you a disservice and dishonoring my profession if I resorted to gut feelings instead of verifiable medical evidence. I deal in facts, baby."

"What about my opinion? We're talking about my personal situation here, not some case in a lab book"

"I know that. Your opinion is important, but . . "

"But what?"

"You're having issues right now. You're not thinking logically all the time."

Anger brought a wave of heat to his face. Did she realize she'd just insulted him?

She grasped his hand. "Let's do this my way. I'll do re search; we'll get the MRI done on Monday, and more tests, if necessary, and that's how we'll get to the root of this. No more of this talk about gut feelings and all that. Okay? Will you trust me?"

"I'll trust you when you start trusting me"

"Right" Dana slid her hand away from his.

He had hurt her feelings, but he didn't want to apologize. He'd meant what he'd said. How could he trust her if she didn't trust him? Trust was a two-way street.

Dana pushed her plate aside, though half her meal remained. "I'm ready to go. I've got to go to work"

"Yeah" He looked away from her. "Me, too"

After a few minutes, Gabriel dropped off Dana at her condo, and he drove home. It was a few minutes past eleven. He planned to shower, dress, and arrive at the office by the end of the lunch hour.

He tried to avoid thinking about Dana. When she'd climbed out of his car, she hadn't even kissed him.

He began to wonder if he should have apologized for what he'd said, to keep the peace. But apologizing would have meant going along with her plans, and he sensed, intuitively, that she was wrong.

And she wasn't willing to admit that she might be incorrect either. He loved her, but she could be stubborn sometimes. Just like him.

Along with everything else that had happened that week, their impasse on the matter was serving only to unravel their relationship thread by thread. He didn't know how they could mend it-or if they could. Thinking about the possibility that their relationship was heading toward the end was so painful that he had to put it out of his mind.

Although he couldn't articulate his feelings about what was happening to him as anything more descriptive than an intuitive sense, he knew he was right. His problems would not be solved by CT scans and MRIs and the like. There was something else going on here. He was as certain of that as he'd ever been certain of anything.

He mulled over those thoughts as he parked the Corvette in his garage. He walked to the mailbox near the end of the driveway. With all the things going on lately, he hadn't checked his mail in a couple of days.

It was a hazy, sweltering day, in the low nineties. Twenty seconds outdoors was sufficient to wring sweat from his pores. He wiped his forearm across his face as he reached for the mailbox door.

The door dropped open with a soft creak.

But he hadn't touched it.

It's happened again.

His palms began to tingle. He raised them to his face.

"What the hell is this?" he whispered, desperately.

He clenched and unclenched his hands. The prickly sensation didn't go away.

He looked at the mailbox. Envelopes and fliers bristled from the slot. He extended his hand forward.

The mail slid out of the box and into his fingers.

Gabriel stepped back quickly, dropping the mail. The pieces fluttered around him like birds.

He bent, peered into the mailbox. It was empty. There was no miniature gremlin inside shoveling paper around.

His palms were still tingling.

He moved one hand toward the mailbox door to close it.

The door creaked shut on its own.

No, not on its own.

He examined his palms.

He understood, finally, what was happening.

He was doing this.

He ran back inside the garage, forgetting the mail on the ground.

A button that controlled the garage-door opener was mounted on the wall near the door that led inside the house. Gabriel raised his hand as though intending to touch the button, but stopped his fingers about three inches away.

The button depressed with a soft click. The garage door began to clatter to the floor.

I can't believe this.

He dug his hand in his pocket and took out the key to unlock the door. He started to insert the key in the hole and then moved back. He poised the key about three inches away from the lock. He released the key.

The key floated forward, as though guided by invisible fingers, and slid into the keyhole.

Gabriel rotated his hand clockwise in the manner of a puppeteer manipulating a marionette.

The key turned, and the lock disengaged.

He turned his hand again. The doorknob twisted.

He made a pushing gesture with his other hand.

The door bumped open.

Gabriel laughed a giddy sound, like a child who has pedaled down the sidewalk on a bicycle for the first time without training wheels.

He felt as though he had been dropped into a movie. Like Star Wars. He was like a Jedi Knight, using the Force to manipulate objects around him.

Use the Force, Gabe.

Laughing, he rushed inside the house to explore his newfound power.

Chapter 29

r saiah was at Reid Construction on Friday. Schmoozing L with his father.

Because of the lies he'd told the night before about learning the printing trade in prison, Pops initially took him to the company's print shop, clearly intending to offer him a job. Isaiah feigned interest in the work, but then told his father, "I'd like to learn about what you and Gabriel do. Indulge ' me.

