"I can't remember exactly when, and I certainly don't know how, but I think it was the third day after my husband went missing that the vision came. Awful. I wish I'd never seen it. I wish I wasn't the one who had to find him. Why couldn't someone else find him? Why? Why punish me with a vision like that?"
~ Zandra, 25 years ago, interview with The New York Times
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The can of Red Bull slaps the white SUV's windshield with a thunk and a chaser of someone shouting, "Fraud!" It's the second time since they left the cemetery that a pedestrian shouted at the SUV, but only the first a can of Red Bull left a starfish in the glass.
Idiot. They should've drunk the Red Bull first, and then threw it.
"Better keep your window rolled up," the man in sunglasses says. "People recognize you."
"How am I supposed to smoke then?" Zandra says and ashes into the breeze outside the passenger side window.
"The taxpayers of America kindly request you not will cracks onto the windshield," the man in sunglasses says.
"Fine," Zandra says and closes the window. The smoldering cigarette still perches between her lips. She waits until the man in sunglasses coughs to extinguish the cherry.
"That bother you, being called a fraud?" the man in sunglasses says.
Now it's Zandra's turn to cough. She hacks into the nook of her elbow. Clearing her throat, she says, "Not in the way they think it does."
I've been lucky for 25 years. Lucky when it matters. The rest I can bullshit my way through, but even then, I wonder. After a certain length of time, you stop thinking it's luck and start thinking it's something else.
That's human nature, to place yourself at the center of some great cosmic coincidence, to think you're so very blessed, so very special. "What are the odds of all of these little things all lining up so perfectly time and time again?" you ask yourself.
But you forget something. You exist in a universe of scale, where infinite possibilities coalesce around single points in time and space with nothing more than statistics to give them meaning. And even that doesn't mean anything, because it doesn't need to mean anything.
Unless you need to make money, of course. Ninety-nine percent of people don't bother looking up at the stars at night. They don't consider that if one of those points of light is a million light years away, then it took a million years for that light to reach their eyes. And what are the odds, in a universe so incredibly vast, that some creature on a rock orbiting a mundane star evolved eyes to even see that light a million years after the fact?
Every moment in time is extraordinary. The levels of perfection and coincidence that need to happen for anything to take place at all—to the birth of a child to waiting in line for an oil change to hurling a Red Bull— are beyond human comprehension.
"Luck" is relative to how much you value any of those things, or how badly the mark who hires a psychic wants answers.
"After cheating and fucking, do you know what most people who paid me at Sneak Peek wanted to know about?" Zandra says to the man in sunglasses.
"Lottery numbers?" the man says and guides the SUV past the campus of the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point.
"Close. Stock picks. They wanted me to choose stocks and say if the price would go up or down. Some were college kids playing slapdick with their tuition money. Others were money managers. Professionals," Zandra says.
"I take it you made some money from stocks yourself, too."
"No. I did make one person fabulously wealthy, though. I called the S&P 500 correctly every week for 52 weeks. They say it's impossible, but I did it," Zandra says.
"I'd like to see the numbers on that one," the man says.
"You could turn on the news. He's a sitting U.S. senator now," Zandra says. "No one said you need to be smart to be in politics, but you do need money."
It's a big claim. Unlike some of Zandra's other statements, it's true.
"How did you do it?" the man says.
"If I'm a fraud, then I got lucky 52 times in a row. And if I'm not lucky, then I'm not a fraud," Zandra says.
And that depends on how you want to count the wins. The headline is getting it right 52 weeks in a row. The full story is that I started a subscription stock picking service a while back. Twenty-thousand people signed up to get stock picks once a week from a world-renowned psychic.
The first week, 10,000 people received my "the S&P 500 will go up" prediction and 10,000 people got my "it'll go down" prediction. I kept the 10,000 that was correct, and the other half I gave a coupon to for some other bullshit I had to sell at the time.
The second week, I repeated the same process as the first week, this time splitting the correct 10,000 in half with the predictions. The same with the third week, and fourth, and fifth, and sixth, until finally I winnowed it down to a single person on the 14th week. That one person, who later went on to run for the U.S. Senate, became so ecstatic with every passing week that he took out several mortgages to juice his positions. By the 14th week, when he went all in on some options plays, he'd become a millionaire several times over.
