Wake-Up Call

By Joaquin De Torres and Dr. Joseph De Torres

One hundred mental patients are brutally massacred in the frigid cold of a Russian forest as they wait for a mysterious light coming down from the night sky. Their deaths are never spoken of again.

More than three decades later, directors at mental hospitals in California are stunned when 100 patientsâ comatose for yearsâ suddenly "wake up" and speak of a person called "The Commander" who will lead them to a place where they will be taken from Earth.

One person may hold the answersâ a severely mentally-ill homeless man whose knowledge of astronomy, physics and mathematics is not only more advanced than Einstein and Tesla, but can summon superhuman abilities in the blink of an eye.

Taken in and protected by a small team of mental health physicians, a brilliant astrophysicist, a derelict naval officer, and a renowned Ancient Aliens theorist, this freakishly gifted person called "Doogie" warns that time is running out; that the "creators" are already on their way to Earth. They will arrive within weeks.

The chosen hundred must be ready, but like 30 years ago, a new threat makes its presence menacingly clear. A xenophobic Senator with a horrific secret and the authority to launch military strikes is plotting to destroy an extraterrestrial visitation of any kind. . .even if it means the deaths of thousands, if not the utter destruction of the entire West Coast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456622077

Book preview

Defense

Prologue

Plesetsk Forest

Arkhangelsk Province, Soviet Union

15 November, 1980

The troops ran up the hill with frantic urgency, following the orders of their general who yelled at the top of his lungs.

GET TO THE TOP! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!

The men didn’t know why they were there as they entered the forest. Nor did they know why they were awoken in the middle of the night, ordered to get into the trucks fully armed, travel more than 23 kilometers, and then ordered to ascend a hill once the trucks could go no further. Was it a training exercise? If so, why didn’t the garrison commanders know anything about it? They sat in the trucks with the same dumbfounded looks as their men. And if this was an exercise, why was it led by the region’s top commander, General Mikhail Kirolovka? Such a man of his distinction and power would never waste his time leading a garrison of 80 men in the middle of the Russian winter.

HURRY! GET TO THE TOP OR I’LL SHOOT YOU MYSELF!

The slope was steep and rocky, the trees were dense and the snow was up to their knees. The hill seemed endless as they struggled up, seeing their labored breath crystallize before their faces. Spurred on by the bellowing man they trudged on, cursing to themselves, damning the general. Near the top, they saw the radiating glow of a light which further guided them.

The general himself was one of the first to reach the top. He stood at the lip of a ridge that opened to a tree-less clearing, a flat area roughly 400 meters in diameter where a large bonfire was burning. When the rest of the garrison emerged at the lip, he sent half of them to the left ridge, the other half to the right, and told them to wait. Around the fire were perhaps 100 people. They stood in the cold; silent, unmoving with their arms stretched to the stars. The moon was full and huge; the entire forest was illuminated in a soft blue glow. The general searched the night sky and turned his eyes to the moon.

Then he saw it.

SHOULDER ARMS! PREPARE TO FIRE! he yelled. The men dropped to one knee and raised their AK-47 rifles. Although their training brought them to their ready positions quickly and efficiently, the men didn’t know who or what they were aiming at. The bonfire and the people were just 50 yards away, but none of them were holding any weapons. One of the garrison’s commanders, a young captain, turned his head up to the general.

Comrade General, who are we shooting?

All of them! he answered still looking at the moon.

But General, they’re just peasants. Suddenly the starry night above them disappeared, replaced by solid black. Something huge slid over them at a height of several hundred feet and remained hovering in place. A loud hum filled their ears, and grew louder as the blackness widened across the sky. The pressure on their ears was crushing, as if a gigantic invisible vent was blowing down air on the entire plateau. The men shrank even lower in their stances.

HOLD FAST! SHOULDER YOUR ARMS! the general yelled through the deafening hum. Then from that void of solid black an intense light bathed the plateau, covering all of the hill and surrounding forest. The light was so intense that the men covered their eyes or looked away. The general was prepared and quickly brought up his night vision goggles. He noticed that the people directly under the light did not turn away. Nor were they affected by the downdraft of air pummeling his men. They remained calm with welcoming arms still outstretched. The young captain turned his head and his eyes were able to glimpse at the large full moon.

GENERAL! LOOK AT THE MOON! SOMETHING’S COMING!

FIRE! FIRE ON THE CROWD! the general yelled. The men struggled to remain stationary and fired into the crowd, daring not to question the order. The general noticed that the people didn’t run or scream as they were gunned down. They didn’t even turn around; they just fell where they stood.

ADVANCE FORWARD! LEAVE NO ONE ALIVE! No one else saw the source of the glowing light except the general whose skin turned to ice beneath his uniform and heavy winter coat.

As the men moved forward towards the crowd, he stood alone, eyes transfixed on the huge object above the forest. His head turned to the moon and an even larger object, perhaps the size of an entire city, was silhouetted and approaching. He couldn’t judge distance, or time, or reality then. He was terrified, shaking uncontrollably. But he bit down hard on his lip and strengthened his resolve. He had to stop it from coming.

As that last person fell dead from gunfire, the blinding overhead light suddenly turned off. The massive winged object pulled away from the forest, the force of its exodus washed over the hill knocking the men to the ground. The stars were again revealed overhead. The general dropped to his knees and watched the black angular shape disappear gradually into the night. His head turned to the moon again. The gigantic silhouette that looked so menacing as it drew closer, had pulled away and also disappeared into the night. The men, still clearing their eyes and shaking their heads, inspected the bodies using their flashlights. They were all dead.

