Ship of the Damned Read online

  “Who has taken Ralph?” Wes said. “What are you talking about?”

  “There were two of them posing as FBI agents.”

  “What’s going on?” Elizabeth asked, tugging at Wes’s sleeve.

  “It’s Dr. Birnbaum. He says someone has kidnapped Ralph.”

  Surprised, Elizabeth let Wes talk.

  “How do you know these people took him?” Wes asked.

  “He went for a walk and never came back. You know Ralph always comes back. I called the FBI and found out they never sent agents to my house.”

  Ralph had a propensity for wandering, walking for miles in all directions and introducing himself to everyone he met. He had a preternatural sense of direction, and never seemed to get lost. Still, Wes couldn’t forget that the man was retarded, so it was easier to believe that Ralph had finally wandered too far than to believe that he had been kidnapped by phony FBI agents.

  “Did you check the hospitals?”

  “Of course. I’m telling you he was kidnapped.”

  “Why would anyone want to kidnap Ralph?” Wes said.

  “They knew about your work with the savants and about Ralph’s resistance to psi powers.”

  Wes’s mind-integrating experiment had created a powerful psychokinetic who had seemed unstoppable until they discovered that Ralph was immune to his power. While others were being blown around like paper in the wind, Ralph had walked up to the psychokinetic and tackled him.

  “How could they know?” Wes said.

  The catastrophe that had resulted from Wes’s first experiments could never be covered up, but the details of what had happened, and the special psychokinetic abilities involved, had been closely guarded.

  “They said they had copies of the reports from the Kellum Foundation, but I checked and no one at the foundation has released the reports, nor has anyone requested them.”

  Wes was silent, thinking through the implications. Besides a select few inside the Kellum Foundation, the only others who knew about Ralph’s resistance to psychokinesis were his team members and Dr. Birnbaum. He trusted his team, and Dr. Birnbaum was a foster father to Ralph. If there had been a leak it had to have come from within the foundation.

  “There can only be one reason why they want Ralph,” Dr. Birnbaum said.

  “I know,” Wes agreed.

  If Ralph had been kidnapped for his ability, then somewhere there was a dangerous psychokinetic.

  “We’re coming out to Columbus,” Wes said, feeling that he had to do something.

  He said goodbye and then turned to explain to Elizabeth, but she was already pulling the sensors off her chest. She knew Ralph was in trouble from the half of the conversation she had heard. As she pulled the leads from her gown, the monitor signalled a cardiac emergency. The nurses would arrive soon, but Wes and Elizabeth ignored the monitor, both worrying about a large retarded man with a penchant for Slurpees and long walks.

  KIDNAPPED

  Jett had dressed Ralph in a pair of his sweat pants and one of his tee-shirts. To Jett’s chagrin the tee-shirt was tight across Ralph’s chest. It was late evening, and they were weight lifting in the hotel fitness center. Ralph had cleaned and jerked one hundred and fifty pounds with little effort, but his form was so poor that Jett couldn’t risk trying him on anything heavier. Woolman would park Jett behind a desk if Ralph injured himself.

  Instead of trying him on free weights, Jett took Ralph to the universal gym, where there was less risk of injury. Jett disliked machine lifting. Machines restricted movement, limiting the number of muscle groups worked. Switch from the machine to a free lift and you could feel the difference right away; you worked muscles used for balance—muscles that the machine couldn’t touch.

  Jett watched Ralph climb onto a padded bench, and try to figure out where to put his feet for leg lifts. Ralph’s awkward moves, his clumsiness, and his homely face reminded him of his brother. Jett’s twin brother, Jason, was the opposite of Jett in almost every way. Where Jett had been a handsome boy, athletic, and good in school, Jason was unattractive, with mud-brown hair that refused to stay combed, and a long thin face that was permanently etched with the lines and creases of sadness. A poor student, Jason was always behind in class. At recess it was even worse. Clumsy and frail, Jason was seldom asked to play and frequently teased. Nature had played a cruel joke on Jason, creating a boy whose deficiencies made him a target for his peers, yet giving him a thin emotional skin. Where Nathan Jett felt little physical or emotional pain, Jason suffered doubly from every insult, joke, and whisper as though he was meant to feel for both of them.

  Born to an alcoholic couple, Jason and Nathan Jett had received minimal care from their mother, who was frequently drunk and abusive. Their father took over as abuser when he was home. Jett’s earliest memory was of a beating. He was three, sitting at the kitchen table, a half-finished glass of milk in front of him. His father was shouting at him for not finishing his milk, but when Nathan reached for the glass his father slapped it out of his hand, the glass shattering against a cabinet and spraying milk. Blaming Nathan for the broken glass, his father slipped his belt from his belt loops while Nathan Jett hunkered down, ready for the beating. He took that pain stoically—he could always take pain—but his brother couldn’t, and Jason suffered cruelly from his father’s belt.