What about the rest of the weeks up to 52? I advised him to let his money sit until the 52nd week, and then cash out. I cashed out, too, but much earlier on. It cost $500 to sign up for my little experiment. Multiply that by 20,000, and I could light my cigarettes with a roll of hundred-dollar bills. Which I did.
What does this mean? It means that if every event, even the ones that boggle the imagination, is equally a coincidence due to scale and statistics, what about the events that don't use the mechanisms of scale and statistics? Like, oh, say, plucking a vision out of the ether of the location of your murdered husband's body? Or is what we call supernatural pulling from a place of higher order beyond human perception that still delivers coincidences humans can perceive? Real Chaos Theory shit.
More importantly, why should anyone care about these things? Why do I care about these things?
The same reason anyone cares about anything, I guess. Because the world is fucked, and it's OK to give yourself reasons to not be.
The white SUV stops in the parking lot of a Holiday Inn off the highway that runs through Stevens Point. The coral-colored hotel, flanked by rows of bushes, stands proud in its genericism.
Not exactly the secret safe house they show in the movies.
"Was it coupon day at the CIA? A Holiday Inn? Really?" Zandra says as she hobbles out of the SUV.
"I told you. I'm not CIA. As steward of taxpayer dollars, your government determined Holiday Inn to be the most economical option for the services rendered and within the appropriated budget," the man in sunglasses says.
"Can you not talk like that?" Zandra says.
"Like what?"
"Like the side effects disclaimer at the end of a commercial for broke dick pills," Zandra says, taking care to scan the parking lot of the hotel for familiar faces.
"I'll do my best," the man in sunglasses says and tugs at his tie. "I already reserved a room for you. I'll be in a separate one, but not too far away. You'll find changes of clothes on the bed, a fully stocked fridge, and some everyday items ready for you."
Zandra looks at the crusty patch on the sleeve of her purple gown that receives the punishment of her habitual coughing.
A change of clothes couldn't hurt, could it? This purple gown is practically glued to me.
"So I'll look like the typical Stevens Point person?" Zandra says.
"That's the idea. It's the Gray Man Principle. Look forgettable to be invisible," the man in sunglasses says as they approach the entrance to the hotel.
Zandra watches a sixtysomething man and a young woman leave the hotel, splitting paths to take separate cars without a goodbye or even eye contact. There's a negative magnetic push in the space between the two, coupled with slight indecision on which way the bodies should point while they walk. It only takes Zandra a second to recognize the adultery, and one more second after that to spot the prostitution. It's in how reckless the man is, likely due to prior successful experiences of remaining undetected, in exiting in tandem with the young woman instead of waiting. It's also in the purposeful way the young woman moves to the car. They didn't just happen to leave the hotel at the same time. They left together, apart.
Sex trafficking doesn't spare wholesome Midwestern towns like Stevens Point any more than it does Manhattan.
Why would I want to look like the people here?
A couple hours later, Zandra may not look like a new person, but she certainly feels like one. A hot shower after sleeping in other people's cars does more for her spirits than an entire carton of cigarettes. Even the purple gown comes back to life after a soak in the sink and some time in front of a hair dryer.
The new clothes laid out on the bed remain untouched.
No sleeves on any of those. Where am I going to hide the knife?
The blade on the lawnmower knife gets a tune up with some stropping against a fold of newspaper. It's a trick the hermit taught her. Newsprint won't sharpen a knife outright, but it can strip microscopic burrs off the edge and stand the grains of the steel upright for a cleaner cut. It's remarkable how malleable steel can be against the soft surface of a newspaper.
Zandra finds the act of honing the knife to be a sort of hypnosis. It's one of the rare times the fragments floating in her mind settle to the bottom. The knife is also one of the few material possessions of hers not consumed by the fire at Sneak Peek. The purple gown, a tarot deck, a small amount of cash, a pen, cigarettes, two lighters, and a state-issued ID card round out her ensemble.