"You're ambitious, aren't you?" Pops grinned. "I'm sure ambition runs in your blood like it does in mine. Come on, let's go to my office ""

They holed up in his father's huge second-floor office, and Pops gave him a rundown on the construction business. Isaiah asked several perceptive questions and shared plenty of insights that surprised his father; after all, Isaiah had been following his father's growing corporation since he was a teenager, reading about it in periodicals he had found at the library. He knew as much about the company as any outsider possibly could.

"You've got a sharp head on your shoulders," Pops said. They lounged on leather chairs in a comfortable sitting area, sipping coffee. Pops drank from a white mug on which World's #1 Dad was stenciled in green type. A gift from one of his bratty kids. World's #1 Dad? Isaiah wanted to snatch that cup out of his father's hands and bash it against his skull.

But he checked himself. Patience.

"Thanks," Isaiah said. "Guess it runs in the family, huh?"

"As a matter of fact," Pops said, "I think I'd like to offer you a position in the company-and not in the print shop, either."

"Oh, I couldn't accept that," Isaiah said with as much modesty as he could manage. "You've got people with MBAs and years of experience here. I didn't even graduate college."

"Neither did Bill Gates," Pops said. "Did that stop him from building Microsoft into one of the most successful and influential companies in the world?"

Isaiah gave him another aw, shucks grin.

"For starters, you've got street smarts," Pops said. "That's more important in a corporate setting than you may think. This can be a cutthroat industry, son. You have to be able to scope out the competition and strategize a way to stay one step ahead of them"

"I know all about that," Isaiah said, one of the most truthful statements he'd made all day.

"Sure you do," Pops said. "You're a quick learner, too. A good businessman has to be able to size up a situation quickly and make a smart decision. You can only do that if you can swiftly absorb facts. I think you can do that"

"I'd try my best," Isaiah said.

Pops moved to the edge of his chair. "All your innate talents notwithstanding, as your father I owe you a shot here. I did that for Gabriel." He studied Isaiah intently. "I can do the same for you, if you're interested."

Isaiah set down his coffee and stroked his chin. Acting as if he were considering the outrageous offer.

"What would I be doing?" Isaiah asked.

"You'll shadow me, Gabriel, and other leaders in the organization for a few weeks, attending meetings and conference calls and whatnot, to gain in-depth exposure to our operations. After that, I'll expect you to create a proposal outlining how, with your unique talents and perspective, you can add maximum value to our firm. We'll use the proposal as the basis to design a position for you in the companywith a salary and benefits package commensurate to the role."

"You're telling me I can make up my own job here?" Isaiah could not conceal his genuine surprise.

"I'm telling you that your future is in your hands," Pops said. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. "You can go as far as you'd like here. Maybe even to the CEO's suite, but don't tell Gabe I said that" He chuckled.

Isaiah laughed, too, but he was sure that his laughter was for a different reason than his father's. This guy was willing to let an ex-con work in the boardroom? Was he out of his mind? The average ex-con couldn't land a gig flipping burgers at McDonald's, what with all the background checks companies conducted these days and that infamous question on job applications, inquiring about past felony convictions. A prison record was a scarlet letter that stayed on you for life. And people wondered why so many thugs wound up back in the joint.

His father was either a sentimental fool or a brilliant tactician who recognized Isaiah's talents and was determined to use them to enhance the bottom line.

"What do you say?" Pops asked. "Remember-think fast"

"I'm honored to accept your offer"

"Excellent" Pops shook Isaiah's hand. "I'm excited to have you with us. We can get started now. We have a one o'clock meeting with a prospective client flying in from Charlotte. An important discussion. Gabriel, another executive, and I will be there and you. We need to bone up on their file."

"Then let's get to work," Isaiah said. He followed his father out of the office.

I'm starting to like this guy, he thought. I almost regret having to kill him later.

Almost.

Gabriel spent the next couple of hours exploring his talent, like a bird that had just learned how to fly, soaring through the sky.

He went to the kitchen and used his power to swing open the refrigerator door. Then he used his talent to remove a Budweiser, twist the cap, and bring the cold bottle to his lips. He took a few deep gulps and burped.

"Ah," he said and laughed.

He wandered throughout the house. Opening and closing doors. Turning on the TV and the stereo. Lifting the telephone off the cradle and punching in buttons with a phantom finger.

It was impossible. It was incredible. But it was real.

