Jillian Spectre & the Dream Weaver Page 14

  "Are you saying," says Ryan, "that some of the physical traits of Jillian's father could be transferred as well?"

  "It's very possible. In fact, I would bet on it. Of course, we'd have to know what those traits were to recognize them."

  I turn to my mother. "Mom?"

  Mom looks to the ceiling, trying to remember. "Let's see. He had a bit of a twitch in his left eye. Other than that, I can't think of anything other than he liked to snap his fingers a lot."

  I'm beginning to understand this as I turn back to the tech guy. "So, basically when people get their identity card, some of my father's core beliefs will be transferred to them?"

  He nods. "Yes. The pad on which the thumb is placed is not only a scanner, but a connective device that goes directly to the brain using the network of nerves in our bodies. People will think they are simply being fingerprinted. In reality, they are being programmed with a new set of beliefs. But until we actually test this on a human, we won't know what the effect will be. Though I'm guessing the others have already tested it and it works. And then there's the other problem."

  "What's that?" asks Fuzzball.

  "If the process can be reversed. What's embedded could be permanent."

  The ride home is taking forever. We've been stuck in traffic and for some reason the people who run the state's toll booths think they only need to staff two people on weekends while shutting down most of the automated EZ Pass lanes. Cars are making the slow crawl as people wait in line to pay ridiculous amounts of money for the privilege of driving in the northeast.

  "What is this, a Wal-Mart express line?" asks Mom, who's driving. Fuzzball is in the passenger seat doing something on his laptop while Roxanne, Jake and I fill the back seat of our family land yacht. Of course since I'm the shortest and smallest, I'm stuck in the middle. The curse of the vertically challenged. Though if Ryan hadn’t stayed behind to work on something with Sebastien, I’d be on his lap and not complaining.

  Jake exhales and looks at his watch. "We've now been here twenty minutes just to pay the toll. Is it just me, or is there something very wrong with a society in which you have to wait in line to give the government money?"

  "This is ridiculous," says Rox. "Would it kill them to open the EZ Pass lanes? They don't need humans to run those."

  I look at the line of red lights over eight closed lanes. "Hey, Jake, you think you can hit the booths from here?"

  "It's a long way away. Why?"

  "I was thinking you could change all the lights to green and turn on the booths. Then everyone in front of us would move and we could get the hell out of here."

  "Great idea," says Rox. She reaches over and pats Jake on the knee. "Give it a shot, little one, we got nothing to lose."

  "Okay," says Jake. The telekinetic raises his hand and points a finger at the line of toll booths. One of the lights flickers briefly from red to green but ends up back on red. He tries again, but the end result is the same. "I could do it if we were closer. I don't have enough juice from this far out."

  Mom manages to creep forward a few feet. "C'mon, try it again," I say. "One more time."

  Jake goes through the process again with similar results, though the light stays green a bit longer. His face tightens as he focuses on the task.

  I rest my hand lightly on his shoulder. "C'mon, Jake, you can do it. You're almost there."

  And suddenly his eyes widen and all the lights turn green.

  The parking lot turns into a road rally as cars race to the open lanes. Mom turns into a NASCAR driver and screeches her way forward, cutting people off and getting a few extended middle fingers from other drivers in the process.

  I pat him on the back. "Jake, you rock."

  "You did it!" says Rox.

  Jake turns and looks at Roxanne wide-eyed. "No, I didn't."

  "Sure you did," says Mom, as she navigates her way toward the booth. "All the lanes turned on."

  Jake shakes his head. "Not what I meant." He turns to me. "I didn't do it. We did."

  "What are you talking about?" I ask.

  "I couldn't do it alone, Jillian. Until you put your hand on my shoulder. All of a sudden I got this rush of energy, like my power was multiplied ten times. I could feel it coming from you. I know it was you."

  Fuzzball closes his laptop and turns around. "Jillian, what were you thinking when you touched Jake?"

