the reckoner part 2

this psychic osmosis at times was very wonderful and comforting; at other times an unwelcome invasion of privacy
― Sylvia Plath

It’s insane. I passed on making a comfortable living as a psychiatrist in order to be a psychic detective. But, of course, nobody calls me that.

I consult with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service by day and offer confidential private investigative services to selected clients by night, so, it seems I’m a consultant, but right now I appear to be more of a failure.

Truth be told, I’m a psychic failwhale, spouting a whole lot of nothing at all.

Lately, I sit home most nights brooding. My apartment overlooks the Don River and the Toronto skyline.

I sit in my darkened front room with a glass of Shiraz staring out at the winking lights, and sympathize with the wet blackness—that’s right—I’m projecting my self-pity onto the rainy night while trying to blink away my own tears.

I know, it sounds mystic, but such is my lot in life.

There are some things I never admit to anyone—some things I can barely face myself.

I tell Marin I’m frozen, but don’t tell her why. I doubt she could understand the horrors I’ve had to endure remotely viewing and tracking violent criminals and terrorists—and not just in my spy agency work—it’s been a monkey on my back my whole life.

I’ve gotten to the point where I despise superficiality and the shallowness of most people’s lives.

Like everyone, I long to settle down, live an idyllic life in some small town, raise a family—enjoy my life. But that’s not going to happen for me.

I’m burnt-over ground and too jaded to know how to live. So, I retreat into my ascetic life and dream of someone I can never see.

A mystery woman who haunts my dreams.

It gets no better as the month goes on. The following week turns out to be a series of blind alleys and botched leads. I’m getting nothing psychically and even less from the on-going police investigation.

I have never encountered a case where my sensitivities failed so dramatically. It’s debilitating and demoralizing.

And, to add to my angst, Marin is hovering—I hate hovering.

“Maybe you should call Mark Drake—you’ve tried everything else.”

I use Mark in dangerous situations, or where I need information that can only be obtained through his particular contacts. I’ve found over the years that if I get involved in the tawdry side of things, my abilities dry up—so I use Mark as a buffer and stay aloof.

I sigh and punch in his number on my cell phone—another sign of my defeat.

Marin saves the evening by taking me to dinner at Sotto Sotto, and we dine on pasta carbonara and toast my birthday with champagne—how she remembers such small details as birthdays mystifies me, and for a few hours I forget my woes.

The next evening though, everything comes crashing down.

Mark Drake informs me that Piper Jordan’s body has been found—and according to the coroner’s preliminary observations, she’s been dead for at least a month—long before my investigation began.

I am completely devastated—not only for myself, but for Piper’s family.

Everyone’s sympathetic, but it doesn’t help—I have to get away and be alone.

The one thing most people don’t know about sensitives is that when nothing’s popping, you’re blanker than an 18 minute gap on the Watergate tapes—and about as hopeful of ever getting anything back.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

Photo:https://goo.gl/images/WcbQ60