Brainrush Page 4

  A murmur rustled through the crowd. Battista pointed casually at the journalist who had asked the question. “What if you could snap your fingers and unlock these abilities within yourself?”

  The journalist didn’t reply, but one of the college students yelled, “I’ve got midterms next week. Sign me up!”

  Several others in the crowd nodded their heads. Someone asked, “Dr. Battista, are these talents limited to mental abilities?”

  “Actually, in some cases they translate into physical abilities, like the incredible control exhibited by Eastern yogis and Tibetan monks over their autonomic nervous systems. They can, for example, slow their heart rates to almost nil or sit in freezing weather with no clothing and actually dry wet towels on their backs with the intense heat generated within their bodies purely by mental concentration. This is called Tahumo.

  “All of these examples are real and thoroughly documented. If such demonstrable feats of extraordinary mental, artistic, and physical functioning exist in even a small group of people, it indicates that the human brain certainly has capacities that are not tapped by the majority.” Several heads in the audience nodded. Battista continued. “There is mounting evidence that these abilities exist in each of us. And if these abilities can be awakened by accident or trauma, they can most certainly be awakened by science.”

  His eyes rested for a moment on an attractive woman in the front row of the makeshift auditorium. Wearing a radiant crown of wavy dark hair, she smiled up at him, her innocence enhanced by her confident and free-spirited nature. She wore a shin-length, white silk dress that was belted to reveal her small waist.

  He looked back at the crowd. “Before I turn you over to the charming and capable hands of our school’s director, Dr. Francesca Fellini, I would like to leave you with one final thought.”

  He paused for effect.

  “Imagine a world where everyone has such abilities and talent. A world that is fueled by a population of high-level thinkers and creators, focused on building a society around art, music, literature, and science rather than materialism and growth for its own sake. A world of peace, not violence. Here at the institute, we plan to turn that vision into a reality.”

  He bowed his head and stepped away from the lectern. The small crowd applauded.

  A short while later, Battista and Carlo gazed down on the group from the second-floor balcony overlooking the courtyard. Battista admired Francesca as she abandoned the podium, gathering the guests around her like a friendly tour guide at a museum. She answered questions about the school and described the considerable progress they had made with many of the children.

  Francesca had worked with him for the past five years as a key member of the team here in Venice. She held a PhD in child psychology and had an amazing empathetic gift for working with autistic children. Of course, she knew nothing of the true purpose of their research or of the test subjects on the secure top floor.

  The insidious nature of his master plan appealed immensely to Battista. Deception came easily to him. When he was ten, his father had sent him and his autistic younger brother to live with his mother’s wealthy family in Venice. It had been vastly different from the small village of his birth deep in the Hindu Kush Mountains of Afghanistan. He’d hated it here at first—longed for his friends, the fresh air, and the pride and furor that drove his father and the men of his tribe. But he adapted. His father demanded it. Allah demanded it.

  He had excelled at the Italian schools and made new friends of a sort—friends who were never permitted to learn his true identity. In time he settled in and learned to appreciate the comforts of the West, attending the best universities in Europe, earning his PhD by the age of twenty-five.

  Battista lived a life cocooned in a web of lies that became second nature to him.

  So much had happened since then. His mother lost her battle with Alzheimer’s. His only son had been institutionalized ever since a sudden seizure at age twelve had left him with a severe spectrum disorder. His father had been tortured and killed in the American prison in Guantanamo.

  Now at fifty-three years of age, he was back in Venice. The Institute for Advanced Brain Studies and its school for autistic savant children provided the perfect cover for his secret research.

  Battista kept his eyes on Francesca as he spoke to Carlo. “As soon as the tour is complete, I want you to bring her to my office. I’m sending her to California to bring back the so-called American super savant.”

  “Do you think he will accept the invitation?”

  Battista gestured toward Francesca below them. “Look at her, Carlo. I can’t imagine a more alluring and capable messenger. If she can’t convince him to come voluntarily, no one can.”

