BRAINRUSH, a Thriller (5 page)

Venice, Italy

L
uciano Battista looked out on the small crowd of scientists, students, and journalists. Folding chairs had been set up in the gymnasium-sized, enclosed courtyard of the
palazzo
, the crowd gathered for a rare tour of the institute and its school for young autistic savants. 

Battista was just winding up his presentation regarding their research. Like a snake charmer playing a hypnotizing melody on a gourd flute, he had every one of them leaning forward on their small folding chairs, hanging on his words.

“Let me give you another example. A perfectly normal ten-year-old boy is hit in the head with a baseball. He suffers a mild concussion and recovers completely in a few days. Only now he has a photographic memory and can recall images and text in amazing detail. In every other respect he is exactly the same. How did that trauma unlock this ability? More importantly, if such abilities can be unlocked accidentally, shouldn’t we be able to access them intentionally?”

One of the journalists spoke up. “Doctor Battista, you seem to be suggesting that these abilities reside in each of us, just waiting to be awakened.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Some people are born with genius-like abilities, and many others develop them after trauma. And we’re not only talking about photographic or eidetic memories, but an entire spectrum of talents. Imagine what it must be like to be able to perform a vastly complex mental calculation in a matter of seconds, or to learn a new language in a week, or to compose an entire symphony in your head and then write the music in just a few hours.”

He shifted through a small folder on the podium and pulled out an eleven-by-fourteen-inch image that appeared to be a photo of St. Mark’s Basilica. He held it up. “This drawing was done by one of our six-year-old students. Look at the detail, the incredible depth of color. It’s hard to believe it isn’t a photograph.” He set the print down, rested his hands on the podium, and leaned forward. “There is even one blind artist who draws with crayons. Yes, I said ‘blind.’ His drawings sell for over ten thousand dollars each. Even our blessed pope has one.”

A murmur rustled through the crowd. Battista pointed casually at the journalist who had asked the question. “What if you could snap your fingers and unlock these abilities within yourself?”

The journalist didn’t reply, but one of the college students yelled, “I’ve got midterms next week. Sign me up!”

Several others in the crowd nodded their heads. Someone asked, “Doctor Battista, are these talents limited to mental abilities?” 

“Actually, in some cases they translate into physical abilities, like the incredible control exhibited by Eastern yogis and Tibetan monks over their autonomic nervous system. They can, for example, slow their heart rate to almost nil, or sit in freezing weather with no clothing and actually dry wet towels on their backs with the intense heat generated within their bodies purely by mental concentration. This is called Tahumo. 

 “All of these examples are real and thoroughly documented. If such demonstrable feats of extraordinary mental, artistic, and physical functioning exist in even a small group of people, it indicates that the human brain certainly has capacities that are not tapped by the majority.” Several heads in the audience nodded. Battista continued. “There is mounting evidence that these abilities exist in each of us. And if these abilities can be awakened by accident or trauma, they can most certainly be awakened by science.”   

His eyes rested for a moment on an attractive woman in the front row of the makeshift auditorium. Wearing a radiant crown of dark, wavy hair, she smiled up at him, her innocence enhanced by her confident and free-spirited nature. She wore a shin-length, white silk dress that was belted to reveal her small waist.

He looked back at the crowd. “Before I turn you over to the charming and capable hands of our school’s director, Doctor Francesca Fellini, I would like to leave you with one final thought.”

He paused for effect.

“Imagine a world where everyone has such abilities and talent. A world that is fueled by a population of high-level thinkers and creators, focused on building a society around art, music, literature, and science rather than materialism and growth for its own sake. A world of peace, not violence. Here at the institute, we plan to turn that vision into a reality.”

He bowed his head and stepped away from the lectern. The small crowd applauded. 

A short while later, Battista and Carlo looked down on the group from the second-floor balcony overlooking the courtyard. Battista admired Francesca as she abandoned the podium, gathering the guests around her like a friendly tour guide at a museum. She answered questions about the school and described the considerable progress they had made with many of the children.

Francesca had worked with him for the past five years as a key member of the team here in Venice. She held a PhD in child psychology and had an amazing empathetic gift for working with autistic children. Of course, she knew nothing of the true purpose of their research, or of the test subjects on the secure top floor.

The insidious nature of his master plan appealed immensely to Battista. Deception came easily to him. When he was ten, his father had sent him and his autistic younger brother to live with his mother’s wealthy family in Venice. It had been vastly different from the small village of his birth deep in the Hindu Kush Mountains of Afghanistan. He’d hated it here at first—longed for his friends, the fresh air, and the pride and furor that drove his father and the men of his tribe. But he adapted. His father demanded it. Allah demanded it. 

He had excelled at the Italian schools and made new friends of a sort, friends who were never permitted to learn his true identity. In time he settled in and learned to appreciate the comforts of the West, attending the best universities in Europe, earning his PhD by the age of twenty-five. 

Battista lived a life cocooned in a web of lies that became second nature to him. 

So much had happened since then. His mother lost her battle with Alzheimer’s. His only son had been institutionalized ever since a sudden seizure at age twelve had left him with a severe spectrum disorder. His father had been tortured and killed in the American prison in Guantanamo.

Now at fifty-three years of age, he was back in Venice. The Institute for Advanced Brain Studies and its school for autistic savant children provided the perfect cover for his secret research.