At the moment, he was too caught up in testing the ability, too drunk on the sheer pleasure of his powers, to speculate how and why he'd gained this gift. It was like being in a childhood dream in which he possessed magical talents.

He turned water faucets, flicked light switches on and off, opened windows, pushed chairs, moved silverware and plates and bowls and cups and glasses.

His palms continued to tingle, tingle, tingle.

He went to the finished basement, where he'd set up a fitness room. It was equipped with a weight bench, a barbell, several iron plates of Olympic weights, dumbbells, and rubber mats.

He attempted to lift a twenty-five-pound dumbbell. He brought it a couple of inches off the floor; then it dropped to the mat. When he tried to move it again, it budged only an inch.

Then there were some limits to his power. He couldn't lift a car in the air, for instance.

But maybe, with practice, he could.

As he started to go to another section of the house, fatigue suddenly spread through him. He was as exhausted as if he'd performed a grueling two-hour workout. Hunger pains cramped his stomach, too.

The prickly feeling dissipated-like a motor that had run out of fuel.

With great effort, Gabriel shuffled upstairs to the kitchen. He made a ham and cheese sandwich, felt his belly rumble again, and decided to make two sandwiches.

He took the sandwiches with him into his home office. Now that he'd gotten over the initial rush of discovery, it was time to seriously think about where these powers he'd acquired had come from.

He powered up the laptop computer and munched on the first sandwich, thinking.

A possibility surfaced in his thoughts: the car accident.

He remembered that when he'd awakened at the hospital, after his accident, he'd experienced the tingling for the first time. The phenomena was apparently a precursor of his being able to levitate objects. It only followed, then, that this unusual skill of his had been brought on by his accident. Basic cause and effect principle.

It was like in those horror movies when a character almost died of some kind of injury, but survived-and then discovered that he could see visions of the future. Same idea.

But this wasn't Hollywood. This was real. He needed real answers, not make-believe theories.

He logged on to the Internet. He pulled up Google, his favorite search engine, and began digging for more information.

He found a label for his talent: telekinesis, psychokinesis, or remote influencing. Whatever the name, it referred to the ability to move objects from one place to another without physical contact.

He had psychic powers. Him-Mr. Corporate. How crazy was that?

Only a few days ago he would have scoffed at this mystical stuff, would have dismissed it as superstitious nonsense promoted by loonies who had no grip on reality. But there was nothing like personal experience to change your mind. He devoured the information more eagerly than any contract or business proposal that had ever been placed in front of him.

The Web sites he visited offered various explanations for what stirred the onset of telekinetic abilities. Traumatic accidents. Transcendent experiences. Purposefully trying to awaken your psychic powers through meditation, diet, and practice.

As far as where the powers originated from, the general theory was that every human being was born with the potential to perform such wondrous feats. But most people used only a small portion say, 10 percent-of their brain's capabilities. If you fully tapped into your brain's power, you could do telekinesis, telepathy, levitate, gain visions of the future ... hell, you could become the real-life equivalent of an X-Man character.

Gabriel wanted to laugh. It was so absurd. But he couldn't laugh it off-because he knew it was true.

He wondered about the hallucinations. How did the encounters with the snake and the shadowy figure in the mirror tie in to all of this? Were they also related to his accident?

As he was constructing a new search, the telephone rang. Caller ID announced the call as coming from Reid Construction.

Gabriel looked at his watch. It was almost one-thirty.

Uh-oh. I forgot to do something at work. But what?

He picked up the phone. "Hello"

"Where the hell are you?"

It was his father. His father cursed only when he was angry.

"Umm, I'm at home, Pops," he said. "I had to go to the doctor this morning."

"That was this morning. You said you were going to be here for our one o'clock with the folks from Charlotte. Did you forget?"

Oh, shit!

"Uh, well ... I'm on my way now."

"Forget it, Gabe. The meeting will be over within the hour. Besides, Isaiah has been filling in for you-very capably, I might add. You owe him."

"Isaiah? What?"

"I'm heading back to the meeting. We've got to wrap up. Get your ass in here, ASAP."

Click.

Gabriel slowly replaced the phone on the cradle. Shock had numbed him.

How had Isaiah filled in for him? The man knew nothing about the business and had never worked a day of his life in corporate America.

Besides, Isaiah has been filling in for you very capably, I might add.

Isaiah was sabotaging his career, destroying his life. As he'd promised he would.

Taking it all away, little brother. Piece by piece.

Gabriel raced to the bedroom to shower and dress for work. While he still had a job.