  “Si, signore.”

  “Follow her. Take Mineo with you. One way or another, I want the American here by the end of the week. Understood?”

  “Si, signore.”

  “This man, Jake Bronson, is an enigma. A savant overnight, with unbelievable physical speed. He could be the key, Carlo. His brain could be the key to everything.”

  Chapter 6

  Redondo Beach, California

  JAKE PLACED HIS INDEX and second fingers to his temple. He refocused his concentration on the woman sitting two library tables away, her back to him. Everything else blurred. All he saw was the woman. Turn around. Come on. Just turn your head toward me, even a little bit.

  His eyes squinted with the effort. He cleared his mind of all extraneous thoughts, to project this solitary concept into her head, to convince her to imagine a tickle at the back of her neck, to instill the desire, the need, to take a peek over her shoulder. He waited patiently.

  Turn around!

  Nothing.

  Surrounded by tall rows of books, Jake hoped that this visit to the Redondo Beach public library would provide him with some answers to what was going on in his head. It was either conduct the research himself or succumb to one of the hundreds of requests he had received since his antics at Sammy’s hit the Internet. Medical researchers from all over the damn planet wanted to examine and test him. No way. He wasn’t about to spend the rest of his short life as a guinea pig. Besides, his newfound ability to digest and retain 100 percent of whatever he read was too incredible to resist. It seemed as though he was able to read faster and faster with each new page. The more he read, the more he wanted to learn. He was ravenous for information, his mind like a dry sponge, easily absorbing each fact-filled drop.

  After finding nothing pertinent in his research on MRI accidents, he had focused on enhanced brain function, autistic savants, photographic memory, mental calculation, artistic genius—anything that might provide a clue as to his expanding mental capabilities. He came across story after story of people who had suddenly developed unusual mental abilities after various accidents.

  However, in each of the cases, there seemed to be a correlating negative impact after the accident or injury. Unusual psychological or physical changes occurred. Many of the subjects exhibited an inability to deal with people socially or a loss of physical function or language, such as in a stroke victim.

  This definitely wasn’t the case with him. Something had happened to his brain during the MRI incident, but so far the effects all appeared to be positive. There was no question that he had developed a photographic memory as well as an amazing ability to do mental calculations. And then there was that incident at the bar. Even he couldn’t believe how fast he had moved. He had no idea how he did that.

  The camera had caught it all. And that changed his life—what was left of it—overnight. They knew his name at the bar, and his phone number was unlisted. He was bombarded with phone calls. At first it was just friends and family. But later, for every one person he knew who called, there were dozens that he didn’t—a movie producer who wanted to talk with his agent, a talent scout for the Dodgers, a ton of medical researchers from all over the world, and a slew of calls from people who just wanted to know how he did it. When several
people actually showed up at the door to his home, it got to be too much. He grabbed his laptop and hightailed it to the library. Other than a break to get some sleep on Marshall’s couch last night, he’d been here ever since.

  Having read everything available regarding his new capacities, he turned to books on paranormal abilities.

  The one he was reading spoke of telepathy as though it were fact, explaining that it was inherent in everyone, an ability that merely had to be honed with the proper guidance. One recent analytical report, completed by the University of California at Davis and titled “An Assessment of the Evidence for Psychic Functioning,” examined over two decades of research conducted on behalf of the US government by the Stanford Research Institute. The report concluded, “Psychic functioning has been well established.”

  Jake decided to try sending his thoughts again, this time focusing his attention on a young mother perusing a book a couple of aisles away. A five- or six-month-old baby was fast asleep in a stroller beside her.

  Jake settled himself in his chair and placed his arms on the table in front of him.

  Clear the mind, focus on the woman, and close your eyes this time. Don’t stare at her. Imagine being in her head, see the book she’s reading, sense the comfort of her child being safe beside her. Make her feel a slight tingle at the back of her neck, like a feather gently brushing her skin, the sensation growing, it’s starting to itch…

  Now, turn your head!

