Part 18

Editorial comment: Inevitably, Bobby’s world expanded, and the number of people in it did, as well. The story has been told, to this point, in a mixture of court records, journal entries, and the author’s own recollections and observations. To this point the interaction of all the primary characters/people in Bobby’s life (primarily Olivia and Gator) could be told by the author in the first person voice. As others became involved, and knowing (hoping) that this documentary would get written, it was decided to get the information of the additional characters who joined Bobby’s pursuit for happiness and present it as if the author could read minds like Bobby could read brains. This was not the case, of course. All the information that will be presented came from interviews, later on. It simply makes for a better flow in the narrative if one voice can tell the whole story. It can only be hoped that changing voices like this, as the literary people would call it, is not an impediment to the reader’s concentration. We apologize if we were wrong.

Melody Robbins would have agreed with Bobby - that her life was boring. She was forty years old. She was working outside her field of expertise, and was in research, to boot, which meant her pay scale was much lower than a PhD would normally call for. She didn’t have a man in her life, and it didn’t look like that would change. She hadn’t gone shopping for new clothes for a couple of years, and her car was nine years old. Even her work was boring, in her opinion. Stem cell research, at least in her company, was crawling placidly along. They kept doing the same experiments and getting the same results. It could have advanced by leaps and bounds, except the government, paranoid and terrified of controversy, kept making laws and rules that choked it nearly to death.

Of course it had been the same when she was working in her field of expertise, genetic manipulation. The stem cell people wanted to get the body to grow cures. The genetics people wanted to tell the body to cure itself. The public, or at least some segments of the public, wanted to burn them all at the stake as witches. Sick people hated them for not curing anybody.

Melody’s experience, working with Noel Wilson, so long ago, had taught her that manipulating genes made stark differences, and that results came within days or weeks, in terms of affecting some diseases. After he died and she finished her PhD, she’d been part of the team that cracked a blood cancer variety called Chronic Myeloid Leukemia, or CML, for short. Prior to their breakthrough, it had been 100% fatal within months of diagnosis. It was their team that had identified the gene responsible for telling the marrow to produce excess amounts of white blood cells, which eventually displaced the red blood cells. The body literally died of asphyxiation while the victim was actively breathing.

In concert with a pharmaceutical company, a drug was developed that turned that gene off. Almost magically, the body began to recover as the white count was reduced. The cure rate depended on how you defined “cure”. Seventy-three percent of patients lived. Of that seventy-three percent, almost half didn’t need the drug after two years of therapy. They went into full recession. The others just had to keep taking the drug.

Of course that meant that twenty-seven percent of patients did not react to the magic bullet ... and died. To the public, that meant it wasn’t effective. Oncologists knew better, of course, but Oncologists don’t fund ongoing research. The pharmaceutical company put a price of $25.00 per pill on it. Since you had to take two of those a day, that meant it cost you $1,500.00 per month to live, and keep spending that much for a minimum of 48 months - assuming it worked. Some insurance companies covered it. Some did not. Some people could afford it. Some could not.

It needed more work. But the funding ran out, and Melody had to look for another job. Jobs in the field of genetic research were few and far between, precisely because funding was so difficult to procure.

She hopped from one job to another in genetics, before the need for something more stable was needed, lest she die of anxiety. Stem cell research was hiring, if not at great wages.

Now it wasn’t anxiety over whether or not her lab would still be there when she went to work the next day. Now it was boredom and the feeling of being trapped between two pieces of glass that threatened to drive her crazy.

She could have had a boyfriend. She wasn’t bad looking. Noel had taught her to exercise religiously, primarily because he believed it kept the brain healthy and sharp. She’d gone running with him, and gone to the gym in bad weather to mount the machines and work herself into a lather. Then, occasionally, Noel would mount her and they’d work up a lather that way, too. Noel was the kind of man who hadn’t had love in his life since his wife died. He’d loved her, and losing her had hurt so much that he didn’t want to risk that again. Neither of them had intended for their lab-sharing situation to lead to romance. She’d made friends with Bobby, who began to pay more and more attention to her until she could make a rule and he’d obey it.

Even on that night when, without warning, she felt the urge to kiss Noel, and he stood there and let her, it was an act of complete serendipity. That first kiss had lasted fully two minutes, during which their hands and arms, like some thick, gooey substance, crept slowly around each other to end up tight and unyielding. They had finally parted, both breathing deeply, gotten Bobby, and taken him home and put him to bed. During the forty-two minutes this took, neither said a word to each other. Melody kissed Bobby good night as they tucked him in. Then she followed Noel to his bedroom, got them both naked, tucked them in, and started kissing Noel good night.