Captain, you will bring a detail back from the post and burn the bodies, said the general, sounding winded.

Comrade General, who were these people? And what was that light? The general was expecting such questions and had his answers prepared.

They were spies, Captain, he replied. Israeli and British agents disguised as commoners who were being picked up by helo transport. We intercepted them before they could escape. The young officer looked confused.

But sir, they’re just peasants. Men and women.

Come with me, the general ordered as he walked toward the heap of bodies. When they arrived at its edge, he reached down and pulled up the left arm of one of the corpses. Look here. He put his own flashlight on the dead man’s wrist. Just below the palm was a metallic object resembling a coin embedded just under the skin.

Look there. Another one, and another. They all have them.

What is it?

Information, answered the general. "Computer chips filled with intelligence, our intelligence, Captain; surgically implanted. Look at their clothes. They’ve been living among us for years."

But how do they put information into-

That’s not for us to know, Captain. The general was getting irritated at the questions now. It’s a KGB issue and they’ve been hunting these people down for months. The answer seemed to satisfy the young officer. He nodded his head as he looked around at the other bodies.

Makes sense. That would eliminate the need to carry documents or equipment to get by any check post. He turned his face to the general with a new question. But that helo, General. The power and that sound! That light! I’ve never—

Enough questions for tonight, Captain. The general turned away dismissively. You will bring back a detail, burn the bodies, and- He turned back to face the young man. You will tell your men to mention nothing of this mission. Nothing. This is a matter of national security. If word does get out, Captain, his voice lowered menacingly. I’ll have you shot on sight. The young man stood quickly at attention and saluted rigidly as the general walked off.

Letting out a long breath of relief, he knelt down to the body at his feet and inspected the wrist again. There were markings barely visible on the chips that were raised on the skin. They seemed to shimmer, as well. He turned the arm in different angles but couldn’t make out what the markings were. He looked around to make sure no one was watching or moving in his direction, then unclipped his six-inch survival knife. He quickly made an incision in the wrist and removed the chip. He dropped the arm, returned the knife to its sheath and cleaned the surface of the chip with snow. He inspected it closely, bringing the flashlight a few centimeters from its surface. The markings did not resemble any formal letters or numbers, but some sort of precise engravings, a diagram or schematic studded with crystals the size of pinheads.

EVERYONE BACK DOWN THE HILL! BACK TO THE TRUCKS! he heard the general yell in the distance. The captain quickly placed the chip inside his inner uniform breast pocket beneath his heavy winter coat. He stood up, looked around casually and merged along with the rest of his men back to the ridge and down to the trucks.

Chapter 1

All in the Family

Have you ever met someone for the first time, and you don’t see them again, yet one day you have a dream in which you’re having sex with them?

Or, you know someone you don’t like, or who doesn’t like you; then you have a dream about them in which they’re nice to you or laughing with you; then the next day you look at them in a positive light?

Or, you dream about someone whom you’ve loved but has been dead for awhile; and in the dream, he or she is younger, healthy and talking and joking with you like they’ve never left?

I’ve been having a somewhat different kind of dream, and it’s recurring. I’ve been having this dream for a month now. It’s very bizarre, vivid and detailed. It’s about one of my patients whom I’ve not yet met; and although I’ve never met him, it’s as if I’ve known him all my life. Another strange thing is, anyone who happens to be a patient of mine is in very dire straits clinically-damaged both physically and mentally beyond measure. Yet, the ‘patient’ in my dream is perfectly normal, lucid and incredibly intelligent.

There is another part of the dream that just doesn’t make sense at all. This patient of mine is holding a coin, maybe a quarter. He holds it up to me and it’s not a coin at all, but some metallic disk that emanates thin beams of light. As I move closer to him, I see that there are markings on the disk. Not words, not letters, not numbers, not squiggly lines; but precise angled lines-intricate groves that sparkle. It looks like a glowing computer chip.

Then my patient is saying something that makes no sense at all. He repeats a question over and over to me. I have no answer and I shake my head, but he keeps asking me:

Are you the commander?

Who’s the commander? I ask.

Are you the commander?

I don’t know who he is.

ARE YOU THE COMMANDER!?

Then I wake up. It’s the same every time.

I had that dream again last night, and now that I’m on the road, I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Well, I’ll think about all that later. I’ve gotta find this guy. I quickly glance at a few photos I have sitting on the passenger’s seat. None of them are close ups or very clear. They are shots taken from my car with my cell. They are all bad quality either because of the distance, or that the car was moving, whatever. The point is, I would have done a better job at tracking this guy but at the time, he wasn’t on my radar.

His name is Doug Tuckman, or as the facilitators at the mental ward called him Doogie. I recently got his file from the Alameda public psychiatric hospital in Oakland which, because of budget cuts, de-institutionalized him over six years ago, and sent him to one of the equally underfunded homeless boarding houses in Richmond.

According to the house’s superintendent, after less than a year, Doogie just packed up his stuff and walked out one night, never to be seen again. This was common. Some tenants were drifters, staying long enough to get their strength up with the food and rest before moving on. Others found new drug connections across town and ended up dead there. While others were accepted into better accommodations like finding jobs and paying their own rent, living with a roommate, or entering back into their family’s loving arms.

There was no such luck for Doogie. He didn’t have the financial means theoretically to live with anyone. And when I went to visit his family three days ago at their mansion in Sausalito, I was expecting a more constructive conversation and a plan that afternoon from such an established family. I got neither.