  I shrug. "I was hoping he could get the lights changed so we could get the hell out of this traffic jam."

  He nods slowly as he looks at Jake. "And you actually felt her power coming into you?"

  "Absolutely. Like it ran right into my mind. All of a sudden I could focus like never before. I've never felt so powerful. The rest of the world disappeared and all I could see were the tollbooths."

  "You know what this means," says Mom, as she makes her way through the booth.

  "What?" I ask.

  “It’s obvious,” says Roxanne. “You not only have the power to heal, but to increase the power of whoever you touch.”

  Chapter 15

  I look at my ticket stub as I walk through the concourse and figure I need to find my seat. The weather is perfect: not a cloud in the sky, temperatures in the seventies, a light offshore breeze. A vendor passes me and the smell of hot dogs fills my lungs. But this is old Shea Stadium, famous for cold frankfurters on stale buns and food that would give any lunch lady a run for her money, so I resist the temptation. I find my section, right behind third base, and head down the steps to my row, which is right on the rail near the dugout. The sellout crowd applauds as the Mets take the field.

  I turn into the row and find Carrielle already seated. "I was hoping you'd be here. You always pick such nice places to meet."

  "I want our meetings to be as relaxing as possible. I know of your fondness for baseball."

  "Yeah, nice to go to a game in the middle of November." Carrielle hands me a soda and a bag of peanuts. "And you know what I like."

  "Your obsession with food amuses me, Jillian."

  "Yeah, but it's a really good obsession." I rip open the bag. "Salted in the shell. My favorite. Thank you."

  He nods. "You're very welcome."

  I crack open a peanut shell and pop the nut in my mouth, savoring the salty treat. It's actually fresh, a far cry from the stuff they used to sell here for outrageous prices. "So, when were you gonna tell me I had yet another power? That might have come in handy last spring."

  "You did not have that power then, Jillian. You must understand that you are still evolving, still developing your powers."

  "So my ability to amplify the powers of others is something brand new?"

  He touches my forehead with two fingers, which gives me peace. And also tells me something troubling is heading my way. "We are given gifts as we need them. You did not need this gift before."

  His answer would normally make my blood pressure spike but I never feel any stress during my times with the angel, especially after he's done the peace number on my head. "Which means I'm going to need this new power."

  He nods. "You are facing a great enemy, Jillian. Not necessarily more powerful than your father, but perhaps more dangerous. She is ruthless, without conscience, and will let nothing stand in her way. As she has already demonstrated."

  "What can you tell me about her?"

  "As before, dark forces prevent us from reading her. And those who follow her. But what she is doing can be very damaging to the fabric of society, which is very fragile to begin with."

  I turn and look out at the game. The Mets make a couple of incredible defensive plays, something that rarely happens in real life. "Nice fantasy, Carrielle."

  He shrugs and smiles. "Wouldn't want your favorite team to lose.”

  "How come you can't fix this team in real life? I mean, geez, throw us a couple of decent outfielders. Let them make the playoffs once in a while."

  "Sports are not a priority in my kingdom. They are simply for your entertainment."

  "Yeah,
well, the Mets are entertaining all right, but not in a good way." I take a sip of the ice cold soda to wash down the salty nuts. "Carrielle, I need to ask you about sirens."

  "Yes. They are very powerful and can render men mad. Song is usually a gift, but they do not use it in the manner it was intended."

  "I'm really worried about Roxanne. I was told that Cruise actually killed a muse once."

  "A terrible sin," he says, his eyes suddenly moist. "A muse is such a special creature, one who bestows gifts of inspiration and beauty. To take the life of one…"

  His voice trails off and he looks down at the ground. I rest my hand on his shoulder. "Can you tell me how she killed the muse so it doesn't happen to Roxanne? All I know is that the siren pretended to want a session with the muse."

