Causality - 4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

 

(Sid’s Excerpt from Book of Fate)

 

Fuck, I should not have had that much beer last night. It is the last time I listen to a ghost about letting loose after a stressful day. Yet, outside of the obvious headache, I am actually feeling good about life and myself. I’ve been compartmentalizing my mind for years due to the large amount of emotions and memories. I know psychologically, it is not healthy and I have tried methods to release issues through conventional means; even confiding to my best friend, a psychiatrist. My stress level is extremely high, so my mind uses disassociation and redirection. People watch TV shows about profilers, people who can get into a suspect’s head, and treat it like a parlor trick. No one ever thinks about the psychological stress on the profiler

 

Wow, I am still fully clothed. If these guys really had their way with me, even for some pseudo-ritual to relax me, it wouldn’t be weird after a few beers to keep it going. Come to think of it, based on Alex’s reaction even without reading his emotions, he did not appear like he’d had sex, when I woke up last night. His breathing was regular and his demeanor was the same forceful asshole I met earlier in the day. Profiling means more than getting in the mind of a suspect, it also means being good at reading people’s emotional and physical reactions. Besides, his personality type does not match up with the average gay guy, looking for a one night stand. He strikes me as a guy, who holds a candle for a long time; if not, he wouldn’t be with his dead boyfriend. Patrick might act like a horny 18 year old, but he is also sensitive and kind. I know his acts are flirty, but they don’t feel more sexual, like any other gay guy just clowning around and not actually hitting on me. My brain is running clearly now and nothing adds up. I wonder if I ask Patrick with my empathy turned on, will I learn the truth?

 

A loud banging sound disrupts my thoughts; I can hear Patrick screaming at me “Get up, Get up! It’s already 5:52 AM.”

 

Shit, the plane boards in an hour and it will take 20 minutes to get to Dulles, “Where’s the bathroom, I need to get…Whoa”, I was being floated off to the bathroom, courtesy of friendly spirit airlines, not to be mistaken for the cheap economy class of “Spirit” Airline. As I was flying, I notice Alex was bitching and moaning on his leather recliner. Entering the bathroom, steam was already rising from the shower. The shower was preheated and a toothbrush had been prepared as I felt ghostly fingers stripping me down to nothing. Then the tooth brush flew into my mouth and my body was floated into the shower.

 

Patrick shuts the screen and warns, “You got 10 minutes before I come back.”

 

I didn’t say a word; instead I began to frantically soap and brush as quickly as possible. In about 7 minutes, I finished the shower and placed the tooth brush in the sink. There on the hanger is my pair of boxers, an undershirt, dress shirt, a simple blue striped tie, a pair of slacks, and a navy blue blazer all cleaned and steam-pressed. Patrick must be good housekeeping’s gay fan boy.

 

After dressing, I venture toward the living room to find Alex waiting for me. He was dressed in a similar manner, except he had a holster under his blazer. I had not expected to need a firearm as I thought this assignment would be a pretty simple desk job. However, in my defense, if we are facing something crazy like a ghost or a monster, what are the odds a simple government issued firearm can do much to it?

 

Alex grimaced at my appearance, “Looks like you had Patrick’s expedited cleaning and grooming services.”

 

I am curious about it, “Why is Patrick so pushy about us making it on…”, without finishing my words; Alex and I were floated off towards the side door into a garage with an MX-5. The two-seat convertible zips out of the driveway and in no time reaches the interstate highway. Unlike the stereotypical Asian drivers, Alex drives very well at extremely high speeds. That scares me though, because I could feel the winds blasting in my face and pushing back my cheekbones. I’ve ridden with police cruisers before travelling an hundred miles an hour, but it felt completely different than being open like this. A state trooper tries to chase us down, but Alex sped past him towards the airport. When we park, I was breathing heavily, fearing for my life.

 

I glare at my partner, “What the fuck was that? Who taught you to drive?”

 

Alex shrugs me off nonchalantly, “We got here on time, didn’t we?” He took out his cell phone and made a text, “I am going to have the Bureau explain to the state troopers we were conducting official business, no flags need to be raised for our speeding towards Dulles.”

 

As we walk, I continue to question, “Do you and Patrick do this every time?”

 

Alex nods, “Yes, we developed this routine, since I am a heavy sleeper and he’s a morning person. He gave me a quick 4 minute shower with the hottest waters since the Styx. Just feel lucky, you had 10 minutes.”

 

I nod and follow him into the terminal, “Have you checked in yet? I can upgrade our seats….”