Hugely successful, well-connected, and self-entitled with millions in investments and real estate, the Tuckmans were your typical rich, White, one-percent family that the rich White one- percent Republican politicians will do anything to protect.

I sat down with them to talk about Doogie. I purposely left his files in my briefcase so I could gauge their attitude and concern in its most sincere state. I simply asked questions. They simply smiled and deflected my questions. They dismissed their son and brother with the indifferent phrase I’ve come to expect from affluent families who disassociate themselves from their homeless, disabled or down-on-their-luck kin:

We did everything we could, but he decided to go his own way.

Did they do everything they could? I doubted that very much. With their money, Doogie could have had his own apartment near the mental health center where he could regularly have treatments, medications, counseling and a place to keep him grounded and safe. In fact, The Tuckman Foundation, or TFT, a property and computer security company founded by Doogie’s father Blaine Tuckman, could have done so much more, including paying for a series of experimental or break-through treatments.

We sent him to the best doctors in California but he didn’t show any progress, so we left him in the care of the state hospital.

Liars. I combed through his file and knew he hadn’t seen any specialist, nor had he been sent to any specialized treatment facility. I decided to hold back on the mental health questions and talk about his social standing.

How long had you known he was homeless? I asked.

Well, before we had him committed, he’d just leave the house and not come back for weeks. He did this for years. The answers came from both parents, Blaine and his wife Faye. Faye intrigued me to the point of disgust. She seemed more interested in looking for imperfections in her manicured fingernails than in talking about her son. My visit was cramping her style, and she showed her displeasure by staying aloof or belching out answers that defined her ignorance.

A couple of times we’ve had to pick him up from the police department because he’d been in a raucous doing God-knows-what with those boys wearing hoods and the Black kids.

Lying again. I had already run a Bay Area police check on Doogie for any kind of record or incident report on him. Nothing. He never once came up on their computers, and never once been picked up. They lied to me twice already, so now I really wanted to find out what they knew about his physical and mental state.

What do you know of your son’s illness? Faye was first to speak after looking somewhat alarmingly to her husband.

Well, he’s got some mental disease that keeps him from speaking clearly. It makes him do stupid things and wander off. What is it? Slack jaw? He can’t speak because his mouth is all contorted.

No, Mom! He was beaten and his jaw was permanently broken, their gorgeous daughter volunteered after exiting the pool. She stood tall, dripping wet in a canary yellow bikini that made her deep tan almost glow. She was shaking out her long blonde hair as she approached the patio table. Remember when he was a teenager, he got jumped after his special ed class? He’s a victim. Crimes against the homeless are insidious!

Hideous, I corrected quickly. Two different words, but they sound the same. It’s a common mistake. The girl smiled coyly, taken in by the attention.

So, what’s the difference?

Hideous means terrible or horrible. Insidious means something looks good or inviting, but has an unseen danger or threat within. She smiled again, but this time her eyes were playful, mischievous.

Can a person be insidious? She looked quickly to her parents, and seeing that they weren’t paying attention at the moment, she approached with an alluring swagger. I took a breath and tried to keep my eyes from mapping her utterly magnificent body.

Yes, I stumbled. Very much so.

I’ll have to remember that word, she uttered sultrily.

But isn’t he bipolar, too? asked Blaine suddenly. I mean sometimes he was up all happy, and sometimes he was throwing tantrums and breaking things.

That’s right, added Faye. I mean, we had to send him away. He would stomp up and down the stairs, babbling and drooling all over the floors. He threw the furniture around, ate out of the garbage. He smashed almost all my crystal glass collection, and my fine chinaware. Totally embarrassing in front of our friends and other family!

I looked at them indifferently, trying to disguise my disgust. I realized that none of them knew a thing about his condition, and from their expressions, they didn’t much care except for the damage he’d done. I almost threw-up in my mouth when Brittany, the Tuckman’s 22-year-old, Sac State Pre-Law daughter, whose nearly naked body stood inches from me, proclaimed:

Once I’m barred and associated, I’m going to thrust all my efforts in defending the rights of the Bay Area homeless, like poor Doug.

Yeah, right, I silently barked. The only thing you’ll be thrusting will be your hips and throat when you need case tutoring by your mentors.

So, how is Doug doing these days? Is he getting along with the other inmates? asked the vacuous Faye as she cleaned her black, insect-looking Christian Dior sunglasses.

Inmates!? How fucking stupid is this woman? They’re patients, bitch! You know? Real people with real problems? If that wasn’t enough, the tone of her voice was so non-committal, and her lack of eye-contact only magnified her indifference. It was one of those give-a-shit questions. You know, when someone asks you something that is genuinely important to you but you know it’s not important to them?

How’s that novel going?; or How’s your father’s health?; or How’s living overseas? What they’re really saying is: I really don’t give a shit, I’m just being polite. But if you really want to test their sincerity, give an answer that should be of concern to them; if they don’t show surprise, or jump to another question before you answer the first-then you know-they don’t give a shit. That’s what Faye’s question was. So, I administered the test.

He’s been missing for two weeks.

Oh, don’t worry. He’ll turn up. That was her answer.

Her question was answered for me back when I retrieved his file from the institution. The steward who gave me this address had told me that the Tuckmans hadn’t visited Doogie during the five years he was a patient. He was actually admitted to the institution, not by the Tuckmans, but by a previous doctor who had found him on the street. One of my predecessors, Dr. T.J. Lang, who was now deceased. That was their third lie.

