Part 8

What has already been presented explains a lot. I’ll go into detail later on that, but where I want to start is at the trial, because the trial, and the efforts of our attorney, Mr. Douglas Baldwin, who is my hero, are the reason the public is able to see this at all.

I want to start there, but I can’t. That’s because you need to know more details than the court documents provide, and about what happened after we escaped from Cheyenne Mountain.

I’ll start way back, with when we were still at St. [redacted] and I first became aware that poor, little Bobby had something special about him. I say “poor” little Bobby because I knew he was an orphan, and that he was confined, more or less, to the convent. I didn’t know why he was confined, only that he was. He wasn’t kept away from the clients, though, and he seemed completely normal.

Like a person can go off the edge of the road and overcorrect, getting into trouble, I had done something of the same thing. I’d been raised in the church by my mother and wanted nothing to do with my father. My older brother had joined the Army to get away from him. Following in his footsteps, I joined, and because he was airborne, I got my wings, too. The competition was brutal, but only because I was a female and the guys thought they were tougher, stronger, and just better than us ladies. What they thought we were good for was providing sex, plain and simple.

So I set out to prove I was better than they were. That’s how I ended up in special forces, and later Delta Force. It’s actually not called Delta Force anymore. They changed the name. Now it’s part of the Combat Applications Group (CAG) and is now officially known as Army Compartmented Elements (ACE). Most people know it as Delta Force, though, so that’s the terminology I’ll use.

I was good, and I did my job, but it took a toll on my spirit. I understood the need to kill, but that didn’t make it any easier to do. And, after a while, I didn’t like how it was so easy for me to take a life. That was complicated. I knew there were people who needed to be dead. But shooting a twelve-year-old girl because she might be wearing a vest and wouldn’t stop walking toward me killed part of my soul when I took her life. She wasn’t wearing a vest, as it turned out.

So I overcorrected and decided to become the opposite of a patriotic assassin.

That’s not fair. Most of the time they were shooting at us, too, or would have if they’d known we were there.

Anyway, St [redacted] took me in and tried to teach me how to calm my soul. I was already patient. I once lay in a hide for three days, waiting for a particular bomb maker to arrive at a building we knew he used. So the sitting and thinking part was already there.

The problem was that all I could think about were the people, including kids, who were the inevitable side effect of combat operations. I grieved for them all, but the ones who I caused were the ones who haunted me. I couldn’t get away from the torment of guilt, no matter what Mother Superior Mary tried to do to teach me.

I went through a whole year of that before, one day, I felt the guilt just fade away. It was as if the guilt was water drops, and the sun made them evaporate, except it happened faster than sunlight would dry a swimmer.

I thought it was God, answering my prayers. Maybe he did, and just used a “hug” from Bobby Wilson to do it.

The problem with the concept of God’s grace is that even after the priest says you are forgiven, sometimes you don’t feel worthy of that forgiveness. And while the pain of guilt had vanished, the memories of what caused that guilt had not.

So the guilt came back. It wasn’t as bad as before, but it returned.

Then Bobby “hugged” me again. And this time, it was as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on me in a sauna. I was at prayers, kneeling, and it was an incredibly physical, intimate feeling. Somehow, I knew God wasn’t involved. I was wrong about that, because he was involved, when he made it possible for Professor Noel Wilson to discover the things he discovered, and apply them to his son. I’ll talk about that in detail later. It would get confusing to stray from the current path.

That was when I learned, though, that Bobby Wilson was special. He was so special, in fact, that I knew his abilities had to be both controlled and kept completely secret from those who would “study” him. You might think research is funded by philanthropists, and people for whom knowledge is its own reward, but trust me, that’s a crock. Anybody who gives money to a researcher wants to see a return on his investment. That might not apply to the individual contributor, but corporate donors expect financial returns. In the case of the government, which uses the taxpayer’s money to fund research, they want something, too. Sometimes it’s something to generate votes. More often, at least when certain parts of the government are involved, it’s to create newer, better, more powerful weapons. I suppose, conversely, it could be to find a way to defend against somebody else’s newer, better and more powerful weapons.

