Origins: A Paranormal Thriller: Cassie Reynold Psychic Thriller Series, #1

By Eric Drouant

A Top Secret government program uncovers two young psychics with unheard of telepathic ability. In a world where knowledge is power, Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore could prove to be the ultimate weapon in the raging Cold War. Neither wants any part of it. 

When evidence of their paranormal ability grows, two men will battle to decide their fate. One will attempt to enslave them. The other offers freedom. As the conflict unfolds,Cassie and Ronnie find themselves trapped between powerful forces, spinning their lives out of control. Until Cassie decides to fight back. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Drouant
• Release date: Jul 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536536133

Book preview

Prologue

Pontchartrain Beach Amusement Park was a New Orleans staple, a destination for local families for over a generation. Roller coasters, a Ferris Wheel, the Wild Mouse, the Barrel, and row upon row of carnival games, along with cheap food, drew families from all over the southern part of the state of Louisiana. Set snugly against the waters of Lake Pontchartrain, the park was now winding down the summer season and closing in the early evening, as the days grew progressively shorter. On this day, closing time came before sunset and the young families straining for that last bit of fun before winter began were long gone. All that remained were a few stray security guards and a janitor or two in the park itself, preparing for a long night of work. Those people were inside though, and in the parking lot, the few cars were mostly unoccupied. Mostly. The park itself was surrounded by a low line of bushes, kept neatly trimmed during peak season, but now showing the effects of slowing attendance numbers and the knowledge that winter would soon thin them out without any effort on the part of the staff. A tall chain link fence behind the bushes rose ten feet into the air. The sun sat low on the horizon and the undergrowth was in deep shadow.

Cassie Reynold emerged from the small row of bushes beside the fence pushing out of the shadows and into the scattered light of the asphalt parking lot. Bits and pieces of plant clung to her hair, bits of green in a mass of brown curls pulled back with a yellow ribbon tied into a bow. She carried herself slowly, the weight of the world pressed down on young shoulders, beaten, dirty, and exhausted. Haggard eyes looked out from a face that had seen more pain than youth. She took two steps, hesitated, looked left and then right to where an older man in a mid-size sedan stood talking with a young boy. They both looked her way. The boy opened the door of the car and got into the back seat, the man following, passing around the hood and slid into the driver’s seat. Both sets of eyes remained fixed on the girl.

Across the parking lot, directly in front of Cassie, another man sat in a parked car. He was neatly dressed, gray suit and white shirt, the kind of man anyone passing on the street would ignore. He read a newspaper, which he folded and set on the seat beside him when Cassie appeared out of nowhere. He got out of the car and stood next to the open door, took a few steps of his own toward the girl. He watched her approach with surprise and no small amount of excitement, though neither emotion played across his face.

As if finally making some kind of decision, Cassie walked straight across the parking lot, moving faster now. Her gait was steady, her eyes fixed on the man beside the car as he waited. The man noticed the ribbon in her hair was neat and clean and somehow it seemed out of place with her ragamuffin appearance, as if someone had picked up a doll in a thrift store and brightened it up with a little color. Behind her, the lattice network of support pilings for the roller coaster cast a crisscross network of shadow across the lot. Cassie’s feet broke the pattern as she moved forward, shadow, square of light, shadow, square of light.

Her eyes remained fixed on the man ahead of her. He took a step back as she approached. She stopped fifteen feet away, spoke a few words, hesitated, and stepped forward again. He smiled and after a moment patted his coat just over his left breast. The girl spoke again and pointed across the lot to the car parked at the end of the paved surface. Inside, the boy waited, door open and one foot on the ground. The man in front of her turned his head in that direction, decided the car offered no threat, and turned back. He found himself looking at a pistol. Cassie Reynold, 13 years old, said Gotcha. Then she pulled the trigger.

Chapter One

––––––––

James Cutter sat in front of a desk. The desk sat in a small office. The small office sat on a military base in Southeast Louisiana. The air conditioning was barely adequate, and that, coupled with his tension, had Cutter sweating around the collar. Early spring in Louisiana can be brutal, midsummer is worse, and the dog days of August that drip with humidity are almost unbearable. Cutter thought it might take a man a lifetime to get used to this kind of wet, dripping heat and wondered if he had that long. The A/C churned on gamely but succeeded in merely knocking off the edge.