Not once did they visit him after they signed the papers releasing him to the state. Nor did they call or send him any packages or mail. Six years. Doogie was 20 then. It was obvious that the Tuckmans just wanted to dump him and get on with their lives without the stigma of his condition stinking up their social circles or becoming a topic at their dinner engagements.

Doogie’s father, Blaine, I felt, was the most pathetic. He smiled all the time, and delivered an annoying fake laugh or chuckle no matter the subject matter. Obviously, he was the darling at the country club and everyone must have adored his company.

So, you’re looking for Doug? Well, he wouldn’t be in this area; he hates our kind! Then the laugh, a politician’s laugh, fake and non-contagious.

I hate your kind, too, asshole. I wanted to reach over and slap that grin off his face. He didn’t ask if Doogie was in trouble? He didn’t ask for the circumstances behind his son’s disappearance. In fact, neither parent used the word son when referring to him.

Have you checked the Occupy Movement areas? he asked. He could be camped out there?

Yeah, that’s where the homeless hang out, spat Faye.

You’re wrong, Mom, objected her daughter. They are not homeless; they’re protestors. I nodded in agreement.

That’s right, Brittany. She smiled, proud of herself.

Well, whatever they are, they have no right standing in front of Bank of America or any of the other banks we use.

That’s because Bank of America is ripping the people off, Mom. They’re the most corrupt bank in the country concerning practices with minorities and the lower class. She looked at me and raised her shoulders apologetically. Case studies. I gave her a thumbs up. I noticed her smile had a somewhat different look to it.

To answer your question, Mrs. Tuckman, no, I haven’t checked the Occupy Movements because people in your son’s mental condition are loners and avoid large crowds.

Well, he wouldn’t even know how to get out here, Blaine added. Then that laugh.

"Dad, that’s just mean! Brittany objected, now sitting next to me sipping on a frosty margarita her father just brought over from the cabana-style pool bar. She didn’t bother to wrap a towel around herself, and I found my eyes roving from her firm athletic body dripping and beading with pool water. She caught me twice-my eyes visually inspecting her-but on both occasions, she simply smiled demurely and batted her eyes. She obviously enjoyed the attention of a stranger.

Doctor Flores? Strawberry margarita or apple martini? Blaine asked from the bar, already dropping a pitcher of ice into two mixers.

Appletini for me, dear, answered Faye as she checked her messages on her smartphone.

I’ll let you try one of my strawberry-mango margarita’s, Doctor. Blaine said proudly. Got in a crate of fresh strawberries from Los Gatos yesterday. He chuckled. Well, at least the Mexicans still have jobs! The laugh. I was now offended, and wanted to get up and smash the blender over his skull, but was distracted again by Brittany who adjusted her patio chair so that it was facing towards me. She brought her arms over her head, tilted her head back and arched her back in a stretch. This sent my eyes into a visual feast of her tight and tanned torso. She recovered and caught me again.

Sorry, just a little tight from all the swimming, she said smiling. I bet. She caught me looking at her feet. I noticed her toe nails were exquisitely painted with designs.

Do you like them? she asked lifting one foot and placing it on my thigh. She pointed her foot forward like a gymnast to display her slender toes.

The artwork is fantastic, I admired. Very detailed. She then raised her other foot and placed it on my other thigh, again pointing it sharply. I nodded admiringly.

Mom, he likes Melanie’s work, she called out.

That’s fine, dear, Faye remarked absently as she continued texting.

Hold them, Brittany said quietly. I looked up. My feet, hold them. I didn’t know what she meant. In your hands. I didn’t know what this girl wanted, but I followed her instructions. I brought my hands to my lap and took a foot in each hand. I was on autopilot as my hands began to rub the tops and sides of them. Then she pointed them further as my fingers slid under her heels and followed the contour of her high arches. Her eyes expressed a measure of pleasure. My fingers slid from her arches to her toes and back again several times.

I like that, she murmured. I felt myself getting aroused as she purposely slid her beautifully shaped feet in and out of my thighs. I was awoken with a splash of shame and turned my head to Mr. Tuckman.

So, Mr. Tuckman, about your company- Just then, Brittany’s iPhone chimed.

Thank, God! She pulled her feet gently out of my hands, retrieved the phone and settled back into the chair, drawing her long legs up to her chest. Like her mother, she was instantly lost in the device.

Please, just call me Blaine, Doctor.

Okay, Blaine. There was no way Doug could have found employment with your firm? Because there are new federal tax incentives and benefits for hiring the homeless and people with disabilities.

He didn’t even raise his head to look at me when he shook it.

No way. Even with the benefits, Doug couldn’t be hired.

May I ask why?

He didn’t have the skill set or the aptitude. My company deals in high-end security electronics. You have to have a degree in a computer science-related field, at least, just to apply.

Perhaps a custodial position, window cleaner or mailroom- He cut me off with another quick shake of his head.

Doug is not corporate material, if you know what I mean, Dr. Flores. That laugh again, but with a tinge of frustration. He didn’t like talking about Doogie and it showed.

He didn’t finish high school even with the private tutors I hired for him.

WOW! You paid for private tutors! That must have broke the bank!

It came as no surprise, really. I mean, we knew he was retarded when he was in junior high, so he was attending Special Ed classes all through that time.

"Your son had an intellectual disability, sir. We don’t say retarded anymore."

Well, you know what I mean. Anyway, by the time high school came around, he was already too far gone. We gave him to the state after his speech started going south.

Going south! That’s how you put it, asshole?