Battista kept his eyes on Francesca as he spoke to Carlo. “As soon as the tour is complete, I want you to bring her to my office. I’m sending her to California to bring back the so-called American super savant.”

“Do you think he will accept the invitation?”

Battista gestured toward Francesca below them. “Look at her, Carlo. I can’t imagine a more alluring and capable messenger. If she can’t convince him to come voluntarily, no one can.”

“Si,
signore
.”

“Follow her. Take Mineo with you. One way or another, I want the American here by the end of the week. Understood?”

“Si,
signore
.”

“This man, Jake Bronson, is an enigma. A savant overnight, with unbelievable physical speed. He could be the key, Carlo. His brain could be the key to everything.”

Redondo Beach, California

J
ake placed his index and second fingers to his temple. He refocused his concentration on the woman sitting two library tables away, her back to him. Everything else blurred. All he saw was the woman.
Turn around. Come on. Just turn your head towards me, even just a little.

His eyes squinted with the effort. He cleared his mind of all extraneous thoughts, to project this solitary concept into her head, to convince her to imagine a tickle at the back of her neck, to instill the desire, the need, to take a peek over her shoulder. He waited patiently.

Turn around!

Nothing.

Surrounded by tall rows of books, Jake hoped that this visit to the Redondo Beach public library would provide him with some answers to what was going on in his head. It was either conduct the research himself or succumb to one of the hundreds of requests he had received since his antics at Sammy’s hit the Internet. Medical researchers from all over the damn planet wanted to examine and test him.
No way.
He wasn’t about to spend the rest of his short life as a guinea pig. Besides, his newfound ability to digest and retain one hundred percent of whatever he read was too incredible to resist. It seemed as though he was able to read faster and faster with each new page. The more he read, the more he wanted to learn. He was ravenous for information, his mind like a dry sponge, easily absorbing each fact-filled drop.

After finding nothing pertinent in his research on MRI accidents, he had focused on enhanced brain function, autistic savants, photographic memory, mental calculation, artistic genius—anything that might provide a clue as to his expanding mental capabilities. He came across story after story of people who had suddenly developed unusual mental abilities after various accidents.

However, in each of the cases, there seemed to be a correlating negative impact after the accident or injury. Unusual psychological or physical changes occurred. Many of the subjects exhibited an inability to deal with people socially, or a loss of physical function or language, such as in a stroke victim.

This definitely wasn’t the case with him. Something had happened to his brain during the MRI incident, but so far the effects have all appeared to be positive. There was no question that he had developed a photographic memory as well as an amazing ability to do mental calculations. And then there was that incident at the bar. Even he couldn’t believe how fast he had moved. He had no idea how he did
that.

The camera had caught it all. And that changed his life—what was left of it—overnight. They knew his name at the bar and his phone number was unlisted.  He was bombarded with phone calls. At first it was just friends and family. But later, for every one person he knew that called, there were dozens that he didn’t—a movie producer who wanted to talk with his agent, a talent scout for the Dodgers, a ton of medical researchers from all over the world, and a slew of calls from people who just wanted to know how he did it. When several people actually showed up at the door to his home, it got to be too much. He grabbed his laptop and hightailed it to the library. Other than a break to get some sleep on Marshall’s couch last night, he’d been here ever since.

Having read everything available regarding his new capacities, he turned to books on paranormal abilities.    

The one he was reading spoke of telepathy as though it were fact, explaining that it was inherent in everyone, an ability that merely had to be honed with the proper guidance. One recent analytical report, completed by the University of California at Davis and titled “An Assessment of the Evidence for Psychic Functioning,”
examined over two decades of research conducted on behalf of the U.S. government by the Stanford Research Institute. The report concluded:  “Psychic functioning has been well established.”

Jake decided to try sending his thoughts again, this time focusing his attention on a young mother perusing a book a couple of aisles away. A five- or six-month-old baby was fast asleep in a stroller beside her.

Jake settled himself in his chair and placed his arms on the table in front of him.

Clear the mind, focus on the woman, close your eyes this time
. Don’t stare at her. Imagine being in her head, see the book she’s reading, sense the comfort of her child being safe beside her. Make her feel a slight tingle at the back of her neck, like a feather gently brushing her skin, the sensation growing, it’s starting to itch…

Now, turn your head!

Jake snapped his eyes open at the sound of a piercing scream from the baby. The startled young mother quickly picked the baby up and held her to her chest, gently patting her back as she rocked from side to side, murmuring softly to comfort her. 

Jake pondered the coincident timing of the baby’s scream with his mental command. He soaked in the tender scene and was warmed by the depth of love the mother felt for her child. 

Still screaming, the little baby’s head turned to the side. Jake could see her face now, all squinched up and red, tiny wrinkles trembling between her faint eyebrows, tears tracing the outline of her pink cheeks, her walnut-sized fists clenched and shaking against her mother’s shoulder. 

With a sense of genuine concern for the sweet child, Jake looked back at those glistening eyes and smiled at her, wrapping her in a protective embrace in his mind. The baby stilled, her crying stopped, her big blue eyes opened wide and stared at Jake. Her small mouth formed a perfect “O” of surprise. Ever so slowly, a smile spread across her face.

    The vibration of Jake’s cell phone broke the spell. He checked the screen. Marshall. As he flipped it open, he looked back to see the mother walking toward the exit, pushing the empty stroller ahead of her, the baby quiet in her arms. There had been a connection there. He was certain of it.