Authors: Peter Flannery
‘…that he has sinned through his
own faults, in his thoughts and in his words, in what he has done, and in what
he has failed to do…’
The psychiatrist struck with all
the force of desperation. His fist made solid contact with his captor’s jaw,
snatching the acolyte’s unsuspecting head to one side. The psychiatrist
swivelled his bound feet and struck again, another good blow striking home. He
aimed a third, feeling the hope well up in his naked chest but his hope was
crushed, as were his fingers, by the massive hand that closed around his fist.
He tried to strike with his other hand but the acolyte caught hold of his wrist
and drew himself up to his full, intimidating height. The psychiatrist looked
up into eyes that were as black and expressionless as coal. He was paralysed by
the utter darkness of the man’s gaze.
For a terrible moment the acolyte
looked down upon the psychiatrist with his dead, black eyes. Then with savage
speed he smashed his head down into the psychiatrist’s face. The psychiatrist
collapsed under the brutal attack as his nose and the orbit of his left eye
were broken. The acolyte dragged the semi-conscious man across the floor to the
foot of the wall beneath the inverted crucifix. Then he stepped back and
disappeared through the small postern door.
Now, struggling to breathe
through the gag and his broken nose, the psychiatrist began to cry, the tears
seeping out from his badly swollen eye. With his good eye he looked around to
see where his tormentor had gone, praying that he would not return.
His prayers went unanswered.
The acolyte returned, and what he
carried in his hands made the psychiatrist recoil in horror. In his right hand
the acolyte carried a large black hammer; in his left a fistful of long, thick
nails. Pathetically the psychiatrist tried to shuffle away but the acolyte
caught hold of him and pushed him to the floor. He knelt on his wrist and put one
large nail in the centre of his palm.
The psychiatrist let out a
stifled cry, trying in vain to pull his arm free. With his free arm he battered
ineffectually at the acolyte’s head and shoulders, then he screamed as the
hammer came down and the nail punched through his hand giving a muted ring as
it struck the hard paving stones beneath. The psychiatrist began to lose
consciousness as the acolyte moved to his other hand. He gave a tortured moan
as the hammer fell a second time.
The acolyte grabbed the psychiatrist’s
right arm and pulled him up until his hand was level with the crosspiece of the
large wooden crucifix. With one huge hand he held it steady while, with the
other, he drove the nail deep into the thick piece of solid oak. He repeated
the procedure with the psychiatrist’s left hand and stepped back.
The psychiatrist was now
unconscious once more. Hanging limply from the inverted crucifix his body
formed a grotesque mirror to the depiction of Christ that hung on the wall
above him.
Lucifer looked at the heretic,
the imagery not going unnoticed. He put down the hammer and returned to his
place before the altar. Then he bowed his head and continued with the service
that had been so inexcusably interrupted.
*
‘I thought I told you to lock the
door,’ said Steve as he re-entered the apartment carrying a bag of food that he
had picked up from a nearby store.
He shut the door and looked round
the room. Seeing no sign of Psimon he started for the bedroom, then he stopped
in his tracks, the brown paper bag falling from his grasp.
‘Oh shit!’ cursed Steve as he
caught sight of Psimon.
Psimon was leaning unnaturally
against the wall, head bowed, arms stretched out wide, the backs of his hands
pressed flat against the wall. And in the centre of each hand a blood-black
bruise that looked fresh and intensely painful.
‘Psimon,’ said Steve coming to
kneel before him. ‘Psimon, can you hear me?’
Steve reached up to help Psimon
into a more comfortable position. His legs were not even straight beneath him
and Steve could not see how he was holding himself up. He put his hands under
Psimon’s armpits and began to take his weight.
As Psimon’s hands came away from
the wall he drew a rasping breath and collapsed into Steve’s embrace.
‘It’s okay,’ said Steve lowering
him gently to the floor.
Psimon began to sob.
‘Psimon, it’s okay. I’ve got you
now,’ repeated Steve trying to reassure him but Psimon clutched at Steve’s
chest, turning his face up to look at him.
‘Jesus,’ breathed Steve at the
sight of Psimon’s face. He looked as if he had taken a good beating. His nose
and brow were badly bruised; his left eye almost closed with the swelling.