The activities of Stevens Point's 30,000 residents are, by some mistake of investment banking, covered by not one but two local newspapers. Zandra reads a few headlines while she works the knife. Despite it being the age of the internet, the hotels in town still leave copies outside the guests' doors each morning.
The headlines summarize the rough shape of central Wisconsin's economy. Businesses closing. Mortgages on the rocks. City and county governments scrambling to find ways to provide services despite a looming budget crunch. The sale of Carey Manor. A few stock picks. Typical economic angst.
Finished with the honing, Zandra puts on the purple gown and slips the lawnmower knife up the sheath in her sleeve just in time to hear a knock at her door. She looks through the peephole before working the lock loose.
"I think I liked the suit better," Zandra says and steps aside to let the man in sunglasses into the room. He wears the official summer uniform of Wisconsin: jean shorts, a Packers T-shirt, flip flops, and a sun visor hat. The douche that passes for his cologne makes Zandra sneeze into her sleeve.
Gray Man Principle indeed.
"Did you not see the clothes on the bed?" the man says, sunglasses still firm against the bridge of his nose. "The goal is to keep you alive. Everyone is going to know it's you if you keep wearing that purple thing."
Zandra closes the curtains covering the window. She spots the man from the parking lot earlier, sitting in his car, trying to look inconspicuous. She says, "Don't worry. I tried to disappear years ago. Didn't work."
"If I'm worried, I'm doing my job wrong," the man in sunglasses says. He points to the mirror next to the TV by the bed. "By the way, I've already cleared this room. It's secure. Hotel mirrors are where you've got to be careful. It's easy to hide pinhole recorders in them. Sometimes they're two-way, too."
"Yeah, well if you're me, you worry about a different kind of bug. Did you check under the mattress?" Zandra says.
"Of course."
"No bed bugs?"
"Nothing."
"Good. Then I can sleep here tonight," Zandra says and plops down onto the side of the bed. The mattress wouldn't impress most travelers, but it feels like heaven against her sore hips. "Now tell me more about you. Name, background, everything. I already have a hunch, of course, but I want to be sure. Oh, and one other thing."
"Yes?" the man in sunglasses says.
"Take your sunglasses off when you talk to me," Zandra says.
The man now not wearing sunglasses explains his name is John Smith, a contractor from a company in Colorado called Alabama Research Group, LLC. The company secured a grant from the Office of Naval Research to gather data on psychic phenomena, continuing the work the ONR started in the mid-2010s. His background is a mix of private military contracting, corporate communications, and auto repair.
"Auto repair? Did they pluck you out of a Jiffy Lube or something?" Zandra says.
"Yes, auto repair. In my first career, I was an ASE Master Technician. It was less about fixing cars and more about thinking on your feet. Found my way into a NATO contract to fix vehicles in Europe. Learned real quick that the government is always recruiting a certain type of person. Doesn't matter if you're working on cars, cooking hash browns, or making up stories on the internet. One thing led to another, and now I'm here with you," the man says. He doesn't show any of the telltale signs of lying, maintaining direct eye contact with Zandra the entire time.
Not the worst cover story I've ever heard, but not the best, either. One or two details are probably true to act as a backstop in case the entire yarn gets properly scrutinized.
He's trying too hard to look like he's not lying, which is, ironically, a sign that he's lying. He's very particular about where his eyes are, like he's forcing them. Most people unintentionally look up and to the left when they dig up old information in a conversation. His eyes never budged, and he never blinked.
You know who doesn't blink? People trying too hard.
Zandra squints and rubs her temples. She, too, can put on a passable show. However, some shows are more believable than others.
His ethnicity, it's got to be Middle Eastern or Near East. His name, "John Smith," doesn't match his appearance. Then again, "Zandra" isn't exactly European, either, and here I am.
"John Smith" is so stupidly generic that no one in their right mind would use it as a pseudonym, which is exactly why someone would use it as a pseudonym.
"John Smith isn't your given name," Zandra says. "You're trying a bit of reverse psychology on me, child, and it's not going to work. I see all."
"I've got the documents to prove everything I've told you," the man says.
"Documents can be faked," Zandra says. "This is a post-truth world. The best liars win, because first impressions are always the truth."