He couldn’t even talk, Faye said in a rare moment when her thumb wasn’t touching the phone keys. We couldn’t even understand him. He couldn’t do anything normally. His retardation-

His disability.

His disability got in the way of everything. It completely altered our lives. So, like Blaine said, we thought it best to let the state penitentiary-

State mental institution. Idiot!

Yes, the mental institution handled Doug from there. Suddenly Faye’s phone chimed and she immediately picked it up.

What a work of art, this one!

Try this!

I turned my head and saw Brittany lifting her margarita to my lips. It’s raspberry-pineapple! So good! Open your mouth. Again, I was on autopilot. I took the edge of the glass onto my lips and sipped. It was good. Have more, she whispered. As she tipped the glass further, I felt her free hand holding my thigh. It’s good, isn’t it?

It is! I faked enthusiasm as I slowly pushed the glass away. She sat back down and she drew her legs up to her chest again.

No, Dr. Flores, continued Blaine. Doug couldn’t have worked for me. I’m very particular about who I hire. I’ve turned down countless qualified people because they just didn’t have that special quality. Sure, they had the credentials but I look for a special quality that sets them apart from others. I’m sure you know what I’m saying.

Of course. Can’t have any mental disabilities in your offices, that’s for sure. I knew he couldn’t tell I was mocking him.

That’s right, Doctor! The laugh.

Where are the drinks, dear? Faye called out. I found my eye drawing back to Brittany and noticed she was already looking at me. She smiled; I smiled back. Her legs were drawn up, but then she slowly moved her right leg aside. My body stiffened. The large, wide patio table blocked Faye from viewing any of this; besides, she was oblivious while on her phone. The massive canopy umbrella had tassels dangling along the edges, so Blaine couldn’t see anything from the latticed cabana. I kinda felt Brittany knew all this, too.

This was my first time experiencing a full-on, first-class tease-the-middle-aged-stranger ritual, and I couldn’t bring myself to stop it, nor fight its appeal.

One Appletini for the lady of the house! Blaine exclaimed as he placed the drink in front of his wife. He returned to the bar and turned the blender to ICE CRUSHER mode.

Brittany glanced at her mother who was now texting someone else, then looked back to me. She took her right hand and placed it on her deeply tanned thigh and moved it closer to the edge of her bikini panty. She looked back at her father then back to me. As much as I told myself to do so, I just couldn’t look away. She slid her fingers across the yellow fabric and pulled it wide to the side. My throat locked. With a more hypnotic expression on her face, she buried her fingers in her bed of black curly hair, then sank one finger deep inside the veritable forest until it disappeared at the knuckle.

I was hypnotized at this erotic act of seduction-my seduction! Her eyes half closed for a moment, then flew open wide. Her hand retracted quickly as Blaine stepped up and propped the frosty goblet in front of me.

One freshly-whipped strawberry-mango margarita for the good doctor! He took his seat next to his wife and looked at her annoyingly. Honey, we have a guest. You can check your Facebook messages later.

I’m not on Facebook, honey, she retorted, still thumbing the keys. I’m talking with Marlene. We’re discussing the menu for Thursday’s social. Start the grill, why don’t you.

Dad, I can give Doctor Flores a tour of the house while you’re barbequing, Brittany stated enthusiastically while standing up. She took a position behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder. Yes, that hand. The aroma of suntan oil, chlorine and human lust was wildly intoxicating. She bent over me to grab her drink and I felt her full young breasts rubbing my neck.

That’s a good idea, Brit, said Faye, still typing. Take him to the basement game room and play some pool.

Yeah, do that, Brit, Blaine agreed. Make sure you get him another margarita when he’s done with that one.

Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him. I could feel her nipples hardening on my neck.

Great, Brit! Keep him occupied for an hour and the food should be ready by then.

Actually, I have to go! I said abruptly. I stood up and turned to Brittany and realized that she was about four inches taller than me. The deep valley between her tanned breasts held my eyes for a moment, to her satisfaction as registered by her appreciative grin. But when I whispered Brittany, I can’t, her expression turned to disappointment. As I moved passed her, her hand smoothly slid to my crotch and gently squeezed. I froze again because I was hard! Like a lead pipe, but I couldn’t let the Tuckman’s see that.

Please stay, Brittany whispered as she squeezed my penis again. I began to sweat at the temples.

Come on, Doctor. Just have lunch with us, urged Faye. I took my seat again, not daring to turn around. I reached for my briefcase next to my chair.

One second, please, I stalled. I retrieved my cell, pressed one button and shook my head. I really can’t. I’ve got another appointment in Hayward and I’ve really got to get going.

Well, then leave us your card, suggested Blaine. We’d like to know the status of Doug now that we know you’re in charge of his care.

I’m not in charge of his care, yet, Mr. Tuckman. First I have to find him. I will let you know when I do. I put my card in front of Faye, but it was snatched up by Brittany. She picked up her cell and began entering my number into her phone. She winked at me and gave the card to her mother. By that time I was ready to stand up. I took my bag, and extended my hand to Faye.

Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Tuckman. She shook my hand and smiled, then her cell phone went off again and she forgot I was there. I walked around the table to where Blaine was drying his hands after washing them at the bar. Brittany followed closely behind.

Thank you again, sir, for your time.

Doctor Flores, can I have a word with you privately?

Sure. I noticed Brittany didn’t get the hint and instead stood behind her father.

He made that laugh, but this time it was laced with embarrassment. He looked down awkwardly and I could tell he didn’t want to say what he was about to say.