 

He takes two printouts from his pocket, “Not really interested in an hour long flight in first class. Besides, this is business, not pleasure. If you want to take a private flight, you should have booked your own ticket and not squander federal funds.”

 

Damn it, he did it to me again. I want to smack him several times for that offhand comment. I am not a spoiled snob, you fucking asshole. I was trying to be nice and repay the help last night, plus the beers and chicken wings. Sure, I have tons of money and most people don’t even know it, until they spend time with me. I drive a Prius, not a Mercedes or a Rolls Royce. I got a penthouse in Manhattan, but I am going to stay in the same place you are.

 

My parents set me and my brother up with more than enough to live comfortably throughout several lifetimes, plus Dad’s investments. I know there are orphans, who are worse off than us, but having all this doesn’t mean life is easy either. People assume wealth equals happiness, but it just makes you isolated from everyone. When I don’t use my money people criticize it as being cheap. When I do use it to help or give people something, it is extravagant. I try to be a nice guy, but it is hard to make real friends that either don’t look at you weird for having money or aren’t free-loading off you. I’d rather he did not know, but he has that stupid book and…..Am I afraid of him?

 

Shit, he’s the first person I have tried to read and could not, so I know nothing about him, but he knows everything about me. Damn it, I am displacing my psychological anxiety and fears; if he reads this shit, he will probably laugh at me…Why am I so afraid he knows shit about me? I know he is gay, some kind of Taoist wizard or whatever, and has a ghost for a boyfriend. In comparison, my life is far more ordinary and it will not make more than a few lines on a 2^nd tier tabloid magazine; the Enquirer would need to do ten volumes on him.

 

My head is starting to ache again, not from stress over Alex, but I think the beers from last night are giving me another headache. The excitement and thrill is going away from the morning rush earlier; the hangover has returned in force.

 

(Alex’s Excerpt from Book of Fate)

 

I know he’s rich, but we’re on the job. Besides, why do I want a first class seat for a flight lasting around 1 hour and 15 minutes? We’re on the clock now and cannot drink, so the unlimited beverage option is out. I don’t care for watching part of a premium movie for free or a particular TV shows’ episode. It makes absolutely no sense to upgrade to first class right now; even if he is being nice, which I understand completely.

 

It also looks like he hasn’t gotten over his hangover from last night, either. I thought the car ride without the top and hot shower would have helped. In the back of my mind, I thought it was a bad idea, but Patrick pushed onwards saying, “We needed some downtime”. Based on experience, I knew I could handle it, especially with his expediting in the morning. I thought it was fine, but I was just using our perspective, not Sid’s perspective.

 

When we were in high school, I couldn’t be around much. Weekends were special for us. A lot of couples, especially young couples, don’t last due to distance and lack of attention. We understood that hurdle from the plethora of 90’s TV shows with the topic. I knew he was having sex with other boys, when I wasn’t around, and I was having my own experiences with others. Yet, whenever I was around, we cherished every moment and even invented our own “private games” to speed up mundane things, like brushing your teeth, taking a shower in the morning, and dressing for the day. We did more than fool around; we actually took care of one another. As we grew older, we learned about each other’s habits, tolerances, and quirks. Even after he died, we never stopped the game; he knew my alcohol limits innately down to a science.

 

I forget those little details, because it has been part of my life for so long now. Sid wouldn’t have had the benefit of time or experience. It was our fault for keeping him up and offering him beers without knowing his limits. I should have read up on his tolerances from the “Book”, but after what happened earlier, it seemed wrong somehow. Plus, there’s an additional rule about using the Book on ascended beings; it should only be done under extreme circumstances.

 

The past has happened already, no use in analyzing our flawed perspectives. We need to get to New York and figure out this case before someone else is hurt or killed by this maniac with Tao-Ming technology. There’s no news on whether the inventory check has confirmed or denied a possible leak of technology within the 5 elemental groups. However, if another group with similar technology had given it to this killer, the potential suspects expand into a global witch hunt. Despite being the most advanced of all the secret societies in the world, there are others with comparable research and capabilities.

 

Sitting down on the plane, my thoughts are drawn inexorably toward the possibilities on organizations or individuals seeking the bioenergy. The ritual is ancient, dating back to the 1^st Millennium CE. At that point in time, Buddhism had missionaries in China for a few centuries, but most Taoists did not pay them much attention, including the 5 elemental groups. However, their teachings on reincarnation matched a scientific hypothesis among the Wood and Earth groups, concerning the conservation of consciousness and bioenergy. Along with this interesting concept, during the first meeting of our group with a Buddhist “sage”, our groups discovered the sage possessed telepathy and empathy. We began a friendship with the Buddhists’ sects around the 2^nd Century CE, but over time, differences divided us as Buddhism is internally based and Taoism is externally based. The concept of their “enlightenment” ran counter to our process for “ascension” after death in dealing with human souls. They also disagreed with our practice of animal experimentation and hybridization, which probably was prescient considering later events.