The man behind the desk wasn’t helping. Cutter met General Philip Archer only once prior, and that meeting seemed like a dream at the time. Archer appeared in Cutter’s office a little over two years ago with an impressive proposal, a proposal that Cutter accepted without hesitation. Unlimited funding and free reign were always attractive to a college professor seeking tenure and financial stability. The idea that he would one day be accountable to Archer, one of the most powerful men in Washington, albeit one who habitually flew under the radar, was the furthest thing from his mind. Since that day Cutter operated in relative peace, filing regular progress reports (which admittedly amounted to very little) and received no input in return.

The stakes were high. Archer, a benign looking older man with an unassuming manner on the day he sat in the visitor’s chair across the country, now seemed distinctly more menacing. He did, after all, hold sway over Cutter’s life and career. All his eggs were in Archer’s basket Cutter thought ruefully, and over the course of the last two years, Archer received very little in return for his investment.

Two days ago, summoned from his post at Stanford, Cutter flew in from California on a military plane with ten seats. He was the only passenger. He never saw the pilots. The only other person on the plane was a stern- faced and silent sergeant who brought him a cup of coffee as they passed over the Rocky Mountains, serving him with a distant politeness that did nothing to ease his mind. The plane landed at a small airfield where a drab colored staff car waited. It seemed to Cutter he was in the middle of nowhere. He got in and the driver pulled away without a word. A few minutes later, a green road sign told him he was five miles from Leesville, La, and sometime after that, another green road sign told him he was entering Ft. Polk. His driver never spoke, displaying the same type of uncaring politeness as the sergeant, a kind of offhanded courtesy borne of days filled with driving strangers to meetings that he himself would not attend.

The silence and the courtesy ended at the door. Archer went directly to the point. It’s been two years Dr. Cutter, and quite frankly you’ve given me nothing but a bunch of maybes and some speculation. The General took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes and put them back on with a sigh. What I want to know is when I can expect some concrete results?

So here it is, thought Cutter. He was thinking, for some reason, of his favorite restaurant back in California, a family owned affair with good food and a quiet atmosphere. He was fond of sitting in the back corner, ordering a nice meal, and relaxing with a cold beer in the evening. The man sitting across from him made that luxury possible. Before Archer walked into his office, Cutter was more likely to be heating up a TV dinner in the low rent apartment he occupied as a junior level, poorly paid college professor. Now that he thought of it, he missed his apartment too. He wanted to be home and away from Archer, away from the sticky wetness of Louisiana, away from this room.

He did however, have one small avenue of hope, a germ of an idea that might help him at least prolong the joy of good meals and a comfortable bed. Two months ago, his neighbor’s cat was scrounging around in the backyard. The cat knocked over a garbage can, waking him from a sound sleep on the couch. Cutter got up from the couch and went to his back door. The cat was sitting on the garbage rooting around for whatever tidbit that managed to catch his attention. When he opened the door, the black and white male, too well fed to be digging in garbage cans, watched him without much concern. Cutter recognized him right away.

Jinx, what are you doing? Go back home, Cutter said. The cat belonged to his neighbors, or more specifically to the little girl who lived next door. In the mornings, Jinx prowled his own yard as well as Cutter’s, coming by to investigate when Cutter walked to his car or did yard work. If it had been a stray, he might have found something to chunk at the animal. Instead, he took a step out into the yard, intending to shoo away the furred invader. Before he could get any further than a step, he heard another voice.

I’m sorry, Mr. Cutter. I’ll get him. Looking over the chain link fence between his yard and the neighbor’s was Jinx’s owner. He’s just so bad. I fed him a half hour ago. She moved down the fence, opened the gate in front and came into the backyard. Jinx, you bad thing, she scolded. Jinx must have decided whatever was in Cutter’s garbage unworthy of any further attention and scuttled back over the fence into his own yard.

Don’t worry about it, Sheila. No big deal, Cutter said, bending over and putting the lid firmly back on the can. No harm done.

I don’t know why he does that, Sheila said, It’s not like we don’t feed him. I’m really sorry.

Sometimes cats like to get their own food. It makes them feel like hunters or something, Cutter said, heading back into his house. Jinx is welcome over here anytime, just not in the garbage cans.

Cutter went back to his couch and closed his eyes. Before he fell back to sleep, he thought of Sheila. That kid loved her cat. More than once he saw her brushing Jinx out on the front porch, the cat rolling around in front of her, strolling back and forth, soaking up the attention like a sponge. Sheila looked happy too, running the brush over the cat’s back and belly over and over. Kids, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep, are as simple as cats.