Dr. Flores, I have a sizable life insurance policy on Doug, as well as my daughter here. Now I’ve checked with the police department a few times over the years and so far the reports have been negative, thank God. But if anything happens to him. . . He laughed but cut it short. His voice lowered to a whisper. I need to know. I looked at him stonily.

To collect the money, I said coldly.

Exactly. I looked over my shoulder at Faye and saw that she was now standing on the far side of the pool talking on her cell. So, I unloaded.

Mr. Tuckman, your son could be dead in a ditch right now! Dead for weeks, and the last thing you want me to know about is your goddamn insurance policy?

I’m sorry if that came out bad, Doctor-

Came out bad? I’ll tell you what came out bad. You and your wife have no clue about your son’s condition and its ramifications. He may have Axis II mental retardation, syndromal autism, neurodegenerative disease, first rank schizophrenia, or all of the above. More than six years out of a mental hospital, he’s definitely suffering some substantial, maybe progressive mental psychosis. The horrible thing is, every day he spends alone on the street, the risk of him being a victim of a violent or deadly act goes up exponentially.

Tuckman considered this and looked down in shame; Brittany bit her lip and turned her head.

Now, I’ve got to find him and get him into my program before he becomes a statistic. I narrowed my eyes. Before you get your money.

Silence.

I apologize, Doctor, Tuckman said finally with a straight face. He held out his hand and I took it. "If there’s anything I can do for you, financial or otherwise, please let me know.

You can start by calling Doug your son. I smiled respectfully. He still had not released my hand, and gave it another few shakes.

"Thank you for helping our son, Doctor Flores. Please keep me informed, and call me if you need anything else." Just by the sincerity in his eyes my opinion of him softened somewhat. He wasn’t smiling; he was hopefully, edified. He released my hand.

Are you sure you can’t join us for lunch?

No, really, but thank you. Maybe some other time, when I have some news for you. Good news, of course. I glimpsed Brittany’s eyes widen with anticipation.

Honey, the Richardson’s are coming over! called out Faye. You need to start the grill! He waved to her.

Doctor, Brittany will show you out, if that’s alright?

No problem. Oh God. He left and went back out to the main patio. I turned and headed back into the massive ten-bedroom house. Brittany took my hand, then hooked her arm in mine and snuggled her body next to me as we walked. I was aroused again, but held my own from one massive room to the next. When we reached the main hall, I noticed the family portraits on the wall. Dozens of them of various sizes and time frames. There were no photos of Doogie. Not a one. I made a mental note of that.

When we reached the large mahogany front doors, elegantly carved with inlaid brass and etched glass, Brittany moved ahead of me and quickly turned around, blocking my path. She slid cozily up to my body, her face less than an inch from mine. She looked into my eyes without fear.

Brittany, was the only word I was able to get out before her tongue slid into my mouth. My body tensed up like an old tree as she slowly explored my mouth and lips; probing, licking and kissing me. She wasn’t rough; she was gentle and passionate, making my body’s auto-receptor impulses expand. I began to relax and accept what was happening to me. She sensed this and took both my hands and guided them around her waist and down. She placed them on her buttocks; taut and perfectly round. My fingers instinctively slid beneath the bikini and nestled at the valley of her tight crevasse. I felt her panting in my mouth as she took one hand away and brought it up to one breast. She flipped up her bra cup and suddenly my hand closed around a naked breast that was equally firm with hardened nipple. Her breathing increased as I squeezed and groped her. Her hands, gently holding my face, dropped down to her sides and began sliding her bikini panty down. They were at mid thigh when she pulled the hand I had on her buttocks around to her vagina and spread her legs slightly. My fingers were now entangled in a moist forest of hair. She moaned lightly as her tongue lolled deeper down my throat.

Take me, Doctor, she panted belabored. On the couch, over there!

I hadn’t had sex with a real person in years. My case load and book writing were to blame for that. But I’d learned to hold it together when I needed to make some free time for myself. I had a nice collection of girls on my hard drive thanks to free Internet porn and the ‘Save image as’ function.

But this was huge; this was live! This was real flesh, heat, saliva, hair. So, not only was this a massive surprise in my life, with a massively hot, young woman; it was a massive turn-on that was over-taking my better judgment.

It was also wrong.

I opened my eyes and like a machine, I shut it all down. Years of suppressing my emotions during the most heart-breaking therapies forged in me this ability. It took such power when dealing with countless people-shunned by society; shut out of life itself-whose only fault is to be born with mangled brains, hideous physical deformities, or nonexistent sensations. For the first decade of my practice, I would lock myself in my office, go into bathroom stalls, or broom closets to sob for my patients. I had wondered for years how I could muster the mettle to go on, day after day, looking into their lifeless, dull eyes, or trying to find warmth or reflex in limbs so atrophied that they felt like bony pieces of rotting meat. How does one look at another human being and immediately know that their lives are forfeit? That they will never know love, challenge, fun or victory? That they will never taste the fruits of life, health or knowledge? It took everything I could in my soul to be able to distance myself emotionally from these innocent, defenseless and pathetic creatures. But somehow, I made it work. I became successful. I could suppress emotions like a light switch when I needed to; when I had to.

I released my grip on her breast and pulled back. She looked at the couch.

Come on. We can take our time. Her voice was a seductive whisper.

No, Brittany. I can’t do this. She looked at me confused.

Why? Are you married? She began kissing my lips softly. Don’t worry. She’ll never know. You can trust me.

No, I’m not married. Then she pulled back and looked even more confused.