 

As my mind ponders, a Hispanic woman and teenage girl took the seats next to me. The woman had a scar underneath her chin, which appeared to be at least a week old. The teenage girl was shoving the older woman towards me as if daring her to speak to me. I hold a window seat and Sid sits one row in front of me on the aisle. I prefer sitting next to the windows and having the view of clouds.

 

Since the older woman was far too afraid to speak up, the girl pushed her away and faced me directly, “Hey, china boy, that seat is mine.”

 

Instinctively I took out my ticket to confirm, “I have 27C”. I point the seat number to her, “I believe you must have made a mistake in your booking arrangement.”

 

The girl frowns and tries to grab my printed sheet, “I want to see this for myself”, she notices my holster, quickly screams, “He’s loaded!”

 

Her shouts prompt a steward to come over, “Is there a problem?”

 

The guy is rather attractive in the boy-next-door type of way: Short curly auburn hair, modest tan, and a decent build. His speech is slightly high pitched, probably New England education. He had an earring on his left ear, which usually is a symbol for gay men, but I don’t presume with the amount of metrosexuals around. I know there’s no such thing as gaydar, but there is such a thing as a pheromone trace between attracted individuals. When two people with compatible body chemistries meet, there is an automated mechanism in human biology that activates. Heart rate is increased slightly and a noticeable increase in fluid production. I could tell between his body’s reaction and my own he’s either homosexual or bisexual in orientation. He is cute, but I already have a ghostly boyfriend, who can make my fantasies come true.

 

I shook my head to rid my arousal factors and took out my Federal ID, “None at all, I am Federal Agent empowered by the regulations from the Federal Office of Law Enforcement to carry my firearm with me. This young lady had an issue with my seat arrangement and believes she should be sitting on 27C, which I clearly demonstrated was not the case.”

 

Seeing my Federal ID and my electronic ticket, the steward looks over at the teenager and her guardian, “Can I see your tickets?”, the woman hands them to him, “Ms. Carla Alvarez and Ms. Samantha Alvarez, I see you are assigned the aisle and center seats.”

 

The woman blushed with embarrassment at the girl’s antics, “I am so sorry, we have 27A and 27B. We did not mean to offend you. I am the girl’s stepmother, Carla. We are returning home and this is our final connecting plane, please accept our apology.”

 

I nod with understanding, “It is fine madam, there’s no issue. I am merely stating the facts and I prefer the window seat at takeoff.”

 

The girl nervously took her seat in the aisle and, as the steward walks off, she mumbles, “Stupid Cocksucker”.

 

Now, if I were preachy by nature, I would probably admonish the girl for her behavior and her defamation, whether or not the guy was gay. Not my style though, people have a right to their opinion and I am duty bound to protect that. Through my professional and special training, I pledged not to interfere in individual actions. It is why we explore the sciences throughout history; we do not put limits on the human mind, why would we put limits on human expression?

 

Of course, it does not stop Sid, especially with lower inhibition, “Hey, you were rude. The steward was only doing his job and his sexual orientation has nothing to do with it.”

 

The girl counters quickly, “Mind your business, what are you his boyfriend?”

 

Sid answers with his usual tone, “Is a person’s sexual orientation important, one way or another? You are so fixated on a need to prove your standing by demeaning others around you as lower human beings. The world does not revolve around you.”

 

Shit, he’s using his empathy again and this time with a homophobic teenage girl. I don’t like this bitch, but I know better than to start a fight right here and now. Maybe, the combination of the alcohol and his inner stress relief has reduced his inhibitions. Again, it goes back to my choices; fucking fantastic, I have released his inner gay advocate. I have to read her reactions from the book or else I’ll be writing a long report about a Federal agent involved in a fist fight with a teenager.

 

I take out the Book from my messenger bag below the seat and mentally ask, “Show me Samantha Alvarez, the teenage girl in the aisle seat, 27A, on flight 7220 with destination New York. Use real-time information, combine conversation, and process thought with standard settings”.