The thought came back to him as he sat in front of Archer. Maybe what he needed to do was keep things simple, reduce everything down to the most basic information he could get. Keep it simple, stupid.

I think we need a different filter, he said. The words were out of mouth before he could stop them.

What kind of filter are you proposing, Doctor? asked Archer. We’ve given you everything you asked for and more. Several times more, in fact.

Cutter took a deep breath, pulled at the collar of his shirt and took the plunge. It was a desperate gamble but he couldn’t tell Archer the truth, which that he simply had nothing left in his trick bag.

I want to try kids. I know it sounds crazy but listen to me. All along, we’ve been using adults. That’s fine. They come up with some things that are in line with what we’re looking for. The problem is they don’t seem to be able to hone in on things. They know too much. They..... project their experiences into what they’re seeing, and we have to spend too much time deciding whether what we’re getting is observation or their opinion of what they’re seeing. What we need are some subjects we can kind of tailor into observers, blank slates. The adults give us too much feeling, too much of their own interpretation. What I’d like to try is some younger subjects, screened for intelligence and language ability, and see what happens.

Archer laughed. You have to be kidding me, he said. He stood up shaking his head. You want to do what? Grab some kids off the street and bring them to your secret lab under the stairs? We’re not in the business of kidnapping kids. Forget it.

Cutter shifted in his seat, felt sweat trickling just above his hairline. He fought the urge to pull out his handkerchief and wipe his face.

We don’t have to do that. We can use volunteers. Here’s what we do. We go around to a couple of dozen schools in the major cities and talk to the principals. We ask them for their brightest kids. People that can do this kind of thing tend to be above average performers. Their IQ tests are in the one-twenty to one-thirty range. They also tend to have a little more ability in other areas. They see things other people don’t, and they have a knack for predicting sequences and patterns. They’re good at card games. They win more than they should.

If we put it across the right way, call it a screening for a scholarship or advanced placement or something, the kids and parents would buy into it. Make them think their kids are something special. We could have them lining up to get into this thing. It would only be an hour or two a week for each kid. We could do a trial run for six months or so and see what the results are. If it doesn’t work out, we call it quits.

Archer sat back in his chair. For a few moments, he said nothing. Cutter tried to speak and Archer waved him down. Cutter spent the time listening to the rattle of the air conditioning. Finally, the older man nodded his head.

I’ll consent to another six months. I don’t think it’s going to work out but we’ve come this far so we might as well give it some more time. However, I don’t think you’ve given this enough thought. You’re buying time until you come up with another angle. Am I right?

Cutter nodded.

I thought so. Again, I don’t think you’ve thought this out well enough. Let me ask you a question, Archer said.

What’s that? asked Cutter.

What are you going to do if it works?

––––––––

Blessed Savior Christian School occupied the corner of a busy street near Lake Ponchartrain. The school, like the neighborhood around it, had long ago settled in for the long haul. The church building itself was white painted brick, set well back from the street, anchoring the property. In the rear of the church, and to one side, classroom buildings now sat where once stood wood frame houses. When the church decided to get into the teaching business, the homeowners took the opportunity to move on and the lots were bulldozed to make way for classrooms. The playground, adjacent to the church, came from the same bulldozing and the result was a grassy area with an underlying feel of hard packed clay beneath. It was green, but you didn’t want to fall too hard on it. On a mid-morning early in the school year, the playground was packed with students. Some ran in an endless game of catch-me kill-me, others sprawled across monkey bars. Boys in plaid shirts tossed around a football at one end; girls scratched out hopscotch underneath a basketball goal that needed a net. An obedient few were already lining up to go back to class. It was the kind of controlled chaos occurring every day in schools across America, with sharp-eyed teachers working the perimeter, keeping their charges together and away from the street.

Clinton Farrow edged his rented vehicle into a narrow gap between two parked cars, shut off the engine and picked his briefcase up off the seat. The small private school just off Elysian Fields was his third stop of the morning. He wondered again what kind of fool’s errand Cutter was sending him on. Also working the New Orleans area was his partner, Sidney Ruff, who had expressed his own doubts. Both Farrow and Ruff were working a list of schools to canvas for the prototype child Cutter envisioned. The work was tiring and in Farrow’s mind, useless. Well, maybe not useless. The search would at least prolong the project until something better came along. Farrow reached into his pocket, pulling out his notes as he crossed the median. He was tall and lean and his crew cut head towered over the kids on the playground. He headed toward the closest adult, a harried looking woman who seemed to be scolding a redheaded young boy for some indiscretion.

