He did not test this ability, and he certainly did not receive encouragement from his family to develop his talent. His mother reacted suspiciously the few times he found objects that had been lost or misplaced by members of the family, accusing him of hiding them himself in an attempt to get attention. After Jack, his older brother, stomped on him because he had inadvertently betrayed his brother's secret hiding place, he decided firmly that this was not a talent worth exploring. No one else seemed to share his gift, and it made him feel "different." And who the hell, at that age, wanted to feel different?
Maybe, he thought, if he ignored this weird skill it would go away. By his late teens, however, he realized it wasn't going to be that easy. Wishing it away was not going to work. He was stuck with it.
The realization brought him to Eyestorm and Alexander Mullins.
Alexander Benedict Mullins. The name sounded intimidating. The man certainly was. For three years Mullins was his mentor and surrogate father. Not that there was anything even remotely paternal in the way Mullins treated him. Mullins was not given to extravagant praise or, for that matter, any kind of feel-good interaction with his students. But the loyalty and admiration he inspired among his remote viewers was undeniable. Gabriel, although he would never admit to it, vied fiercely with the other RVs at Eyestorm to gain Mullins's approval.
Gabriel knew the older man thought him arrogant. "Remember," Mullins would preach. "Never, ever fall in love with your gift. Never allow yourself to become blinded by its light. It is merely an ability- like someone who is blessed with perfect pitch, or wide-angled vision. Psi sensitivity is widespread in the general populace. A policeman's hunch, a woman's intuition-these are all everyday examples of latent psi ability. Yes, only a small number of people are truly psi-talented. People like you. But the talent for remote viewing is not something you've earned: you can't take credit for it. It is merely something you were born with."
But even though there was friction between student and teacher, they needed each other. Gabriel required the older man's help to impose some kind of discipline on a gift that was wildly unpredictable. And if Mullins nursed misgivings about his pupil, he was nevertheless tremendously excited by the systematically high level of hits scored by Gabriel during that first year of training. In all his years of research, Mullins had never come across a subject who performed as consistently.
What interested Mullins in particular was Gabriel's versatility. Most remote viewers had a particular cognitive style, which they favored and followed almost exclusively. Some RVs were more successful in accessing targets while awake; others were incapable of psi activity unless they made use of dreams-lucid or otherwise; yet another group relied on a deep meditative state to do their work. Some scored better at accessing and describing landmarks, objects and geometric shapes; others preferred to home in on personal aspects such as feelings and thoughts. Gabriel, though, showed no preference for any specific cognitive style, and was able to describe visual configurations as well as emotional impressions with equal ease.
After twelve months of "staring" experiments, "double-blind" tests, "dreamwork," "filtering" and more, Gabriel was outperforming the rest of the class by a wide margin. By this time he was champing at the bit. He wanted to get into the field and work on actual problems, and he did not appreciate his mentor's caution.
"What the hell is he waiting for?" he would complain to Frankie. "You're already working on cases, and I don't want to sound conceited, sweetie, but I'm better at this than you."
"Oh, thanks."
"Come on, Frankie. I love you too much to BS you. You know it's true."
Frankie sighed. "OK. Why don't I see if I can't get Alexander to rope you in."
"Yes," Gabriel agreed eagerly. "The old man has a real soft spot for you. Give him that killer smile and bat some eyelashes, why don't you?"
"Sometimes, Gabriel," Frankie said strongly, "you're a total asshole."
But she did actually manage to get Mullins to allow Gabriel to assist on some relatively minor cases. There was the recovery of a stolen T'ang horse from the Qing period. The tracking down of a lost manuscript. Another time he and Frankie were paired with a veteran RV to pursue the whereabouts of the perpetrators of an Internet scam.
They were not always successful, of course. Remote viewing was free energy. Harnessing that energy was like threading a needle in a hurricane. Specific data such as exact street addresses could not be accessed as easily as opening a telephone book.
Furthermore, remote viewing was often a less than comfortable business. Remote viewers referred to the "seeing" process as slamming the ride and the ride often took you into someone else's mental space. This was not always a warm and cozy place to be.
Not that Gabriel subscribed to the cliched image of the tortured psychic forever at the mercy of his dark gift. He was no victim; he was a warrior. And the thrill of success was addictive. He became hooked on that massive surge of self-satisfaction that accompanied every ride.
To a certain extent he was leading a schizophrenic life. On the one hand was Oxford, his school friends and his studies; all-nighters in the library, papers, tutors, study groups, "boat races" in the pub. On the other was Eyestorm. The only link between the two worlds was Cecily Franck. Inevitably, the fact that they were both living a kind of double existence deepened the bond between them. It was an exciting time.
And then the Cartwright case came along.
Six weeks later he quit Eyestorm, left Oxford and headed for London and a different life.
Entry date: 28 May
I was dreaming of R last night. He was smiling at me and his hands reached for mine. The idea that I will never see that lovely angel smile of his again is so painful I sometimes feel my mind shutting down.
M is losing patience with me. She thinks I'm stuck in the past- "wallowing" as she puts it. And she wants us to look for someone new to play with. Maybe she's right: the work is so important. It needs to continue. But I am heartsick. Where will we find someone like my sweet boy again? Someone who is looking for new challenges not new comfort zones. A searcher. An initiate. A man apart.
For what it's worth, we built another room last week. In this room will live a man with the head of a baboon. Thoth. God of magic and writing. Of alchemy and arithmetic and astrology.
I must meditate upon my name.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gabriel knew who was on the other side of the door even before he opened it. Although he had expected her to turn up on his doorstep ever since his meeting with William Whittington three days ago, he was suddenly feeling completely unprepared. Thirteen years. A long time by anyone's standards.
She rang the bell again.
As he opened the door he got an immediate whiff of her perfume. Jasmine, cinnamon and the hint of a more exotic bloom. Her tastes had changed. She used to prefer lighter, more woody scents. But her eyes were still the same. Clear gray eyes set underneath delicately feathered eyebrows, which looked like the wings of a bird in flight. Cecily Franck. No, not Franck. Whittington. Mrs. William Whittington III to be exact.
"Gabriel." She smiled at him, a tentative smile. For a moment he thought she was going to hold out her hand, but then she leaned over and her lips brushed his cheek.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" She smiled again, and the smile was slightly bolder this time, though the expression in her eyes was still wary.
He stepped back and held the door wider. She walked past him into the room.
"Oh." Her voice was surprised. She looked around her, her gaze taking in the satisfying proportions of the loft, the glow of lights filling the skyline outside the windows. "This is lovely."