 

(Samantha Alvarez excerpt from Book of Fate)

 

Fucker, what gives this guy the right to speak to me like that? The fucking seat was mine to begin with, if the other chink had given me his fucking ticket, I’d have forced his ass off the seat. He wouldn’t have pulled his gun on me, he’s a cop and they got rules. If he even badmouths me a little, I can sue his ass for a million dollars and get myself on TV. Cops are pussies, following their stupid rules and shit; you just have to know their shit and stare them down. You don’t make your way in the world by being some pussy; you got to take it if you want it. No one is going to give you a free lunch. Why should you pretend to be all nice and shit? This other chink probably wants to get his cock blown by that Maricón.

 

I am going to bitch out this asshole, “So tell me, smart ass, why I should listen to you? If the cop isn’t raising a shit about some faggot steward, then who gives a fuck? No one on this plane likes fags, except you. You must be a fag, too.”

 

The asshole replies, “Well, if I am gay, it is much better than other things like doing drugs, for example.”

 

Fuck this, how does he know? No, he couldn’t know, he’s just guessing. He wants to unravel me and put me in my place. When my boys hear about this, they’ll mess this fucker up. I will call up Hugo and Carlos about this faggot, when we land. They’re connected with some big muscle. He doesn’t look tough. He’s sweating like a puta in heat. I want to punch the fag myself, but the plane is rocking.

 

Since the plane moving, might as well sit back and kick his seat a little. Shit, this fucking plane doesn’t have any TV or music. I got to live with the stupid iPod the bitch gave me last year for my birthday. It’s a fucking pink Nano; the bitch should have gotten me an iPhone. If she had fucking gotten me one, I wouldn’t have stolen that stupid guero’s iPhone and have to go to a “Youth Prevention Program”. The chocho at the camp kept saying, “We’re here to help you,” and “We just want the best for you.” All that bullshit. I snuck out every night to a bar a few miles away and partied it up with some local guys. We danced, drank beers, and shot up a few times. I lost my virginity already and probably got fucked a half dozen more times, but who cares? Not my deadbeat jefe, who cussed me out after his friend screwed me. I got fucked and I must be the puta according to him. Mi Madre died back home and this new bitch can never be like her.

 

The cop is reading his stupid iPad like he’s at a Starbucks. Didn’t he say he works for the government? Yeah, he’s a bigger pussy than I thought; I bet he never been to a rough neighborhood before or had to get into a real fight. Yeah, he got no bolas for action. This chink looks a little better built than the fag in front, but I bet two guys will take him down easy. Maybe, if I can steal his gun, Leandro’s crew in Sunset will accept me in. They brush me off as a little “chica” wannabe, but if I can steal a cop’s gun, a “government” cop’s gun? I’ll show them up. I need to get him distracted by something, like someone getting really sick on the plane. Cops have to help anyone, he’ll have his hands full and won’t notice anything until later. I snuck the bottle on the plane. They can get you fucked up, if you down just one. These pills are worth a few dimes, but I can take the loss, if I can get into Leandro’s crew. I can’t down it though; he’d be able to trace it back, so I got to find someone else. If I can sneak over to the back and put some in the coffee machine, when no one’s looking, then anyone who orders coffee will get sick. The plan is perfect.

 

As I flick the pill bottle in my pocket, the seatbelt sign goes off, I can move, but the cop is staring at me and starts to speak, “Do you really want the window seat?”

 

I’m fucking confused by this bicho, “Hey, you made the big scene about wanting that shit seat, why should I take it, now?”

 

He shakes his head without any expression, “Well, I wanted us to be in the proper seats during takeoff. You can have my seat by the window for landing, if you want.”

 

Yeah, he’s a big pussy, but the bitch hesitates, “Thank you, but she does not need the seat.”

 

I kick the bitch in the shin and whisper, “Cállate!”

 

While we were changing seats, the cop went to the bathroom with his iPad. Probably, he had to piss his pants, because his Coño was running. The fag also heads back there, too. I should have guessed the fag wanted the cop. He’s probably giving him a blow job in the bathroom, Pinche Maricón. The stupid cop did do something right and gave me back “my” seat. What’s mine is always going to be mine; I don’t care what anyone thinks. I wanted the window seat and I got it. Too bad, I can’t steal his gun anymore, since he’s back there. Don’t want to risk him seeing me near the back with the coffee machine. Lucky for him, but I’ll just sell them all and split my profits with Leandro’s crew. If I can’t show them a gun, I’ll show them a few Presidents.