  Jake snapped his eyes open at the sound of a piercing scream from the baby. The startled young mother quickly picked the baby up and held her to her chest, gently patting her back as she rocked from side to side, murmuring softly to comfort her.

  Jake pondered the coincidental timing of the baby’s scream with his mental command. He soaked in the tender scene and was warmed by the depth of love the mother felt for her child.

  Still screaming, the little baby’s head turned to the side. Jake could see her face now, all squinched up and red, tiny wrinkles trembling between her faint eyebrows, tears tracing the outline of her pink cheeks, her walnut-sized fists clenched and shaking against her mother’s shoulder.

  With a sense of genuine concern for the sweet child, Jake looked back at those glistening eyes and smiled at her, wrapping her in a protective embrace in his mind. The baby stilled, her crying stopped, and her big blue eyes opened wide and stared at Jake. Her small mouth formed a perfect O of surprise. Ever so slowly, a smile spread across her face.

  The vibration of Jake’s cell phone broke the spell. He checked the screen. Marshall. As he flipped it open, he looked back to see the mother walking toward the exit, pushing the empty stroller ahead of her, the baby quiet in her arms. There had been a connection there. He was certain of it.

  “Marsh, what’s up?”

  “Hey, man, I’m glad you picked up.”

  Jake heard tightness in his friend’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, sort of. It’s kind of a good-news, bad-news thing.”

  Jake sighed. More bad news? “All right, lay it on me.”

  “So, I’m over at Sammy’s, and Lacey told me there was a woman here snooping around, asking questions about you.”

  “Par for the course these days. What makes this one so special? She want me for the cover of Men’s Health, or what?”

  “Yeah, you wish. Actually, she’s a psychologist doing some sort of brain research. I guess she came all the way out here from Venice, Italy, to talk to you.”

  “Great. Another doctor. I won’t see her. End of story.”

  “I know, Jake, I know. But here’s the bad news. Lacey told her where you are. The woman’s on her way to the library now.”

  Jake couldn’t believe it. “Son of a bitch, man. You’ve got to be kidding me. What was Lacey thinking?”

  “You know Lacey. She was just being nice and it kind of popped out. I’m with her now.”

  Lacey’s voice chimed in behind Marshall’s. “Jake, I’m so sorry!”

  Jake scanned the sidewalks outside the library to see if anyone was approaching. “I’ll deal with it. Tell Lacey no worries. I’ll meet this woman, but I’m going to make it short and sweet. After that, I’ll stick it out here until the library closes and then I’ll risk going home to crash.”

  “Got it. But my couch is still available if you need it.” Marshall paused before adding, “Ah, how’s the research going?”

  He really wants to know about my health, Jake thought, not the research. This was Marshall’s way of honoring his request to stop asking how he was feeling and to keep things light and easy between them. That’s exactly what Jake needed right now, and he appreciated his friend’s effort. “I’m having a ball. I’m learning a ton and I’ve barely started. Wish I had this brain when I was in school.”

  “Listen, man. I just want you to know that no matter what happens—and I mean anything—Tony and I will be there for you. We’ve got your back. You got that?”

  So much for light and easy.

  “I do, Marsh. And thanks. I mean it. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Dude, wait!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you want to hear the good news?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot. So what is it?”

  “This doc that’s coming over to see you? Well, according to Lacey, she’s the spitting image of Penelope Cruz. Enjoy!” He hung up.

  Interesting. Jake let his mind wander for a moment. He’d had a crush on Penelope ever since she played Sofia in Vanilla Sky.

  If only things were different.

  But they weren’t.

  Sorting through his memory of the many messages he’d received on his voice mail over the past two days, he recalled two of them were from Dr. Francesca Fellini from the Institute for Advanced Brain Studies in Venice, Italy. She claimed to have critical information about his condition and had asked if he would accept an invitation to visit the institute, all expenses paid, first-class tickets, blah, blah, blah. If only.

