Behold ! Read online

  “Mom, why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to move?” Pris had wailed. “I want my old bedroom back, I want my backyard swing set, I want my treehouse Daddy and I built, I want to...” She stopped abruptly, as recognition dawned on her that she would never swing, or climb trees, or even get upstairs to her bedroom with assistance. “I just want to be left alone for a while,” she had finished.

  And Marrisa had left her alone, for two weeks. At the end of that time, they had the first of their many fights. “You don’t have a choice, you have to eat,” Marrisa had chastised Pris when she refused to open her mouth to be fed.

  “Fix it where I can feed myself,” Pris had demanded.

  “You’re being unreasonable,” Marrisa had replied. “I don’t even know if that’s possible.”

  “Have you even tried?” Pris had shot back.

  “Young lady, let me explain how it is to you,” Marrisa had said crossly. “I didn’t want to sell our home, I had to. Even after all the insurance payments from your father’s company and the other driver’s company, we still owed the hospital over 250 thousand dollars. And the surgeons waived a lot of their fees mainly because what they had hoped would happen, didn’t. They offered to set up a payment schedule, but on my salary, we barely have enough for expenses.”

  “How generous of them,” Pris had shouted in fury. “They wrecked my body; I can’t do anything except breathe, and they waived their fees? We should be suing them for malpractice or something.”

  “Listen to me very closely,” Marrisa had said then, becoming very quiet and moving very close to her daughter’s face. “Those doctors saved your life. You were dead, for all intents and purposes. Your body was so badly mangled; they really didn’t think you’d pull through.” Tears had sprung into Marrisa’s eyes, but she dashed them away and struggled on. “I begged them to try anything, unorthodoxed, untried, experimental; I couldn’t bear to lose your father and you.” And then, she had laid her face in her hands and openly wept in front of her daughter for the first time.

  Later that day, Marrisa had told Priscilla about the storage unit. “Most of your belongings, including Fred, are there,” she said. “We can get all the things you want to keep and sell or donate the rest.”

  When Marrisa had wheeled Pris to the roll up door, in a borrowed wheelchair from the hospital, Pris had not been sure how she would feel. As the door went up, Fred was setting right on top of a stack of boxes in the middle of the small room. Memories of her father bringing it home, and playing with her on it, and teasing her about never getting off of it, all came flooding back. Priscilla had hung her head and wept, finally allowing herself to truly mourn her father.

  Once she was cried out, they talked about what to keep. “I don’t think I can bear to have it around, Mama,” Pris had admitted. “Every time I look at it, I just want to cry again.”

  “IT’S TIME TO GET ON with my life, and make the most of it I can,” Pris had observed soon thereafter, and they had agreed it was time for her to return to public school. Now she had a new Fred, and a new friend, and a new life, restricted as it may be. And she felt like the best might be yet to come.

  “Have you notice how everyone steers a wide berth around us?” Ham had mentioned the second week of school. “It’s like we’re suddenly respected.”

  “More like either feared or loathed,” Pris had responded. “I don’t see respect in any of their colors,” she finished absently.

  “What do you mean; their colors?” Ham inquired.

  Oh, nothing,” Pris tried to quickly dismiss her slip. “I mean their complexions, you know, if they were respectful, they’d blush or show some sign of acknowledgement.”

  “Nah, I’m not buying it,” Ham countered. “I’ve watched you with people for two weeks, and you seem to be able to pick the friendliest, most trustworthy, reliable students on the campus. How is that?”

  “I’m just a little empathetic, I guess,” Pris deflected.

  “Come on, now, I’ve exposed my superpower, it’s your turn,” Ham chided.

  “Okay,” Pris sighed. “I can read people’s auras.”

  “Sure, sure, you can...say what?” Ham stuttered. “You can read their auras, like their color signatures, you mean?”

  “I don’t know what that is, but I’ve researched enough to believe I’m seeing auras,” she explained quietly.