 

( Alex Excerpt from Book of Fate)

 

Damn, it was close. The bitch would have poisoned this entire plane to get her way. I have to corner her, but I can’t seriously arrest her based on my magic “Book”. She’s got no real record, minor theft does not equal drug trafficking. It is not permissible to have someone searched on suspicion alone without a basis. I hate the rules from both Tao-Ming and the US, but I am a member and a federal agent. I maintained neutrality for as far I could, but I cannot allow a criminal to escape justice. The bitch may claim I am a pussy, but the difference between criminals and law enforcement officers is a distinct line of law. We keep order in the world; even if people would prefer to live in chaos and anarchy. I also hate drug dealers and drug traffickers; mostly because of what happened to Patrick.

 

I shoved Sid into one of the plane’s stalls for a private conversation, “You know about the drugs in her possession.”

 

He was shocked to learn that fact, “No”

 

I shook my head in response, “Plus, I know she was planning to poison the coffee during beverage service to distract me and steal my gun. Fuck, it’s only probable intent not “provable” intent. We have no reason to take the drugs or arrest her.”

 

Sid crosses his arms, “She’s probably going to distribute it around her neighborhood or school. We could wait and tip off the local cops.”

 

Local police would not act on unconfirmed information. There’s an inter-agency and inter-regional rivalry with drug enforcement from the federal level down to the local beat cops. Even guys I know in the Tao-Ming, who had joined NYPD and local DEA, wouldn’t act despite the facts. The Tao-Ming non-interference policy covers drug interdiction; it’s why we never took sides during the Opium Wars. Drug use has been going on for almost as long as human beings have walked the earth. It’s a joke to think you can prevent drug use through “afterschool specials” and “Say No to Drugs” campaigns. Still, I’d rather be on quixotic quest to fight it.

 

I had a different idea on how to handle it, “I got another idea, but you have to get her to hit you.”

 

Sid looks at me incredulously, “What? Why?”

 

I explain the steps, “First, you and I will exchange seats. You will be in the same row with her and her stepmother. Second, you will use your empathic ability and psychological skills to infuriate her. She already wants to send guys after you, when we land, so it’s not that far off.”

 

Sid shook his head in disbelief, “Wait, what? Is she part of some Mexican Mafia? She was going to have guys….”

 

That’s not even how the Mexican mob works, he is such a rookie, “No, she just has connections to a local Spanish gang, the same one she’s approaching with the pills. She really hates your guts and based on her last thoughts, hates me as well for the window seat and being a “Maricón”. Don’t ask what it means.”

 

Sid frowns, “There’s something else about her you should know. She was sexually abused.”

 

I knew from the Book, “I know about what happened, but it doesn’t change what she’s doing right now. We can’t compromise our objectivity due to a sympathetic fact”.

 

Sid stares me down, “I think a warning and destruction of the drugs should be enough. You might know what happened, but you don’t know how it feels to be violated and no one coming to your defense. Hell, her father ostracized her for being a slut, then she began going down this road to criminal behavior.”

 

I understand all that, but I still disagree with Sid. He does not realize that she has already been given a second chance after being caught with petty theft. She has criminal acquaintances, trades sex for drugs, and remains unrepentant for any wrongs she has done or will do. Maybe, in the past, she was a lost soul, who could have used some guidance and support. That time has passed.

 

I vehemently countered Sid’s point, “She has made a choice in her life. Others she will harm must be protected from this choice. We are duty bound to see this through. What happened to her was wrong, but it does not give her blanket immunity. If the pilot drank the coffee, we might all be dead due to her selfish actions. Tragedy is no excuse and it sure is not justice”.

 

With a pause for emphasis, I continue to explain my plan, “Anyway, I will discover the drugs off her as I hold her down from attacking you. We’ll drop her off to the local authorities at the airport and if you want to offer her mitigating factors during trial as a psychological expert, it’s up to you.”

 

Sid hesitantly accepts the plan and we leave the bathroom stall. As we approach the seats, I motion towards Sid’s former seat and he takes my old seat. I’ll keep an eye on her actions.

 

(Sid Excerpt from Book of Fate)

 

Alex is right about what we need to do, but he doesn’t understand emotions the way I do. She’s a bitch, but she hasn’t gone down the road to become a killer yet. She really just wants acknowledgement from others. I have seen real killers, felt their pain, and understand their motivations. Most killers are not psychotic or even unstable; they act out of the moment, purely instinctual. Human beings kill one another for the stupidest reasons, but what makes them repeat these actions is a motivation from within. Criminals justify their actions based on experience, but she has not had the experience yet. Alex might know more about her than I do from his damn Book, but I know what’s hidden in her heart.