Even back then, after only walking and talking with him for a couple of hours, I knew everybody would want to make Bobby Wilson into a weapon. And if they couldn’t ... they’d kill him. Because he could be a weapon.

As you already know, things were taken out of my hands when Roger Jacobson decided to kill his wife at the shelter where she should have been safe from him.

It was because I had gotten to know Bobby better that I suspected he was involved. When I saw the autopsy report (and no, I still won’t tell anyone how I got access to it. I was in SF. Use your imagination) my suspicions increased. And Bobby trusted me enough to come to me voluntarily and tell me what he’d done. I wanted to hug him, both in the way he had “hugged” me, and physically, because I knew what kind of horror he had prevented. Of course I don’t have his abilities, so a physical hug was all I could give him.

And, possibly, I could give him time to learn how to control his abilities so he could remain under the radar and stay free, in the land of the free.

So I explained things to Mother Superior Mary, who told me she had the key to a security deposit box in a bank in [redacted], but that she wasn’t allowed to give it to Bobby until his 21st birthday. She said the box had been opened in his name, to prevent anyone else from getting access to the contents and that what was in the deposit box might explain things, but that was all she knew. At the reading of Noel Wilson’s will, a bishop in the Catholic church was present. That didn’t seem odd. Lots of people leave a bequest to the church. The Bishop was given all of Noel’s worldly wealth, but along with it came a key and a little boy. While the church might have run orphanages in the past, those were a thing of the past. The will was specific, though. How Noel Wilson knew of Mother Superior Mary is still a mystery, but he did. Or at least he knew of St [redacted] and the shelter, there.

Mother Mary agreed that it was time for Bobby to see a bit of the world. And she told me I had unique abilities and experience which could be used to Bobby’s benefit. I later figured out she thought I was better suited for something other than becoming a nun. She gave me the best hug I ever had, including Bobby’s mental ones, and I took Bobby Wilson on the run.

Mother Superior Mary had many friends who could help us hide Bobby and support us as well. If not for bad luck, we might have evaded capture for a lot longer than we did. I shouldn’t say bad luck. It was stupidity. I didn’t have any cash on me, one day, when my period started. I used my credit card to buy feminine hygiene products. They had a trace on the card. Ironically, it was being captured that led to Bobby’s talents becoming Bobby’s power. That cell in Cheyenne Mountain was like the swamp on the planet Dagobah, in the movie The Empire Strikes Back, except there was no Yoda there to train him. What he had was time, lots of time, with nothing to do except think ... and experiment. And practice using his seventh sense.

He experimented on his jailers, and learned some critical things. He also learned new facets to his abilities at a rapid rate. For example, we already knew he could paint the minds of anyone he could see. What he learned was that once he’d seen someone, he could find those minds, even when the owner was out of sight. Eventually he could paint those “apart” minds, too. What he could not do was let his mind range around and find “strangers” who he had never seen or met. That would change one day, but only much later.

It was because they captured him and put him in solitary confinement (which they thought would protect them from him) that his abilities were honed to the point where he and I could simply walk out of one of the most secure facilities in the world.

Of course I didn’t know any of this. They kept us strictly apart and I didn’t see him for almost three months. I had no clue our cells were only a hundred feet apart. He later said he could always feel me, and knew I was okay, but couldn’t figure out a way to “send” me anything from his mind.

Then, one night, I was asleep in my “room”, as my interrogators like to call it, when the guard opened the door and Bobby came in. He told me to get dressed and not to ask him any questions, because he had to concentrate to be able to get us out of wherever we were. I was pretty sure we were underground, and suspected it was Cheyenne Mountain, because of the Air Force uniforms I’d seen on a few personnel. When I saw the size of the facility as we left (it took us an entire hour to get to the front door of the place) I was staggered. I, too, had been kept alone, except when I was being questioned. The interrogators were good, but I’d been trained to resist even the best. I basically said I had nothing to say, until they got tired of messing with me. I turned down a lot of “perks” in the process. Like my freedom. I didn’t believe them, though. They knew Bobby had done something to Jacobson, but not how.

