Chapter 4

My twenty-first birthday, was the say day I was paid at the new rate my lawyer got for me. I was now making ten thousand dollars a month, or one hundred twenty thousand a year! I was up in my mom and dads pay area now. Not bad for someone only twenty-one years old. I celebrated by going to a steak house.

The visit with my mom and dad had gone well. Dad had pushed the idea for savings and investment. Now that I had twice as much money as before, I had moved yet again... into another tax bracket. The government was digging yet deeper into my pocket. Damn, but they had a good racket going. I gritted my teeth. I figured that for the most part, the money was going to benefit the whole; but, man!

It was late in that same year, when I was approached by Mr. Smith, my CIA representative. He had given me a couple photos to look at and seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then he opened his briefcase and pulled out another photo.

"Here is one that we want to know if he is alive. If alive, we want you to tell us where he can be found," he told me, passing me the photo.

"Got a name? Part of the world?" I said, asking him my standard questions.

He seemed to hesitate. Then he said the target would be located in the United States most likely. His name was Tom Wilshire.

I nodded and stared at the photo, memorizing the face, and then started searching. Thirty minutes later, I still had nothing. What I did have, was a mild headache. This was new. I never got headaches from my searches. My conclusion was, that if I couldn't find him, he was dead. I said as much to Mr. Smith.

"I was afraid of that, but I wasn't sure," he muttered to himself.

"He a terrorist, or criminal?" I asked curiously.

"I'm afraid that what he is, or was, is classified. Thanks for trying though, I appreciate it," Smith said, while putting his photo away.

He got up and left the room leaving me to my own devices. I made my way to the office I had been assigned. Eric had been seconded to another team, and was out doing HS business. As I was now an 'office worker', it was deemed that solo work was acceptable for me. I poured myself a cup of two-hour-old coffee, and made a face. I dumped that cup, set it aside, and took our twenty-cup percolator to the sink. I cleaned it out really well, and refilled with the coffee that I had discovered tasted the best. My own stash. Twenty minutes later I was drinking a fresh cup of my specially blended coffee.

While I was sitting there drinking coffee, I started thinking about the last photo I had looked at for Smith. I was pretty sure now that the guy had not been one of the bad guys. I had already been used to locate agents who might be in trouble. No one had been hesitant about identifying them as an agency agent of some type. This guy though, had seemed to have Smith off balance, somehow. The whole thing made me curious.

Another thing that had me wondering a bit, was that it took me only twenty minutes to do a world wide search. If the guy was recently dead, my search would reveal that. If a person had been dead a long time, I was able to decipher that, too. But this guy didn't register as dead, really. Well, not the normal way a dead person registers. Thirty minutes, and my mind still had been searching. This was a first for me. If he was somewhere in the world, I would have found him. I had had to actively disengage from the search and tell Smith the guy was dead, but now I was wondering. Did my talent extend to orbital positions? That would be interesting to discover.

I was not going to jeopardize my raise by waffling over this 'Tom Wilshire'. He was not a terrorist or criminal. He would not be the first guy an agency wanted me to find for them. For instance, the FBI had requests in for my services. They just did not know what my service actually was. They just knew that HS had the ability to locate and to find whoever needed finding. Since I knew HS and the CIA were very careful in guarding my existence and what I did, I started wondering if this Wilshire guy might be someone who had a special talent, too. I could not be the only one in the world with a talent like this. Oh, their talent might not be the same as mine, but I existed. Others had to exist, too. It just stood to reason.

Smith had been edgy when he had me try to locate this Tom Wilshire. He had definitely been reluctant to tell me almost anything about him. Well, I could do something about that. Despite everyone thinking their lives were private, I knew that there is more about an individual on the internet than a person might think reasonable or prudent.

When my day was done, I took off and stopped at a branch of the county library. All terminals were in use, and there was a waiting list. I proceeded with plan B and paid a guy ten bucks to use the rest of his time. This did a couple things. One, it left no record or trail to me; and two, it got me onto the internet much quicker.

I quickly googled Tom Wilshire, and was surprised at what came up. He had been a rich man living in the Boston area. The photo that went with him was the same as the photo that Mr. Smith had shown me. Same person, same face.

Wilshire had been a private investor in stocks, and had found some incredible things in his youth. He ran a foundation of some sort that gave money to needy organizations. He had died in a gas explosion at his home just a few years ago. He had been only a few years older than I, when he had died.

"Relative?" a voice asked me over my shoulder.

I looked behind me. A young woman was standing there, reading over my shoulder.

"No. Someone got me interested in him earlier today, though. Thought I would finish by looking him up and seeing if he was anyone who had accomplished anything. He died at a young age in a fire though. Why do you ask?" I finished curiously.

"You and this guy have the same shape head. I am an art major. I notice these things. Now that I see your face, your eyes and his are almost identical. Spooky, really, considering you're not related. Also, there is a similarity to your noses," she said smiling.

"May I help you? Did you want something?" I asked her, trying to change the subject.

"I am scheduled for this terminal next. I just wanted to let you finish before I kicked you off," she replied with a grin.

"Oh, my time is up, sorry," I replied and cleared the terminal.

"Not at all. I was just going to look up a sculptor for my class. He is a recent sculptor and boring. He is into modern expressionism and I find that a stupid study. I am more interested in the classic form by the 'old greats', really," she said, assuming her place at the terminal.

Her fingers flew over the keys, and soon she was reading up on someone I never heard of before, and had no interest in. I wished her a good day and took my leave. Cute girl, really. It had been a while since I had had a girlfriend. Maybe I should find someone who would not ask too many questions about my job?

I forgot about Wilshire and my inability to locate him. I was busy for the next couple of weeks. The science johnnies had come up with new ways to investigate my ability. I was beginning to think torture was looking good, compared to what they were doing. They shot me with a fluid, a die, which burned like hell inside me for about twenty minutes. They were apologetic, but still put me through it. I told them that's the last time they inject a substance into me, ever again. That of course started a disagreement. It went on until I stormed out. I refused to come back, if they continued to insist on that avenue of investigation.