 

When I was arguing with her earlier, I saw what happened. It started with surface emotions and a few stray memories from her recent sexual encounter. Then, as I intimated the sex for drugs deal, her fear flashed an older traumatic memory. Those memories are still clear in my mind:

 

It was night. She was brushing her hair in front of her bedroom mirror. A door was opening behind her, she recognized the person standing there, but she did not understand why he came in. He looked drunk; yes, he is her father’s drinking friend. She hated him, because he would stare at her strangely, even before this event. His name is Jorge.

 

She turns around to face him, “Tio Jorge, Qué estás aquí?”

 

He looked at her with lustful expression, “Ah…Angelito…you are going to be a beautiful woman. I wonder if your breasts are firmed yet…”

 

She screamed, “No!”, but no one came to her aid. She tries to run out the door, but he grabs her. She felt anxiety, fear, and a horrible sense of danger from this man. As her sleeping outfit was ripped from her body, screams of agony were echoing, until her vocal chords could produce only a whimper. There were periods of warm pains and cold shocks, but the feelings did not last. What did last was the infinite numbness…

 

It was day. She was yelling at her father, “He touched me, papá”

 

Her father appeared to have a hangover, “it is sinful and disgraceful, what you did to Jorge.”

 

She felt outraged by the remark, “I did nothing wrong. He came into my room and did thing…”

 

Her father walked over and slapped her, “Shut up, you little puta, you dishonor this family and a good man.”

 

How can a father act like that? Beyond cultural differences, I can never understand how people can view the victims of rape as the wrongdoers. The victim never chose to be raped, especially a young girl, whose only crime was starting puberty early. Yet, she must be stopped and I cannot willfully allow her to escape justice.

 

I scan Carla, the stepmother, first to gauge her, she seemed nervous about our shifts in seats, probably due to Alex’s perceived authority “Hello, I asked the man up there to switch seats with me. I want to talk to you about the exchange between myself and your daughter.”

 

Her face lights up in hues of crimson, “Oh, no, I am very...”

 

I smile and grab her hands, “No, you have apologized much for her actions. I can only imagine the suffering she has put you through.”

 

The steward, who I thought was pretty cute, comes over with his cart, “Can I offer you any refreshments or snacks from our selection?”

 

Having skipped breakfast due to the “friendly” expediting this morning, I am hungry, “Can I get four snack boxes and a ginger ale. Give me three of those boxes and hand one to the man in front of me.”

I handed him my Platinum card. Carla was shocked as I offered her the two boxes. She emphatically tried to be polite, “No, I cannot take your food.”

 

I insisted and she eventually took the food. However, Samantha was less enthused by the offering, “What the fuck is this? Peanut butter cookies, a bag of chips, and a freeze dried donut…eww! I want something else.” She tossed it on my tray, daring me.

 

I started making my first move, “Hey, your stepmother and I are eating this food and I bet others on this plane would love to have a snack if you do not.” I grabbed the box and got up to offer the food to an elderly woman in the back with flowing gray-white hair. I sensed Samantha was merely fooling around with the food. She would have eaten it, if I had maintained my ground.

 

I could sense I was reaching the stepmother. Based on my surface scans of her, I can tell she was at her own limits with Samantha through the sequence of events. I cannot read any particular memories from Carla, which is not uncommon. My ability is not telepathy; I can only view strong emotionally tied memories. However, I can tell she has low level depression and perhaps even spousal abuse. The father is an alcoholic with an anger management issue based on Samantha’s recollection.

 

I try to approach her like any counselor, “It must be hard for you. Has she been berating you often?”

 

Carla looked down at the floor, “Sometimes…She can be rude…”

 

I notice Samantha is getting angrier, I need to push more, “Did she give you that bruise on your face?” Carla put her hands up to hide the scar, but I grab them, “…Was it her father…”

 

She wept softly and tried to whisper something, “He is so angry…”

 

At those words, Samantha Alvarez turned towards me and her stepmother, “You fucking bitch, Cállate Perra!”

 

It is my academy award moment, “Hey, didn’t your dad teach you to be courteous to your elders. Only a “little puta” would act in such a way.”

 

She lunges at me, attempts to strangle me, and screams, “Quiero que te mueras!”

 

I know, it is not professional to use someone’s traumatic memories, nor is it even psychologically healthy, but I am a Federal agent and profiler, not a psychologist in practice. I know we don’t follow the same rules or guidelines the APA ascribes to; there are many exceptions as long as I do not coerce, threaten, or physically instigate a suspect. Yet, at this moment, I feel extremely guilty and even welcome a few bruises from this girl.

 

Alex did as he had planned and jumped up to my rescue, pinning the girl, “Hold it right there…” he grabs her and tries to hold her. It does not take long to find the bottle in her pocket.