  They were parked under their favorite tree, having gone outside into the pleasant afternoon air after another boring lunch. Ham had taken to feeding her and himself with his good hand, and they were now seen as a couple on campus.

  “So, what does her aura look like?” Ham asked of a passing girl.

  “She’s pretty, right?” Pris had observed.

  “Sure,” Ham acknowledged.

  “Well, I’ve read enough now to interpret colors, and she’s a manipulative user, who is afraid of something or someone here at school,” Pris announced.

  “How do you know all that?” Ham asked incredulously.

  “Her aura is violet, not purple, with large gray masses in it, and has a heavy black halo around it. Violet means persuasive, intuitive, or visionary, but it can also mean manipulative,” she explained. “The gray means she’s afraid of or resisting something, something powerfully impactful in her life. And the black halo signifies she’s either grieving or has a grudge against someone. I’ve watched how she is with boys, and she uses her beauty and body to get them to do what she wants.”

  “Do you suppose the fear and grudge could have the same source?” Ham asked.

  “I’m not that good at this yet,” Pris admitted. “I’m still studying it, and there are a lot of nuances in the process. I’ve also learned auras can change from time to time, and even day to day if there’s something powerful influencing a person’s psyche.”

  “So, you’re psychic?” Ham asked with wonder.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she replied. “I can’t read minds or anything, I just see their colors. And something else I can’t find any reference to; I can also see a glittering, bright area around everyone’s heart. It’s different for each person. Some are almost so bright they hurt my eyes, while others are dim, or watery, like looking through cellophane.”

  “And you have no idea what that is?” Ham replied. “It’s not something to do with their auras?”

  There’s no mention in any of the literature I have access to, and I’ve read everything that even gets close to the topic,” Pris assured him. “I’m still looking, but I really don’t know what it is.”

  At that moment, an older man walked hurriedly past, and Pris was shocked by what she saw. Her sharp intake of breath, and the way it caused her chair to jerk, was the only indication Ham saw, but he’d gotten to know her fairly well in the past two weeks.

  “What is it?” he asked quickly.

  “That man who just walked by, the older one?” Pris said, by way of identification. When Ham nodded, she said, “His aura is all black. I’ve never seen one all black, even the really dark ones have some color. And his glitter?” she paused. When Ham nodded again, she said breathlessly, “He doesn’t have one.”

  “Excuse me,” Ham called to a passing student who looked to be older than most. The young man hesitated, then walked back and stood before them. “Do you know who that older man is in the gray coveralls, going across the common?” Ham asked, pointing.

  The student looked to where he indicated and said, “That’s Mr. Jenkins, the head custodian. Nobody messes with him.”

  When he started to walk away, Ham asked, “Why not?”

  Hesitating, the young man drew closer and spoke softly. “They say he killed a man in a fistfight when he was young. Beat him to death with his bare hands. They say he spent 30 years in prison. The school only hired him last year, and a lot of the parents are telling the school to get rid of him. He scares everyone.” At that, the young man turned and walked quickly away.

  Ham and Pris looked at each other, startled. Could there be some connect
ion with his glitter and his crime? Then the bell rang for the next class period. As they rolled toward the building, Ham said, “Oh, hey, by the way. I didn’t really think you had super powers, I was just teasing. Thanks for sharing with me, okay?”

  FOUR

  “I WONDER WHY THERE are police cars everywhere.” Priscilla said as the hydraulic lift lowered her and her chair to the pavement. Ham had moved to the side of the van, in the striped no parking area, to be there for her in case something happened. He knew there was little he could actually do, but Pris felt better when he was there.

  “Mr. Jenkins was murdered in his office Friday night, according to the rumors flying around,” Ham informed her. “Or he was abducted by aliens, and his lifeless husk was dropped back in his office over the weekend. I’ve heard both,” he shrugged his one good shoulder.

  “Isn’t he the dark man with no sparkle?” Pris asked as Marrisa came around the front of the van.