  He opened a search window on his laptop. He wanted to learn a bit about the institute before she arrived. The more he knew, the sooner he would be able to get rid of her.

  ***

  It had been a long flight—Venezia to Roma and finally Los Angeles. With the layover, delays, and US immigration, the trip had taken over seventeen hours.

  Francesca was tired, anxious, and irritated. Why had Signor Battista been so insistent that she make this trip? What was it about the man she was going to meet that made him so special? Sure, she had seen the replay of the broadcast as well, but was he really that different from so many others they had tested? The broadcast was barely two minutes of video, and from that Signor Battista arrived at the irrefutable conclusion that this American barhopper was the golden key to their research? Because he caught a flying beer mug? Yes, it had seemed rather spectacular. Perhaps a bit too much so. After all, Hollywood was only a forty-minute drive from here, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine that the video had more than a little creative editing.

  And she was supposed to convince this Mr. Bronson to visit Venice, just like that? She should be back with her students, continuing to help the latest arrival—an eight-year-old autistic boy from the Ukraine with an extremely high IQ—not running this fool’s errand in crazy California.

  Pushing open the glass door, she removed her sunglasses and like a general reviewing the battlefield, scanned the interior landscape of the small library.

  She spotted him at a table in the corner, huddled over a laptop, a dozen or more books creating a fortress around him. She studied him for a moment, tried to get a sense of him, of his nature.

  Francesca had always been able to do that with people, even when she was a child. Without speaking, without questioning, without touching, she was able to feel someone’s prominent emotions: fear, hope, sadness, anger, love—whatever was beneath the surface.

  Before she learned that she was different, she couldn’t understand why some of her frien
ds couldn’t see the obvious evil or ill intentions of some of the other kids in the village, or of the old man who lived by the river, who offered them warm bread with sugared butter. They laughed at her when she warned them. She begged them to stay away from him. After the old man did those terrible things to her classmate, Paolo, the police took him away. The old man never returned. Her friends paid closer attention to her warnings after that, though most of them also drifted away from her in time, awkward about being around someone who so easily sensed their innermost feelings. Some of the mean kids at school called her a witch.

  Now that she was older, she could control her empathic gift, appreciate the advantages it offered. It was an invaluable tool in her work with the children at the institute, allowing her to connect with them in unique ways, without words getting in the way.

  This American, he seemed normal enough, engrossed as he was by the computer screen, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. Rather good-looking in a casual sort of way, with disheveled hair that spilled over his forehead, faded jeans, and the sleeves of a white jersey pushed up to reveal well-muscled, tan forearms.

  He looked up, and his green eyes locked on hers, as if measuring her. His gaze was unusual. It seemed to focus on who she was rather than what she looked like. She appreciated that, but for some reason, she found it a little unnerving. She braced herself and opened her senses to his emotions.

  On the surface there was anger and frustration, ill portents for the conversation she needed to have with him. She dug deeper to cut through those superficial feelings. Her breath caught in her throat. This man was drowning in a well of hopelessness. There was an emptiness there that was overwhelming. It tugged at her heart.

  And there was more—a uniqueness about him she couldn’t define.

  Francesca blinked and looked away, quickly raising a barrier around her gift.

  The attraction she felt toward him was primal. It frightened her.

  Exhaling slowly, she steeled herself, hoping that the flush she felt was not obvious. Her blush always pinked her chest before reaching her cheeks, and she was suddenly very conscious of the fact that the V-neck of the blouse she wore under her belted jacket was cut fairly low. She tilted her head forward slightly and gave it a barely perceptible shake, hoping the bottom waves of her long hair would provide some cover. The manicured fingers of her left hand went up impulsively to touch the tiny gold cross dangling from her necklace, causing a clutch of thin silver bracelets to slide from her wrist to her forearm in a shimmering tangle.