That first night was something she could still remember with a vividness that was almost scary. Neither had done this for a long, long time. Neither knew what the other liked, and didn’t like in bed. Oddly, neither was in a hurry to achieve release. They were hungry for this kind of love, but not starved. They coupled three times that night. Noel didn’t ejaculate in her the first time. He felt guilty for doing this with someone other than his dead wife. But the way she felt under him, and the sounds she made, reminded him of his lost love, so he worked hard to help her cum. She noticed he was still rock hard when he withdrew, but didn’t ask any questions. Not then. She just cuddled up next to him, happy with sharing human touch. When she woke, later, she was disoriented in a strange place. Her hand went to his penis mostly to confirm that her memory wasn’t playing games with her.

Her manipulations created another strong, virile erection and she availed herself of it by simply getting on top. The only sexual partner she’d ever had, prior to this, had taught her to ride him and milk him until he spewed. It had been his favorite way to cum, and she’d happily done it for him many times. That relationship hadn’t been romantic. It couldn’t be. He was her teacher and tutor. And he was married. She hadn’t cared, but she also hadn’t learned how to be in love. When she graduated and went off to college, she could take it or leave it, when it came to sex. Sex meant entanglement with a boy, though, and she had no time or patience for that.

Until Noel. In a strangely ironic sense, he was her teacher and mentor, too.

And like her first illicit lover, she only had about six months with her second one, too, before it ended.

Her attitude since then had reverted to being able to take it or leave it.

Men asked her out. She was five-eight, weighed a hundred and thirty-eight pounds, still ran a couple of miles a day, and had curves where curves should be. She usually wore sports bras, whether she was engaged in a sport or not, because they were more comfortable than cramming her breasts into a C cup on a bra that was 36” in circumference. On the other hand, she wore fancy panties. They weren’t for any man she might come across. They were for her. She felt pretty in them. If she was being rated, men would have given her a strong seven. The wives of her associates gave her a wary eight, but soon learned she was no threat.

Then, quite suddenly, life got more interesting.

It started when, one mile into her regular after-work run, she was joined by another runner, another woman, who settled in to match Melody’s pace as if that’s the pace she ran all the time.

It didn’t startle her. This kind of thing happened, occasionally. Runners all belonged to a “family” of sorts, sharing at least one passion, that of punishing (and some would say damaging) one’s body in the pursuit of “health”.

What startled her was when Melody said, “My stop is coming up,” and the other runner said, “Take me inside, like we’re friends. I need to talk to you about Bobby Wilson. Don’t say anything until we get inside. I’m not a hundred percent sure nobody is watching us.”

Her shock was complete. Normally, the level of dark mystery, hinted at by the prohibition of talking and the possibility of surveillance, might have caused Melody to be wary, resist, ask questions immediately. But the mention of Bobby Wilson was the magic word that caused her to do exactly as she was told. She went up the steps to her building and led her new “friend” inside. As soon as they were in, questions began to bubble out, but the woman hushed her in a sibilant whisper.

“Not out here in the hallway. We need to get into your apartment, but we can’t talk there, either. There may be video or audio bugs planted in your apartment. I want you to get changed and talk about how hungry you are. Maybe suggest what kind of food you’d like and ask me if that’s okay. I’ll agree. Don’t say anything about Bobby. I know this is taking you by surprise, but I’ll take you to Bobby and all your questions will be answered. I just have to make sure we aren’t followed. Will you do that?”

Curiosity dug deep into Melody as the boredom in her life was, at least temporarily, chased away. She nodded. If asked why she trusted this complete stranger, she couldn’t have given an answer.

Of course the other side of this particular coin had Bobby Wilson’s picture on it, and Melody wanted to see him again. Her analytic mind was already coming up with scenarios as to what was going on. She knew a little about Noel’s research. It had been odd in the extreme, at first, watching Noel try to get his son to do things. Like move a thimble on a table top without touching it. Noel kept deflecting her interest by saying, “His mother could make little things move. She said she could do it with her mind, but never told me how she actually did it. I’m just playing around.”

He had “played around” a lot, to the point that it had to have something to do with his research. But that was ridiculous. Telekinesis was a parlor trick. All serious scientists knew that. And what could genetics have to do with a parlor trick? Noel wouldn’t answer her questions, though, either in the lab or in bed. When she’d packed up his research after his death, the temptation to read it had been almost overwhelming. But the letter he’d left to her in his will asked her specifically not to do that. So, out of respect for him, she’d packed up all his notebooks and papers and, using a key his instructions told her where to find, put them in a safety deposit box at a bank right down the street from the college. Two months later, after everything in Noel’s will had been taken care of, she took the key to that box, Bobby, and an envelope containing Bobby’s custody documents, along with the last of Noel’s instructions, and turned it all over to the nun who ran a convent, of all places!