  "Yes. The siren tricked her, told her she wanted to be inspired. When the muse entered her mind the siren sang subconsciously, paralyzing her. She was not expecting to be in a battle, for as you know, a muse can defeat a siren."

  "So the legend is true."

  "Yes. But in this case, the siren was extremely powerful. And with the battle being waged in the subconscious, the muse was not able to defeat her. Alas, she is here with the angels."

  "That doesn't make me feel any better about Roxanne. So what do we do, Carrielle?"

  "The key word is we, Jillian. You have a new gift. I suggest you use it."

  The envelope from the federal government makes my blood pressure spike. Because I know what's inside.

  The ID cards from hell.

  Everyone is receiving them this week, with instructions to take them to an "activation center" so that you can be registered. And presumably, be turned into one of millions of minions of my father complete with his dark personality traits.

  The sonofabitch is basically out of commission, and still he's causing trouble.

  Sebastien has instructed us not to even touch the things, especially the part of the card where your thumbprint will go. The techies at The Summit seem to think that even without the activation process the card could possibly transmit my father's memory engrams to anyone who touches one. So the people who don't bother to get activated might be controlled to some degree anyway.

  But trust me, people will be lining up to get the thing turned on. Cruise has gotten corporate sponsors to offer freebies to everyone who gets the card activated. So you can sell your soul for complimentary cell phone minutes or a bunch of free music downloads, the latter giveaway designed to appeal to my generation. Sell your soul, get the new single by your favorite artist. Such a deal!

  And as I turn on the local news, I see it's actually working.

  A live shot from a helicopter shows a long line stretching for blocks in midtown Manhattan.

  A shot from the street reveals that most of the people are young.

  Mom brings her coffee in from the kitchen and sits down next to me. "Uh-oh. Big turnout, huh?"

  "Unfortunately. The power of free stuff trumps all."

  The shot cuts to a blonde female reporter who has a reputation as an airhead. She's inside the activation center with a flurry of activity going on behind her. "You think the card will make her less stupid?"

  "Nah, just stupid and mean."

  The reporter nods as she takes a question from the anchor. "Yes, there's quite a turnout on day one of the ID card activation, as you saw from our shots outside." She walks over to a large leather chair that is currently occupied by a grungy twenty-something who looks as though bathing is not on his to-do list. "Here's how it works. You take a seat and put one thumb on the card, and the other on this scanning pad, which is connected to the master registry computer. Then a technician activates the card and you're in the system. It's very simple and painless."

  "Yeah, you're in the system, all right," says Mom.

  "The whole thing takes about a minute," says the reporter. She turns to the guy in the chair. "So what brought you out this morning?"

  He nods at his iPod. "Free tunes."

  "Do you feel anything?"

  He shakes his head. "Nah, it's no different than when I got fingerprinted after my last arrest. I figured they already had me on file, so what the hell. They already know where to find me."

  The computer beeps. The technician pulls the card from the machine and hands it to the guy. "You're all set," he says.

  Mom fires the remote at the television and turns down the sound. "And now we wait."

  "How long do you think it'll take to have an effect?"

  She shrugs. "No way of knowing. But it will be obvious when we see it."

  The guy gets out of the chair, smiles for the camera and puts his headphones back on.

  His left eye twitches and he starts to snap his fingers.

  "And there it is," says Mom.

  With Project Babylon underway I figure there's no time to waste in taking Carrielle's advice. I need to find out how to amplify the powers of my friends and how much I can affect them.

  Ryan sneaked through the back yard to get into my house and has joined Jake in our living room seated facing the front window. I'm meeting Roxanne later to work with her powers since that will be crucial to taking on Cruise, but for now we're going to test the guys.

  "Who wants to go first?" I ask.

  Jake raises his hand. "I've been waiting all day for this. Let's rock."

  "Okay." I crouch down and look through our living room window down the street. A full city block away I see the familiar pair of sneakers hanging over a power line. The damn things have been there for a year, and annoy the hell out of me since this is such a nice neighborhood. "See the sneakers?" I ask, pointing at them.