  “What did you just say, Priscilla?” Marrisa asked, having overheard her last question.

  “Oh, I said he had no sparkle. You know, he just sort of shuffled around, looking at the ground?” Pris answered, hoping her prevarication wouldn’t catch up to her. “And he was always frowning, like he was angry. You know; a dark personality?”

  “Hmmm,” Marrisa replied, uncertain whether to press the issue.

  “We really should be heading to class, as your chair takes a little longer than mine,” Ham offered hopefully.

  “I’ll see you at four,” Marrisa said to her daughter. The look on her face said he’d touched a nerve, but he didn’t understand what.

  “Mom, we have a Debate Club meeting after school, and it’s not over until five,” she reminded.

  “Then I’ll be right here at five,” Marrisa promised. As she got in the van and pulled away from the parallel parking spot, another man stepped from behind an SUV parked in the next space in the row.

  “I need a few minutes of your time, and I’ll vouch for your tardiness,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, simultaneously pulling his jacket off the front of his belt to reveal a police detective’s shield.

  “Of, course, detective, how may we be of assistance?” Ham inquired immediately.

  Pris was once again impressed with how easily Hamilton maneuvered in the presence of strangers. She looked at the detective and smiled what she hoped was a friendly, cooperative expression.

  “Your name is Priscilla?” he asked her.

  Surprised, she nodded mutely, but Ham was quick to respond. “Interesting how you already know our names, Detective...?” he paused inquisitively.

  “Where are my manners?” the detective quipped. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Frank Kratos of the Chickasha PD; and your name, young man?”

  “Ah, you overheard Mrs. Benson call her Pris, and took a guess it wasn’t a nickname but rather short for Priscilla,” Ham guessed. “I’ll bet you’re really good at detecting. I’m Hamilton Nichols.”

  “Any kin to Martin Nichols, works for Alert Medical Systems?” Frank inquired.

  “He’s my father,” Ham replied quietly. The dark wings of misery which flitted for an instant through his eyes said he didn’t really like being identified as his father’s son.

  Frank’s expression took on a hooded look for a moment before he peered up from his notepad and smiled. “Your father does a lot of good work for the ADA community in Chickasha.”

  “And just how are you associated with our community, Detective?” Pris spoke for the first time.

  “Mt wife is bedridden; has been for nearly a decade,” he replied solemnly. “MS took her mobility at a young age. Your father went out of his way to help the department get the very best medical equipment available for her condition, even when the insurance wouldn’t cover specific models and features.”

  “Ah,” Ham replied. “Yeah, he designed and had the factory custom build this model for me,” he shared.

  “So, back to you, Priscilla; your last name is?” Frank asked politely.

  “Benson,” Pris responded. “I suppose you knew my father as well?”

  Frank was quick enough to catch the past tense, and his eyes clouded as he searched his memory. “Phillip Benson; his car was struck by a tractor-trailer after it jumped the median, three years ago. The truck driver had a massive heart-attack, and was DOA. Benson was killed instantly, and his daughter...” he stammered to a stop. “I’m very sorry, Priscilla, I sometimes do that without thinking, hazard of the job. I read about all the surgeries you endured, and the struggles you and your mother have suffered. I’m sorry for you loss,” he finished in a whisper.

  “You’re very kind to remember,” Pris offered.

  “Yes, well, I’ve had some little exposure to auras, and I believe you have as well, haven’t you?” he asked candidly.

  “Ah, I’m not sure exactly what you’re talking about...” Ham said, attempting to intercede, but Pris called him off.

  “It’s okay, Ham, he’s one of the good guys.” She had been studying his aura and was beginning to understand she was in the presence of a rare human being, indeed.

  “Tell me what you see, Priscilla, if you would, please?” Frank asked.

  “Magenta aura, bright reddish-purple, with beautiful gold and peach striations coursing through it. The aquamarine halo around it helps me understand how very special you are,” she replied breathlessly.