‘He crucified him,’ sobbed
Psimon. ‘Oh, God, Steve… he crucified him…’
‘Who, Psimon?’ he asked. ‘Who
did this to you?’
‘Not me,’ protested Psimon trying
to push away from Steve. ‘Him!’ he said with conviction. ‘
He
crucified
him
!’
Steve felt his blood run cold.
Despite his years of dealing with violence he felt suddenly out of his depth.
Psimon slumped back against the
wall while Steve knelt before him.
‘He’s going to kill me,’ said
Psimon with dreadful certainty.
‘No!’ said Steve reaching out to
gently cup Psimon’s chin. He stared at Psimon, looking directly into the clear
grey depths of his unblemished eye. ‘No, he is not.’
‘Then you must,’ said Psimon.
Steve’s jaw bunched and he closed
his eyes. ‘
Not this again
,’ he thought.
‘But you would,’ pleaded Psimon.
‘If it was the only way to save me from him… you would, wouldn’t you Steve?’
Steve opened his eyes to look at
Psimon once more. He said nothing. He still refused to accept this nonsense
about killing Psimon and yet there was a hardness and unflinching resolution to
his gaze that seemed to offer Psimon some comfort
‘Thank you,’ said Psimon and
finally his breathing began to calm.
‘You can’t,’ said Steve a
half-hour later when he had tended to Psimon’s injuries and they were sitting
together at the breakfast bar.
‘Yes I can,’ said Psimon, putting
down the ice pack and stuffing the last piece of a cinnamon and raisin bagel in
his mouth. He winced as he brushed a few crumbs from the bandages that Steve
had applied to his bruised hands.
‘Just call them. Tell them you’ve
had an accident.’
Steve could not believe how
quickly Psimon had recovered from his earlier state of distress. He also found it
impossible to believe that Psimon’s injuries were the result of something that
had been done to someone else on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. And yet…
‘No,’ said Psimon draining his
can of Pepsi and rising somewhat unsteadily from his stool. ‘We take the
million-dollar challenge in…’ he looked at his watch. ‘…just over half an
hour.’
‘You’re sure?’ pressed Steve.
‘Absolutely,’ insisted Psimon. He
reached for his canvas bag but Steve shouldered it for him.
‘Besides,’ said Psimon with a
glint in his one good eye. ‘I can’t wait to see James Randi’s face when he
signs over that cheque.’
Steve shook his head as they
started for the door. ‘You’ve a wicked streak in you, young man,’ he said.
‘You have no idea,’ replied
Psimon with a smile.
‘How can you smile?’ asked Steve.
‘With all this going on… how do you stay so damned cheerful?’
Psimon stopped in the doorway and
looked back at Steve.
‘Have you ever known someone who
lived with constant pain?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Steve remembering his
mum in the last few years of her life.
‘And did she ever smile?’
Steve closed the door to the
apartment.
‘All the time,’ he said as he
turned the key in the lock. ‘All the time.’
Psimon smiled and nodded gently.
Then together they descended the steps, climbed into their hire car and headed
for the James Randi Educational Foundation, an institution whose very existence
was based on the premise that true paranormal phenomena could not be shown to
exist.
They were about to learn
otherwise.
Chapter 13
‘We should have turned right there,’ said Psimon turning in
his seat to look down Davie Boulevard on which the Randi Foundation was
situated.
‘Chill out,’ said Steve watching
the road ahead of them. ‘We’re just taking a small detour. We’ve plenty of
time.’
There was a note of confident
satisfaction in Steve’s voice that Psimon found pleasing. He settled back in
his seat content to leave his fate in Steve’s hands. He felt no desire to ‘know’
where they were going. He was enjoying the fact that Steve knew what he was
doing. That was enough.
For a few minutes they continued
north up South Andrews Avenue before taking a right and stopping outside a
multi-storey car park. Steve pulled into the side, unbuckled his seat belt and
dug in his pocket for some loose change.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said,
looking at Psimon to make sure he was okay with that.
Psimon gave him a nod of
reassurance and Steve climbed out of the car. He walked quickly towards the
parking lot and disappeared inside. Psimon waited. He saw two cars enter the
lot and one emerge from the exit, the security barrier rising smartly to let it
pass. Then before he knew it the car door opened and Steve swung inside. He
opened a small compartment in the dashboard and tucked a printed card inside.