Zandra notices that he's leaning slightly to the right, with his right thumb repeatedly grazing the pocket of his jean shorts. The difference between the spacing of the right thumb and the pocket versus the left thumb and that corresponding pocket is minute yet significant. So is the gentle rise of the right pocket against his hip.
I'll bet $1,000 he's got a gun in there. It's a hammerless revolver in a pocket holster, because not much else fits the bill for a pocket on an ugly pair of jorts. If it's that small, it's probably a .38 Special or a 9mm. I'll bet 9mm, since that's the caliber of choice for the federal government right now. Ruger won a contract recently to supply the Office of Naval Research with sidearms. But which model? There's a Ruger LCR in 9mm that's pretty popular. Chances are good enough that that's the one.
If the whole world actually read the articles instead of the headlines, they'd be psychics, too. Newspapers are full of trivial crap.
"Let's be honest about our lies, shall we? I'll buy that you are here on behalf of some government agency, and that's about it. I'll call you Sunglasses, too, and not that ridiculous cover name you selected for yourself," Zandra says.
Zandra waits for Sunglasses to challenge his name, but it doesn't come.
"I told them you'd be hard to keep a lid on," Sunglasses says.
"Only if you believe that I'm a psychic," Zandra says.
"Why do you keep saying that?"
Because I never work with people who haven't been primed. They need to acknowledge on some level that I am who I present myself as, because once they've opened that door to the merry land of magical fuckery even a little bit, I'm in the driver's seat.
"If we're going to work together, we need to understand each other. You knew all about me before you came to find me. You understand who I am, don't you?" Zandra says.
"I do," Sunglasses says.
"Then I want to hear you say it out loud," Zandra says and leans toward Sunglasses.
He clears his throat, straightens his posture, and says, "You are a psychic. Happy?"
Yes. Now I'm in charge.
Zandra rubs her hands together and says, "I'm never happy, but I am hungry," before reaching for the room service menu. The restaurant downstairs offers food 24/7. "Now, where do we begin?"
Sunglasses opens the curtains. "Well, we could start by making a list of your least satisfied customers. That'll give us a base of suspects."
"No, I meant lunch," Zandra says and points to the menu. "Oh, and let me see that Ruger in your pocket. I want to know how you're planning on keeping me alive."
Left the model name out on purpose. The odds of being right are better. Never go all in. Always leave a trap door.
Sunglasses reaches his right hand into his pocket, mouth open just enough to register the shock. He pulls the handgun out and sets it on a desk next to a lamp.
"A Ruger LCR. How did you know?" Sunglasses says.
"You said it yourself," Zandra says. "And now, lunch."
Over an early room service lunch, Sunglasses tells Zandra everything he knows about who is coming for her, which isn't much. It's likely one person, but it could be more. The motive is revenge.
I can relate.
"It would be a cheap plot twist, don't you think, if it turned out that you were the one planning to kill me?" Zandra says between bites of onions rings wet with oil and over seasoned garlic knots on the bed, reminding herself to pop a mint later. She wipes her fingers on the comforter.
Sunglasses nibbles on a salad like a rabbit. He sets his fork down.
"I don't know about plot twists, but you're still here, enjoying lunch that I paid for, on a bed that you paid for with your taxes, assuming you've ever paid taxes, but I'm not with the IRS, so it doesn't matter. Besides, don't you think you would've left by now if you really thought that?" Sunglasses says.
Zandra feels for the knife up her sleeve. "I suppose I would."
A classic way to avoid telling a lie, and therefore being revealed as a liar by someone like me, is to answer a question with another question. The really good liars will stick the question at the end of a string of sentences that are only there to fill space.
Or not. It's all odds.
"Where are we going first?" Sunglasses says.
The tug of the soft bed answers that question without asking another question.
"Up first is me taking a nap," Zandra says. "Go to your room and come back in a couple hours."
Fifteen minutes later, Zandra watches the hypnagogic spiders and ants march down the right angles of the ceiling as she settles into sleep.
Sunglasses is right that someone wants to kill me, butI don't think he appreciates who we might be dealing with here. He's going to need a bigger gun.