 

Alex, looking surprised “to find” the bottle, asked “What the hell is this?”

 

She angrily spits in his face, “That’s my medicine, give it back to me or I’ll sue you.”

 

Alex looks at the label, “Albert Smith II, I thought you were Samantha Alvarez. This is a psychiatric drug called Pentazocine. It is an opiate and a Schedule II substance.”

 

           

 

Alex grimaced at her, “I think fingerprint and body residue testing on the exterior and interior of the bottle will reveal the truth. Evidence does not lie.”

 

It did not take long for everything to move according to Alex’s plan. He asked the pilot to radio New York LaGuardia for temporary holding until NYPD picks her up. Samantha Alvarez was cursing and screaming the entire way from her window seat. I did my best to calm Carla down and gave her some contact information to a group for abused spouses in New York. It felt like moments between the altercation and the plane landing.

 

After dropping off Samantha Alvarez and the pills with airport security, Alex and I had a brief moment of peace. Neither of us were satisfied by the overpriced snacks on the plane and we had time before our briefing with the New York Investigators, so we went to the food court for some breakfast. Starbucks coffee, a breakfast sandwich, and a pastry are good antidotes for a mild hangover in my case. I basically inhaled the sandwich; it took only ten seconds at most. For the pastry and coffee, I actually enjoyed nibbling on the sugary edges and slowly sipping the coffee down. Alex held more etiquette than me. We sat there for about 20 minutes without speaking, just enjoying our pastry and coffee.

 

Alex with a coffee in hand tries to start a conversation, “So…umm…Do you want to talk about what you saw and felt from that bitch?”

 

I’m a little taken back by his direct questioning. He wasn’t so open-minded on the plane. “I thought it doesn’t matter to you, Justice Bao.”

 

Alex tensed up, “You fucking asshole, that bitch got what was coming to her. I was trying to be nice and get you to open up about what you saw. Excuse me for caring about your mental health.”

 

He’s trying to be nice, so I will try to make him understand, ‘I felt what she must have felt. She had no control over her body during the rape. Then, she went to her father; she trusted him implicitly. He would not defend her and slapped her across the face, calling her a “Slut”. It’s a serious breach of self and trust. Imagine what that means for any rape victim, let alone a little girl?”

 

Alex shakes his head and sighs, “I understand the tragedy. I understand you probably feel the same things she did. I can’t sympathize with her, though.”

 

Looking down at my coffee, I softly ask, “Why can’t you sympathize with her?”

 

For a moment, Alex stammered, “P….” and then he collected himself, “I don’t think drug trafficking should be handled lightly.”

 

I’ve never been a huge fan of the War on Drugs. I don’t think the policy works, despite what the DEA attempts. On the contrary, I think our current policy is actually enabling illegal drug trafficking to remain profitable and even develop inroads into our inner cities with low income populations. With the increased stress of employment, housing, and resource management in the US, there are more people turning to drugs for an outlet away from the bitter realities. Drug dealers have mitigating circumstances.

 

Contemplating, I counter with common sense in my view, “Drug dealing has mitigating circumstances, too. Samantha Alvarez is a young kid with a traumatic life, who turned to this practice out of need for acknowledgement. She did something illegal and should be punished for it, but there should be some sympathy as well.”

 

Alex frowns, “It doesn’t make things right for her potential customers. Kids can get permanent drug abuse issues for life due to people like her. Those pills were only meant for limited medical use. Even when an adult takes it, they run a chance of getting disoriented, hallucinating, or even to die due to the nature of the chemical compounds. What do you say to the victims, their families, or their partners?”

 

I hate that line about what you should “say to the victims”, it is a crap out like Anita Bryant’s “Think of the Children”. I threw it back. “No one forced kids or adults to take those drugs. Most knew they were illegal and dangerous to begin with. They chose their fates through their own actions; though some of them may be mitigated due to circumstance. We should try to help all of them, not just the victims.”

 

Alex’s veins begin to pop, I suspect out of anger, “What the Fuck? You’re telling me if people die, because of some bad choices, it should be on them? If kids try drugs, they should be held on equal ground as the drug dealers, who gave them the drugs in the first place? That’s fucking bullshit, have you ever stepped out to see how the world works, away from your comfortable penthouse apartments and mansions.”

 

I really want to smack him, but before I could even offer a retort, a friendly face sat down next to us, “Hey guys, was your flight fun?”