  "Yeah. No way can I get those. Too far away."

  "Alas, your human set of jumper cables is right here." I take his hand and focus on sending energy into his body. "Get the damn things off the power line."

  Jake points at them with his free hand and narrows his eyes. His face tightens.

  The sneakers begin to sway back and forth.

  "Need a little more juice," says Jake.

  I focus harder and the sneakers suddenly fly off the line and land on the ground. I jump up and down and clap. "You did it!"

  "We did it," says Jake. "Damn, I can't believe I could hit something that far away."

  "Try something farther," says Ryan. "And harder."

  Jake looks out the window and points. "Old man Ferguson's Mercedes in the driveway."

  I see the gleaming red sedan a block and a half away. "What, you gonna drive it?"

  "Nah, just set off the alarm. The old guy always yells at you if you even get within breathing distance of that car. He's like Clint Eastwood telling kids to get off his lawn. Let's freak him out. I'll need enough to give the car a good shove."

  "This is beginning to sound like the old Jake," says Ryan.

  "What can I say, I still love a good practical joke," he says, with that familiar sinister smile we knew before Roxanne tamed him. Though it did make a brief return in my Modern Lit class. "If this Mercedes is rockin' don't come knockin'."

  I go through the routine, giving him my power. He points, focuses, and the car begins to sway like two teenagers are in the back seat. An ear-piercing alarm goes off, bringing the owner out in a flash. He frantically looks for the culprit who isn't there. We share a good laugh as the guy waves a baseball bat in the air, yells "Damn kids!", gives up and goes back inside.

  "That was hilarious!" I say.

  "How are you feeling?" asks Ryan.

  "Fine," I say. "But that wasn't anything critical."

  "Let's get him again," says Jake.

  "Later," I say. "Ryan's turn." I see a couple walking down the street, moving away from us, perhaps half a block away, and point at them. "Read their minds."

  "I think they are seriously out of my range, Sparks."

  "Maybe not." I stand behind him, put my hands on his shoulders and send energy into his body. Ryan closes his eyes. I keep sending him energy for a minute, then he opens his eyes whi
ch are filled with wonder.

  "Wow."

  "You got something?" asks Jake.

  "I got everything! I've never gone that far into someone's head before. And I got both of them."

  Roxanne welcomes the client, a short, pudgy middle-aged screenwriter named Douglas. He has thick salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match.

  But the best way to describe his look is desperate.

  His deep-set dark eyes are filled with defeat, his shoulders slumped. He reminds me of the commuting undead you see at Grand Central waiting for the train home.

  Roxanne leads him to the couch where I'm waiting. "Douglas, this is Jillian, my best friend."

  "Hello," he says, without much emotion, as he extends his hand.

  "Hi, Douglas." His handshake is weak, without life.

  "Jillian will be taking notes on our session today," says Rox, handing me a clipboard for effect.

  "Sure," says Douglas, who sits on the couch.

  Roxanne sits opposite him. "So what can I do for you today?"

  "Well, as I told you on the phone, I'm a screenwriter and I haven't had a sale for almost ten years, since Moonwalk."

  My eyes widen. "You wrote Moonwalk? I love that movie! And that plot twist at the end…I never saw it coming!"

  He forces a smile. "Thank you, you're very kind. Anyway, I haven't been able to come up with a decent plot since. And if I don't write something marketable soon, I fear my agent will drop me. And without an agent, I have no access to getting my work to Hollywood, so my career would effectively be over."

  Roxanne nods and pats his hand. "I understand. You need a kick-ass plot."

  "Yes," he says. "Something that will get me back on the A-list again. Sydney Jensen told me you did wonders for her career. That you inspired her to write Breakthrough Day."

  "That's nice to hear. I like working with Syd. But the talent part is all hers. All I do is inspire."