How did they know? Sister Anne was on duty at the shelter that day and, when questioned, said she saw Bobby point at Jacobson while he was terrorizing the shelter and shout “Stop!” Jacobson stopped, rather spectacularly, and Sister Anne was used to being honest about things and thought she was helping by telling the detectives about this.

Apparently the same people who evaluate “Nonstandard or atypical anomalies” (read: UFO reports, between the lines) took a look at this situation. They decided it needed looking into, and that it was in the interests of national security that it be looked into quickly and thoroughly. So, as we had expected, the hunt was on.

I had been locked up and kept separate from him for almost three months by this time, based on the Patriot Act. Government agents found us in California when I used that credit card and we were separated immediately. I was lucky to have Special Forces training, because that much solitary will usually drive an untrained person insane. For Bobby, it was like a constant lab, where he could try things and learn things and develop his powers.

So I hadn’t seen him and had no idea he’d used all the solitude and “free time” he had to work on his control. He could see the colors of all the people he interacted with, of course. He said most of them were afraid when he saw them. He started working on the guards, because he was around them so much. He painted them until they were no longer afraid of him. Then he started experimenting with them, to see what he could make happen.

He couldn’t control them, such as making their bodies do something, but he could convince them that a certain action was okay. Such as leaving the cell door unlocked. One of his jailers was a man named George, and George was the first to ‘forget’ to lock the cell after he brought Bobby his lunch one day. When a different man, a guy named Art, checked the door later, Bobby tried painting his mind with the color of agreement. That didn’t work, because Bobby wasn’t sure what color “agreement” was, and Art reported on the radio that the cell door was unlocked.

That turned out to be a breakthrough, because in a panic, Bobby sent his senses into Art’s brain, where he discovered the source of the colors he could see. It turns out that each part of the brain is responsible for a color. Bobby said it was like the page of colors I’d shown him in the book, except each color was overlaid in three dimensions through the brain. The millions of parts of the brain create the millions of colors Bobby can see.

It took him two weeks of exploring the brains of his guards before he was able to affect the actual brain to enhance some colors and suppress others.

Along the way, he found that, while each brain he examined had most of the colors, they weren’t always in the same place in each brain. Further, some brains were missing some colors. That makes sense, in retrospect, because sociopaths, psychopaths, and other people with mental illnesses think differently than normal people, so their brains should “look” different to someone with Bobby’s abilities.

He worked on identifying “worry”, “awareness something is wrong” and “desire to do one’s duty.”

Then he worked on suppressing those colors, while enhancing colors of “interest in X” where X is football, or bowling, and other things he overheard the guards talking about outside his cell.

That’s how he got us out of Cheyenne Mountain. He used “The Force” to muddle the minds of everyone he came into contact with as he came to get me, and then led me out. Then he did the same thing to find out where the entrance was, and get us there. It was so much like what George Lucas dreamed up for Star Wars that I sometimes think Mr. Lucas knew somebody else who was like Bobby, only naturally so, instead of having been made that way. I’ll go out of sequence here and just state that the reason Bobby could do what he could do was because of what his father did during an experiment in his lab back in [redacted]. That’s going to take some time to explain, though, so I’ll wait to do that until we get to that part chronologically. My point is, Bobby wasn’t the way he was because nature made him that way. It was his father who made him that way.

It almost fell apart when we got outside, because we were up on this huge mountain, outside Colorado Springs, wearing only jump suits, and with no car or plan about where to go.

Luckily, it was zero dark-thirty in the morning, and there weren’t many people around. He talked to a Security Policeman sitting in a HMMWV, who happily drove us down the road into town. Then we found a cab. Bobby was reeling by then. I’m sure the cabbie thought he was drunk. I told him to take us to a homeless shelter and Bobby was able to enhance feelings of happiness in the cabbie’s mind enough that when he dropped us off at The Springs Rescue Mission on Las Vegas street he said the fare was on him.

To read this story you need a Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In or Register (Why register?)

Support the author's future writing by purchasing this book from Bookapy

The Seventh Sense

Lubrican

$4.50