Then he started the car and checked his mirror.
‘Okay, Uri Geller…’ said Steve,
pulling a neat one-eighty in the middle of the road, ‘…time to do your stuff.’
The foundation was smaller than
Steve had been expecting. He had anticipated something on the scale of a
university or hospital but it turned out to be fairly modest building with
white walls and a terracotta tiled roof. There was a large red sign to the side
of the building…
201 James Randi Educational
Foundation
They were met in the reception
area by a tall man in a red shirt.
‘Psimon?’ ventured the man
glancing down at his watch. ‘You’re right on… Jeez, what happened to you?’ he
exclaimed when he raised his head to look at Psimon properly.
Steve interjected before Psimon
could say a thing.
‘Kids and motorbikes… what can
you say?’ he said with an awkward laugh.
‘Yeah, sure...’ said the man
distractedly. Then to Psimon, ‘Are you okay? Can we get you anything?’
‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ said
Psimon. His smile looked painful and lopsided, his black eye and swollen nose
gave him the appearance of having been recently mugged. He held out one
bandaged hand. ‘It’s Jeff isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Jeff shaking Psimon’s
hand somewhat gingerly. ‘Jeff Wagg. I’m the General Manager here at JREF.’
‘This is Steve Brennus,’ said
Psimon. ‘He’ll be accompanying me for the challenge.’
‘Steve,’ said Jeff turning to
shake Steve’s hand. ‘Welcome to Florida.’ Then turning back to Psimon he said,
‘Are you sure you’re okay? We can always postpone the challenge…’
‘No, I’m fine, really,’ insisted
Psimon. ‘We can go ahead as planned.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Jeff
adjusting his glasses.
Psimon nodded and Jeff finally
allowed himself to be convinced.
‘Well come on in then,’ he said
ushering them into the building.
Psimon and Steve followed Jeff
into a large room lined with well-stocked bookshelves. There was a sign beside
the doorway that read ‘Isaac Asimov Library’. A large glass table dominated the
centre of the room and the far wall featured a brick and tile fireplace
surmounted by what looked like certificates or awards and pictures of people
that Steve did not recognise.
‘Grab a seat,’ said Jeff
indicating a couple of chairs at the near end of the table. ‘Make yourselves at
home.’
Psimon and Steve hovered by the
chairs.
‘Now, can I get you a coffee or
anything?’ asked Jeff.
‘Coffee would be great,’ said
Steve. ‘Thanks.’
Jeff was barely gone a minute
when he returned with a tray carrying a flask of coffee and two cups. In
addition to this he had a clipboard tucked under one arm. He placed the tray on
the table before them.
‘Randi will be here in a few
minutes,’ he said filling the two cups. ‘He’s just finishing up with a call.’
Psimon nodded as Jeff placed a
cup of steaming coffee in front of him.
‘He’s quite keen to meet you,
Psimon,’ continued Jeff. ‘In fact you’ve created quite a bit of interest here.’
‘Oh?’ said Psimon raising his cup
to take a sip.
‘Absolutely,’ said Jeff. ‘This is
the first time that anyone is
actually
going to take the challenge. No
one else has ever got past the preliminary testing stage.’
‘Psimon passed the preliminary
tests?’ asked Steve.
‘Not exactly,’ clarified Jeff.
‘But we were sufficiently impressed to agree to these special conditions.’ Here
he tapped the clipboard that he had placed on the table.
‘Really?’ said Steve giving
Psimon a meaningful look.
‘That’s right,’ said Jeff looking
at Psimon. ‘Even the ‘Amazing James Randi’ couldn’t figure out how you did it.
I think that’s why he’s so keen to sit in on this one.’
Psimon just smiled innocently.
‘Psimon,’ said a voice suddenly
from the doorway.
Psimon and Steve turned as a bald
man with glasses and a bushy, stark white beard entered the room. He walked
with a slightly hunched gait but seemed animated by a youthfulness that belied
his stately years.
‘Mr Randi,’ said Psimon putting
down his coffee and rising from his chair.
‘Please, just Randi’ said Randi
shaking Psimon’s hand gently.
His gaze took in, assimilated and
decided not to comment on Psimon’s injuries with startling swiftness.