Then, why? She was genuinely surprised at my refusal.

I’m here to solve the case of your brother. I have to focus on him. She dropped her head, but I raised her chin with my fingers. Hey, don’t look like that. I really appreciate this. Believe me, as a man old enough to be your father, I’m completely flattered!

But you’re not my father. You are so handsome, and in shape, and. . . She kissed my lips again. unbelievably intelligent. I silently thanked God that I had started swimming and bicycling last year. She leaned in closer as if to tell me a secret.

I want you, Doctor Flores, she breathed. I want you so badly. The sensation began bristling between my legs again, but I suppressed it with a hard swallow.

I feel the same, but Doogie comes first.

Doogie?

It’s what his therapists called him. He doesn’t answer to Doug; he likes Doogie. The fire of the moment was now extinguished. Her brother had entered the scene, which is what I intended. She nodded in acceptance. She pulled her panty up and adjusted her bra; her lips pursed, her eyes fixed on the floor.

If I can find and help your brother, then I’ll be back. I gave an encouraging smile and she returned it.

Maybe we can have lunch or dinner sometime, she suggested in a more mature and professional tone.

I’d like that.

She let me out and watched me get into my car. I waved as I drove away, knowing that I would most likely have to come back one day. . .to tell them that Doogie was dead.

Chapter 2

Village Idiot

In retrospect, if I had knowledge of Doogie’s condition back when I first saw him, he would have already been under my care and I wouldn’t be driving around the Bay Area like an idiot.

I had been following his movements for about two months around the East Bay before I lost him. To my regret, I never bothered to stop and talk to him when I took these photos; never bothered to offer him help, or a ride, even in the rain. That’s not like me at all, but my case load was stacked, and I only saw him while on the road. And that’s what pains me; I didn’t just see him while on the freeway, but on streets and boulevards where I could have actually stopped. My normal route from my home in Concord to the clinic near the Oakland Coliseum took more than an hour one way in morning traffic, on a good day. So, needless to say, there was a lot of time sitting in the gridlock as thousands of commuters made their way towards the Bay Bridge to get to San Francisco.

Somewhere within that stretch is where I’d see him. Sometimes just off the freeway, but mostly along the streets;

Picking through dumpsters, meandering about alley ways or open lots, rummaging for food in restaurant trash bins, or just sitting on the steps of abandoned buildings. I’d slow down enough to see his facial expressions; always the same, clueless, indifferent and ignorant of the world and its trappings. I never saw panic or urgency on his face, though. I guess it’s true what people have written; that a homeless life is free of appointments, deadlines, tardiness, missed meetings, excuses, politics, and accountability. Instead, it’s a timeless existence. Hours of everyday are spent wandering, searching, gathering, hording, and hopefully finding a comfortable, safe place to sleep in order to do it again the next day.

But that’s a dangerous, volatile gamble in these neighborhoods. Oakland has the deadly distinction of making America’s Most Dangerous Cities list every year without fail. It also triples down by making America’s Most Murderous Cities list, and is the perennial number one on the FBI’s Most Dangerous Cities in California list. Other statistics are equally ghastly such as the fact that the city is ranked first in the nation for violent robberies. With a population of 396,000, Oakland has long been plagued with higher crime rates than other major Bay Area city. In addition, its residents are, on average, poorer than those in San Francisco and San Jose. In Oakland, 20% of people were below the federal poverty line from 2007 to 2011, according to U.S. Census data. This fuels the gang wars, massive unemployment, unending drug use, and prisoner recidivism that plagues the town. Over the years, deep cuts in the city’s police force have left the streets unprotected, so the wounds of rampant violence continues to hemorrhage year by year.

I can’t help but think that if something has happened to this guy, something tragic, I may not be able to forgive myself for my blind stupidity.

Stop kicking yourself in the balls, Javier! I spat as I continued my cruising and surveillance run. This is your day off, so just keep looking for him until you run out of gas! Between jerking my head between streets and squinting my eyes to check alley ways, I keep trying to convince myself that I can find him. But reality is what it is. After spotting him consistently for two months, I had lost him for two weeks. Goddamn it! Why didn’t I do anything then? My fist hammers the steering wheel in self-disgust.

I’d been on the road for nearly five hours now, checking places where I had consistently spotted him; parked the car and searched on foot within the radius of those areas. But Oakland isn’t a small town; it’s the seventh largest city in California, covering 54 square miles. Expand those miles exponentially because of the fact that I’m searching from within a car; shit! Doogie could have been anywhere! I got in the car, and decided to search outside the box. I began checking other areas of town that I had maybe overlooked or didn’t consider. Who knows? Maybe I’d get lucky.

Doogie wasn’t someone one could easily lose sight of; he stood out. He walked everywhere, and not very fast. He sort of lumbered about, sloth-like, stopping often to look around. Two months ago, when I began to casually watch him out of curiosity, I followed him as he skirted around public parks, behind the strip malls, along loading docks and construction sites, parking garages and behind shops and restaurants-anywhere where there were garbage bins or junk piles. He made his rounds carrying large GLAD garbage bags over his hunched shoulders, or pushing a rickety COSTCO shopping cart full of stuff he’d picked up. This was a stereotypical image: a homeless person pushing a shopping cart. But in Doogie’s case, it just looked different, and according to those I’ve talked to on the street concerning him, it sounded different.