 

(Patrick’s Excerpt from Book of Fate)

 

I wish I was with them on that plane. Thanks to my connection with Alex, I saw everything happening from his eyes. I studied Spanish in high school, so I know exactly what the bitch was saying. She got what was coming to her; no one can call my boyfriend or my gay friends a “Pinche Maricón” or a “Fucking Faggot”. Hell, I’d ghost bitch slap her a few times, if I was on that plane. Looks like Sid also knows a little Spanish, too.

 

Sid looked perplexed at seeing me, “Hey Patrick, how are you…”

 

Well, I guess it’s my turn to explain some ghostly dynamics with him, “Ghosts aren’t just nocturnal. We can appear in the daylight, but we need a good deal of energy to maintain it. It’s useful to have my energizer bunny next to me.”

 

Sid nods, “Should we go to somewhere more private? I’m worried a conversation with an empty chair would raise suspicions.”

 

They toss several plastic cups, paper wrappers, and napkins into the closest trash bin. Then, we head towards an empty corner of gate B-4, which was completely empty. It is awkward walking there, since the guys seem to avoid eye contact the entire way. I knew they were about to fight earlier by the escalating anger in Alex, but I was hoping it might have settled with me around.

 

As we walk, Alex telepathically calls me, “You know maintaining this form is stressing our energy, you could just stay invisible near me until we are alone.”

 

I know, but he and Sid would get at each other’s throats again, “I will go back to ghost, if you promise to be civil with Sid. You were doing so well with each other last night. I almost thought you guys were becoming friends.”

 

Alex understandingly concedes, “I don’t know why he acts the way he does. I try to be nice to him and we end up in an argument over drug policy.”

 

Those two are good together, but they really have to open up more. For Alex, I can guess the problem with drugs. Yeah, I fucked myself up at the club, but he still blames himself. With Sid, I think it goes back to what his spiritual core was saying last night; he takes too much of everyone’s pain in and can’t let go. Sid and Alex are trying hard to be friendly. Plus, Alex should have no problems with developing friendships even with people he disagrees with. I wonder why they seem like such…whoa…this feels weird…My body is losing its density.

 

Sid notices my solid form fading, “What the hell is wrong?”

 

How the fuck would I know? I turn to Alex, who pulls out one of his special “scanners” from his bag, “Fuck, there’s a strange energy field forming. Patrick, get your ass into my body now…”

 

I jumped into Alex, my first thought was, “What happened?”

 

Alex replies, “It’s the same field the other ghosts described during the murders. It is not affecting any of the airport’s electronic equipment. This is so…Oh Shit!”

 

Alex was quick to grab the iPad, whispers his command “Search for Samantha Alvarez, birth date, and hour of the day, use western standard Gregorian calendar and hourly cycles.”

 

I figured it out based on Alex’s search parameters, but Sid had no idea, if his confused expression was any indication. I borrowed Alex’s vocal chords, “Hey Sid, it’s me, Patrick…I know it’s confusing that I am in Alex’s body, but there’s a strange energy field in the airport right now. It affects spirit energy. Alex thinks it was not a coincidence you guys met up with Samantha Alvarez on the plane.”

 

Alex saw the information from the iPad, “Samantha Alvarez, born September 19^th 2000, 9:27 AM”.

 

Sid realized the serendipitous link as well, “She was born on September 19^th 2000, between 8-10 AM, Fuck me. We were sitting next to a potential victim.”

 

Sid, Alex, and I made our way to the airport security desk, flashing ID’s and demanding to know where Samantha was at the moment. The guy on desk duty verified their identities and pointed to a computer monitor. This guy was probably in his mid-50’s, failing hairline, and, based on my ghostly perception, going to die of liver failure. Hey, I am just saying the truth; not being mean or anything. I can tell when someone is unhealthy.

 

Alex observes the computer monitor and instantly points to the problem, “Look at the shadow on the wall, it’s moving back and forth every 7 seconds. This video was recorded and set to loop.”

 

We went back towards the private TSA interrogation room. The door is open. As we are closing our distance to the door, a brilliant flash of light blurred all our visions. To blind a ghost is huge feat, but it was not just blinding. I could feel Alex’s ear drums go deaf and I could not sense any sound either. Alex tried to scream, but no words came out of his mouth, as far as I could tell. I opened our 天眼, or “Heaven’s Eye”, and caught a glimpse of someone or something rushing past us. Yet, it is too much strain on both our energies due to what I had done earlier and he quickly lost his “heaven’s eye”.

 

It took maybe 10 or 20 minutes more, but all our senses came back. Sid rushes into the room first, followed by Alex and the security agent. On the floor, Samantha Alvarez is lying dead with a ring of black candles around her. On the wall, an eerie message is left:

 

“Sum Animam Devoratrix”