Excuse me, Miss. I’m looking for Ellen Keating. The Principal? I have a meeting with her this morning.

Go stand over against the flagpole, Ray, the woman said to the redhead, five minutes and you can go, and consider yourself lucky it’s not a detention. She turned and smiled at Farrow. I’m sorry, she said and turned to point back toward the church. Go around the side there and you’ll see a little arch between the buildings. Walk through there and Mrs. Keating’s office is the second door on the right.

Before Farrow could thank her, she was hustling off, her voice carrying across the playground to where two girls were pulling a third around on a piece of cardboard. He turned and walked away, following the cracked concrete sidewalk around the building. A portico ran between the church and another building. It was topped with a cross covered in stucco and painted a brilliant white. Farrow passed through, found the second door on the right, a solid looking piece of oak with a small plaque that read Ellen Keating. He knocked twice. When there was no response, he knocked again, waited. He was about to try the doorknob when the door opened and he found himself face to face with a plump brunette. She was wearing a blue dress with pearl white buttons that ran that ran all the way from her ankles to her throat. She was also wearing too much rouge, Farrow thought. Her cheeks stood out, red and powdered, like a child’s doll.

Yes? she said.

Mrs. Keating? I’m Doctor Farrow. I called you on the phone?

Yes, yes, come in Doctor. Can I offer you something to drink? I don’t have much but I can get you some Kool-Aid or something from the lunch room, or there’s a water fountain down the hall.

No, thank you, Farrow said. I’m fine.

Well then, come on in and let’s talk. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve chosen some of our students for your program. We pride ourselves on giving the children the best Christian education we can.

Ellen Keating gestured to a chair in front of her desk. They were in a small spare office. A series of pictures lined the wall. Graduating classes, Farrow assumed. The children in the pictures stood in a straight line in front of a small altar, a white cross in the background. They were all neatly dressed and a smiling Ellen Keating stood next to them. Those are my kids, Keating said. At least I call them my kids. I’ve been here eight years. Come next year we’ll be hanging another one next to those. I’ll have to get a bigger office before long. Laughing, she waved her hand at him in a shooing gesture. But listen to me. You’re not here to talk about me. If I understand correctly you’re here to offer scholarships to some of my kids, aren’t you?

That could be, Mrs. Keating. I certainly hope so.

Well, I assure you Mr. Farrow, you won’t find better prospects than right here at the Blessed Savior Christian School. We’ve got fine teachers and our students come from good Christian families.

I’m sure this is a good school, Mrs. Keating, which is the primary reason the school was selected. Now, let me explain a little about how this program works. We have a limited number of scholarships that we will be offering to exceptional students beginning four years from now. We want to identify those students right now, in order to follow their progress. We will be doing testing on two selected students from every participating school to see if they qualify. What I need from you is the names of your two very best students. We’ll do some preliminary testing and if they do well, we’ll monitor them over their high school careers and the scholarships will be available when they graduate.

Oh, my, Keating said. Only two students? I was under the impression this was open to everyone.

Farrow shook his head. I’m afraid not. As I said, we have a limited number of openings. We don’t have the resources to test large numbers so we’re relying on well trained educators like you to identify the most likely candidates. He paused, pulled the carrot back. If that’s a problem the school doesn’t have to participate.

Oh, no, Keating said, waving her hands as if banishing the thought of not being a part of this. No, it’s just that we have so many promising young people here. It might be hard to pick just two. Give me a minute to think.

That’s fine, Keating said. You can call me back later if you’d like. I’ll leave you my card. But you understand the importance of starting this immediately, so...

Keating hesitated, reached for the phone, stopped, and reached again. She dialed a quick three numbers and waited. Farrow could hear the ringing on the other end. When it stopped, Keating said Karen? Can you send me the records for Ronnie Gilmore and Cassie Reynold, please? Yes, now if you would. Thank you. She hung up and smiled again. I think I have just the pair for you, Mr. Farrow.

Oh no, we think it’s great. We’re going to love being damn babysitters every day of the week, Farrow said. He and his partner Sidney Ruff were sitting in a conference room across the table from Cutter. How the hell did you let yourself get roped into this Jim?

"Because it’s