After visiting the Tuckmans, it occurred to me how much Doogie stood out from the rest of his family. Blaine stood around five-eight, the same as myself; built thin and angular; Faye was a statuesque five-nine, and Brittany towered over all of us at nearly six feet. The contrast was stunning and saddening. The description I received from the orderly who gave me his file, the photo within the file taken five years ago, and the photos I took of him two months ago, in no way reflected the Tuckman bloodline; especially reviewing my photos, and my photos were the reality.

Doogie was only five-foot-four, 245 pounds; obese, with an unshaven, corpulent face. He looked like a short, fat bear in dirty clothes. His eyes were droopy, his nose bulbous and his mouth sagged down on the right side. He wore long sleeves even on the hottest days, buttoned up to his rolls of neck fat; and he had only two pairs of ragged, filthy jeans. He walked with a bob, and leaned to his left from what seemed to be some past injury to his hip. According to the orderly, he had a speech impediment which slurred his words heavily to the point of sounding unintelligible. It had grown worse while he was at the shelter. His diminished hearing in one ear forced him to almost yell his sentences. Cruelly added to his oral deficiencies was a stammer that further vocalized his mental retardation.

He was often taunted by the other tenants of the shelter. On the street, he was taunted by the public, from kids to passersby, who laughed or swore at him as he lumbered by or rummaged through the dumpsters. A month ago I talked to one kindhearted liquor store manager named Orlando Sikes, who was standing in front of his shop with a lead pipe in his hand. He told me Doogie rummaged through his dumpster out back every few days. The manager felt so sorry for him that he’d leave a bag of food and sundry needs like towels, toilet paper and bottled water for him to find. Doogie would come around the front and try to express his appreciation each time. This brought a smile to the African-American manager’s face as he reflected.

I didn’t know what he was saying, but I felt so bad for that boy, he said. The way he is, his lip all messed up. I know he’s retarded and that just breaks me up because it’s hard enough to survive in this world as it is. He pointed up and down the street. This area is rough. Lots of shootings, muggings. These fucking kids with their gangs and their drugs. That’s why I stand in front of my store with this pipe. His finger continued to point about. I got video cameras inside and outside; a Cop Call button under the register; and a gun, too. I let ‘em know right from the get go, you mess around in my store you’re gonna get fucked up.

He told me the locals made fun of Doogie at every turn. They called him many things: troll, beast, dump truck, fat fuck, along with the other gratuitous obscenities used by today’s indifferent and cruel youth.

The White people call him the Village Idiot, Sikes added. No offense, man. I shook my head to show him none was taken. When they dare to come down this area, they say that. I’ve seem ‘em right here in front my store. They roll down their window and say, ‘There’s the Village Idiot!’ Makes me sick because that boy is harmless. He never hurt anybody.

No, Doogie wasn’t hard to find, but he was missing. So, I stopped at Sikes’ place again, and found him standing dutifully in front with his lead pipe.

No, Doctor, I haven’t seen him in like two weeks, he said with a worried face. Maybe it’s experience or intuition, but I think something’s happened to him. It’s normal for the homeless to disappear; but then, you know that already. I’ll keep the bags of stuff for him if he shows up. I have your card by the register, so I’ll give you a call if I see him.

Sikes’ intuition was probably right. Two weeks is a long time for someone whose life was on the streets, to just not be seen anywhere anymore; especially someone as slow as Doogie. I couldn’t help but consider even more harshly, the disadvantages he possessed. I’ve started entertaining the idea of a new search tomorrow, but not on Bay Area streets. I’m considering locations like abandoned infrastructure projects, drainage ditches, construction holes, gullies, the woods-places one might find. . . a body. I should have gotten to him sooner, goddamnit!

As one of the directors for the Contra Costa Homeless Project or CCHP, an underfunded community mental health center, it was my job to find homeless members of the community suffering from severe mental disabilities, and bring them back to our shelter for treatment. CCHP was not a new program; we had been in existence for more than 18 years, barely avoiding the governor’s annual budget guillotine each year. What was new was our Severe Mental Disorders program, which I had introduced and was now the managing director. As more and more centers were cut throughout California because of the state’s ubiquitous debt problem, and of Congress’ indifferent approach to homeless initiatives, CCHP managed to survive largely because of an alarming trend in annual homeless statistics.

Since 2007, it has been recorded that between 40 and 50 percent of homeless people were mentally ill. According to statistics from several private and governmental authorities, between 150,000 and 200,000 of the homeless have some form of schizophrenia, manic-depression or bipolar disorder. The majority of these cases go untreated. The state’s budget cuts have been devastating in this regard. Newer facilities, wards and wings have been delayed or cancelled, forcing directors to look towards wealthy donors or corporations for sponsorship. Very few respond. Rich politicians or those owned by their corporate overlords don’t concern themselves with the homeless. Like the poor or minorities, it’s not their problem.

When our transportation budget was cut, we had to sell our vehicles that picked up our patients off the streets. Our aqua blue and yellow vans and buses, once seen throughout the East Bay, were no longer on the road. We suffered a double whammy because our patients were left without transportation, and our staff was going broke trying to pick up as many as possible with their own cars. It was virtually impossible to help them all.

Left to themselves on the street with no idea that CCHP was still available, patient traffic grounded down to a halt. Then the Bay Area began seeing a rising trend in homeless crimes. A good number of the victims were being treated by CCHP. Robbed, beaten, raped and murdered—there was no way we could protect them all. I took it very hard when those patients in my ward became victims because they were completely defenseless against the outside world.

I decided to do all I could to protect them and protect our facility. I was already an established author with several fiction thriller titles under my belt. I had earned enough money in advances, sales and guest speaking to invest