She hadn’t seen Bobby since. She’d wanted to go back to that convent and at least visit, but circumstances had prevented it at first. After years went by, she decided to leave well enough alone.

Curiosity had eaten at her, though, during those years. Eventually she’d been able to push it to the dark reaches of her memory.

Now, suddenly, the possibility of answers, even if only partial, was bright on the horizon.

She opened her door and the strange woman followed her in, staying right by the door and turning her back to the room.

“I’m starved,” said Melody, dutifully. “How about Chinese?”

“Fine by me,” said the stranger, her voice oddly muffled.

Nothing more was said, and ten minutes later they left Melody’s apartment.

She hadn’t even taken a shower.

Even in Melody’s car, the woman held her finger to her lips in the universal signal for silence. Melody was bursting with questions, but all the woman mouthed was “trust me” and pointed, giving silent directions.

“I need to get a pack of cigarettes,” said the stranger, suddenly. “Stop there. I’ll be quick.”

When they parked in a convenience store parking lot, the woman gestured for Melody to get out, and led her to another car parked in the same lot.

Bobby Wilson - obviously older, but undeniably Bobby - was in the back seat of the car.

When the strange woman got in the driver’s side, Melody climbed in the passenger side.

“Hi,” said Bobby to Melody. He then faced the driver. “Nobody’s interested in us.”

“Good,” sighed the woman. She looked at Melody. “We can finally talk.”

“My name is Tiffany, and I was a novice at the convent where Bobby was raised,” I told Melody. I could see impatience almost exploding from her. “We need your help. I’m sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff, but Bobby and I are wanted fugitives and it’s possible your house and car were bugged. Right now we don’t think the Government has any clue where we are, but if they’re watching you, it could cause us real problems.”

“The government? Fugitives? What on Earth is going on?” She turned in her seat to look at Bobby. “Bobby? Is it really you?”

“It’s really me,” he said, grinning. “It’s really good to see you again. You look just like I remember you.”

“Well you don’t,” said Melody. “You’ve grown so much. You’re a man!“

“Not really,” said Bobby. “I don’t feel like a man.” He looked at me in the rear view mirror. “Well, sometimes I feel like a man, but I’m probably not supposed to talk about that.”

I felt his mental hands on my breasts.

“Stop that!” I snapped.

“Stop what?” asked Melody.

“I’ll explain later,” I said. “Please put your seat belt on. I don’t want to get stopped for something like that.”

Melody buckled up.

“Okay,” she said. “We’re here, away from any bugs, I assume. Bugs! This is insanity. You’re really fugitives? Why?”

“That’s what we’ll explain when you see Professor Wilson’s research papers. We’re hoping you can explain why Bobby has certain talents that the government wants to utilize.”

“Talents? Wait. Don’t tell me this is about moving a thimble on a table top.”

“Please explain,” I said.

She told me about how Noel tried to get Bobby to move a thimble, or a paper clip.

“Something like that,” I said. “At least partially. He has other talents. The problem is, if we tell you about them, then the government may lock you up, like they locked us up.”

“They locked you up?“ She craned to look at Bobby. “Why?“

“He can do things,” I said. “Things the government is afraid of, and wants to control. While they had us in confinement, they even entertained the idea that he was an alien, from some other galaxy.”

Melody laughed. I felt better. So far, her attitude was one of interest with the potential of helpfulness. I knew Bobby was inspecting her brain and would tell me if he saw fear blossoming. Fear would be bad.

“What kind of other-worldly things can you do?” she asked, turning to look at Bobby.

“If you decide to join us, we’ll show you, but I’m serious. Getting involved with us could make your life very difficult. Bobby will protect you, but even then your life could be turned upside down.”

“You mentioned Noel’s research. What are you talking about?”

“His research was stored in a safety deposit box,” I said.

“I know. I put it there,” said Melody. “You mean to tell me you have it?”

“Yes, and it’s gobbledygook to us. We need you to interpret it for us. Will you do that?”

“Of course I want to look at it!” she squealed. “I’ve wanted to look at it ever since...” She glanced quickly at Bobby, “ever since he died,” she finished softly.

“I don’t remember that part,” said Bobby, as if he knew mentioning his father’s death caused her pain. “I remember you, though. I remember you taking care of me and taking me to the convent.”

“I’m sorry I had to do that,” she said. “I would have kept you, myself, adopted you, if I could have. It would have been hard, of course. I had practically no income and no job prospects. But your father’s will was very clear. He wanted that nun to be your guardian.” She turned to me. “And you were there?”

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