Unforeseen Dives – 4 – Reports

<< 3 – Dives

The imagery was so raw that it hit me like an emotional uppercut. I was stunned. I hurt. I plummeted. My heart bled tears as it fractured against the horde of agonies. I shattered.
“Cassidy,” my partner shrieked telepathically. Lost as I was, I did not even recognize my name. I was blinded with the New Yorkers’ impending pain and drifting lifelessly in the Ocean.
I gathered a part of my seared self when I felt the strong pull at my core. My lifeline was reeling me in, slowly but surely steering me away from the suffering and back to reality.
“No,” I beamed to Rebecca and the ascension stopped. I dreaded the darkness around me. The things that went bump in this night weren’t childish nightmares. They were the result of events set in motion and I could only stop it by getting at the bottom of the pit.
I needed to soak in this potential future some more, no matter the emotional precipices it might open. Becky didn’t agree. She thought I was playing wounded. I forced myself whole and steady. She wasn’t convinced but something smelled and I had to find out what. I had a hunch. Rebecca learned to trust these a long time ago.
As my mental scuba gear, she huffed and puffed, and finally breathed security and confidence in me. Becky had faced death and destruction in the army. Her strength would help me through this.
I wordlessly thanked her and dived back to the point where my personality almost vanished. I was the criminal again, or at least as close as anyone could be.
The events streamed in, the ones I had already seen and the ones I wanted to pull away from. I strained against the sways of the mayhem. I knew something had ticked off my sixth sense. What wasn’t right?
As I thought a few more lines along the culprit’s mind, I figured it out. He was thinking in Arabic but he wasn’t thinking right. Not just “crazy” wrong either, he screwed the syntax and used the some words wrong every now and then.
“Arabic, second language,” I thought in the ethereal direction of Rebecca.
“That’s odd.”
Odd, indeed. Why would any one force himself to think days in and days out in a language he does not really master?
My partner and I wrestled with the question and since our minds were connected, our light bulbs went on at the same time.
“He’s been schooled,” we choired. And that truth smote us.

I gulped my soup from the cup and its nutritious warmth spread in me. I had skipped lunch while I was under and this middle of the afternoon snack was more than necessary. Not only did my body request it, it gave me something to justify my silences. An escape when I nearly lost my cool.
Rebecca and I sat in the FBI liaison’s office, along with our boss. Some FBI agents virtually sat with us, thanks to video conference. Apparently, our report needed clarification and since the bomb detonates tomorrow, the pressure ran high and I stood smack in its jaws. Authority figures don’t bother me. But these people don’t have a clue how I work and they insulted me without even noticing… or caring.
“I can’t believe you are unable to flesh it out,” one of the FBI images exhaled with every nuance of aggravation. “You’re information is useless. It’s like looking for a four-leaf clover in a haystack.” Well, isn’t that a hell of a way to open a discussion?
I took a sip in my cup and shut my eyes a second. After the emotional pain, this conversation was quite literally killing me. I understood why they were upset. I was upset too! A lot of lives hang in the balance and the information I gathered risking my mental health could not stop it from swinging the wrong way.
“Special agent Grey, we understand your frustration.” My boss’ soft British accent sounded calm and in control. I knew how boiling he was inside. “Sometimes, we are able to get a clear picture of the criminal and sometimes, we can’t. My agents are doing their best and insulting them because of the stress we are all under is not going to help.” Yep, he was pissed alright. No one was allowed to pick on his agents.
“May be agent Parker can explain that report to us, then.” That was Aaron, the FBI liaison, where “liaison” actually means “king of our office” since the FBI is our parent agency. I had to open my eyes and speak.
“The culprit is a 5 foot 2 to 5 foot 5, muscular female in her thirties. She speaks Arabic almost fluently and has acquired knowledge of the Ocean’s inner working.” My voice sounded as flat as a French crepe. My stomach growled.
“Your initial report identified the terrorist as male. Why the change of heart?” Aaron again. Change of heart, my ass!
“My partner and I realized the criminal was conditioning herself to skew her thought to complicate a psychic investigation. We decided to look over the evidence. Based on the lack of pilosity on the back lower-half of the body, we extrapolated sex.”
“What about the height?”
“Based on the estimated distance between the shower head and the sightline.”
“All that and you’re unable to come up with a face?” I really began to resent that agent Grey.
“With all due respect sir, we are not third-party observers. If she doesn’t stare at herself in a reflective surface, I can’t get a face.”
“Can’t you get it from the victim,” Aaron cut in. Yeah… right… Allow me to calculate the odds of a revelation. Account for the dying brains of a thousand people to sort through. Weigh that with the actual chances a victim figuring out an attack is coming beforehand and spotting the perpetrator. Then, add a generous quantity of the delusional hope that the attacker stands at the crime scene to blow herself up. Which I knew she doesn’t, by the way, because she takes a shower after the catastrophe.
“That would be a psychic haystack, sir.”

5 – Worries >>