  “I’m having a good day, then,” Frank responded. “Clara says my peach doesn’t manifest as often as I should let it, and the blue-green only comes and goes.”

  “Clara is your wife, I’m guessing?” Pris said.

  “Yes, and I tease her about it all the time,” he smiled, “Clara the clairvoyant.”

  “But I’m not clairvoyant,” Pris argued. “I just see auras. I don’t see the future, or tell fortunes, or read palms or Tarot cards...”

  “Yet,” Frank interjected. “After MS began to take portions of her mind, Clara developed unusual talents of being able to see and follow people anywhere within the greater city area. She’s helped my with many of my cases, and the department begrudgingly admits I’m not smart enough by myself to have the highest closing rate of any officer on the force.”

  “I’d love to meet her,” Priscilla enthused. “I have so many questions.”

  “We can probably arrange that, but we’ll have to wait for a cogent day,” Frank explained. “Clara, unfortunately, can go for several days at a time unable to communicate even by grunting. And the next day she’ll wake up, quite literally, singing.” The look on his face spoke of how much he adored his beloved. Shaking himself as if he’d felt a chill, Frank returned to the business at hand.

  “So, tell me about Mr. Jenkins.” It wasn’t a suggestion; he was now all business.

  When Pris got to the part about the sparkle, it was Frank’s turn to be in awe. The look on his face said all that was needed; his response verified it. “You see people’s souls,” he breathed.

  “What?” both young people exploded simultaneously.

  “Yes, my wife has described the ability as she learned about it from her mentor.” Frank was almost effervescent. “An honest-to-God swami lived right here in Chickasha, Oklahoma until about five years ago when he passed away at a very old age. He used to come and sit with Clara, and I swear they were telepathic. They’d sit silently for the entire period, especially when Clara couldn’t speak. And yet, when she could, she’d tell me he was teaching her so much.”

  “But how do you know I see people’s souls?” Pris insisted.

  “Because you described it exactly the way Clara said Swami Maukra did,” Frank explained, “a sparkling of bright energy centered around the heart. Speaking of which; what a day of discovery, but let’s get back to Mr. Jenkins. What was it about him you were saying when you got out of the van?”

  “His aura was totally black, and he had no sparkle,” Pris confirmed.

  “No sparkle meaning what; he had no soul?” Ham interjected. “How is that poss
ible? Everyone alive has a soul,” he stated emphatically.

  “Actually, according to Swami Maukra, there are many people who have no soul, as we know it,” Frank shared. “Clara says they lose it because they have no compassion, faith, or trust in humanity. They’ve been injured or damaged by an event, their environment, or society to the point their soul has been suppressed to where it no longer exhibits, or at least that any mystic can see.”

  “How many people can read auras, or see souls?” Pris wanted to know.

  “That’s a good question, miss,” Frank replied. “From most of the research Clara and I have conducted together, it’s about one in 250 thousand for auras. The number is much larger in Tibet, India, and parts of Pakistan, but that may just be due to the higher exposure and number of mystical people available to point the way. Soul-readers are much more rare; there’s not even a statistic of which I’m aware.”

  Pausing to reflect, Frank spoke again. “So, if Jenkins had a black aura and no soul, it’s possible he wasn’t killed at all. Maybe he just gave up living. That would explain the MEs preliminary finding of natural causes.”

  “So, he wasn’t murdered or abducted by aliens?” Ham asked.

  “The first part is inconclusive; the second, I can’t speak to. That would be Sgt. Smithman, the desk sergeant,” Frank supplied. “He’s the X-Files fanatic. I suppose you two should get to class,” Frank conceded. “I’ll walk you into the office and vouch for you.”

  As they approached the building, Frank hesitated before deciding to forge ahead. “I think it best if we keep your talent from the general public, at least for now. There’s no telling how many kooks there are out there, and you’re pretty vulnerable. I’ll inform the assigned Security Officer to keep an eye on you, but better no one else know for now. Does your mother know?” he asked, looking straight into Pris’ eyes.