  When they weren’t abusing Jett and his brother, Jett’s mother and father abused each other. One night when the boys were six, a screaming match erupted downstairs, and Jason came to hide in Jett’s bed, shivering from fear. Their mother usually took a beating when their parents fought, and would later take it out on the boys. Violently loud, the fight suddenly ended with a crash and a thud. Later they heard their father’s truck leave.

  Jett fixed his brother breakfast the next morning: Wheaties and slightly sour milk. His father stormed in as they ate, ignoring the boys and washing his muddy hands in the sink. When he was finished, he wiped his hands on a dish towel, studying the boys. Jett stared back defiantly while Jason kept his eyes on his cereal bowl.

  “Your mother’s run off,” his father said finally. “She run away because of you rotten kids.”

  That was all his father ever said about where their mother had gone. Over the next few years Jason asked occasionally about her, but Jett’s only answer was, “She’s someplace better than this.”

  Nathan Jett became mother to Jason then, making sure he was ready for school, which was easy since school was the one refuge from their father. Because they were poor they received free lunch tickets, the source of one good meal a day. They survived after school as best they could, doing their chores first and then homework in their room, never daring to ask their father for help. Jett was quick, finding the school work easy. Jason struggled to learn to read, even with his brother’s help, and found even simple addition nearly incomprehensible.

  By third grade Jett was doing his brother’s homework, but the teachers soon found out, since Jason’s homework was nearly perfect, while in class he couldn’t pass a test on the same material. Jett expected his father to beat him after the teacher called, but instead his father whipped Jason for being “so damn stupid,” as if the heavy blows would improve his IQ.

  Like Ralph, Jason was clumsy, but he didn’t have Ralph’s intimidating size to protect him. Kids in their grade feared Nathan Jett and never teased his brother, but older kids saw Jason as an easy target, calling him names and teasing him mercilessly. Jett fought boys two and three years older than himself over his brother, winning as many times as he lost and getting a reputation for ferocity and ruthlessness that finally protected his brother from all but the worst bullies.

  Rejected by his peers early in childhood, Jason was a misfit and outcast who was ill equipped emotionally to be marginalized. In Ralph, Jett saw many of the same deficiencies that his brother had suffered from, yet Ralph was cheerful and outgoing and had survived to adulthood.

  “Hey look, Nate, I’m doing it,” Ralph said.

  Jett wat
ched Ralph’s leg lifts, fondly remembering times like these with his brother.

  “Try this one,” Jett said, motioning Ralph over to the bench press. “You lie down here and then push the bar up.”

  Jett demonstrated, pressing two hundred pounds, sharply expelling his breath as he did.

  “Now you try it.”

  Ralph was beaming, his fleshy lips stretched in a huge sloppy grin.

  “Is that heavy, Nate? It looks heavy. I bet it’s heavier than ten Slurpees. Maybe even a million.”

  Compton came into the fitness center, clearly disapproving. She was dressed in her JC Penney clothes; tan slacks and yellow short-sleeve polo shirt. They were staying at a Holiday Inn and she had dressed to fit in.

  “It’s a lot heavier than Slurpees, Ralph.”

  “Least you can’t spill this,” Ralph said. “Course I never spill. Leastwise not too much.”

  Ralph slid under the bar, copying Jett’s position.

  “Now I just push up, right, Nate?”

  “Right, Ralph.”

  Ralph pushed, extending his arms to full length.

  “Do I gots to hold it up long?”

  “That’s fine, Ralph. Put it down carefully.”

  Ralph showed little strain with the lift, so Jett moved the locking key up another fifty pounds.

  “Try lifting again, Ralph.”

  “Is it heavier, Nate? Is that what you did back there?”

  “Yeah, it’s heavier.”

  Compton came closer, still disapproving, but interested.

  “Hi, Karla. Nate and me are lifting weights.”

  “I can see that. When you get done here, you need to go back to the room. Yogi Bear is on the cartoon channel.”

  “Boo Boo too?”

  “Of course.”

  “I like Boo Boo better’n Yogi. I think he’s smarter than the average bear too, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Compton said.

  “Try the lift,” Jett said.

  Ralph pressed, moving the bar slightly, but then dropping it back.

  “It’s kind of heavy, Nate.”

  “Too heavy for you?” Jett asked.

  “Lemme see,” Ralph said.

  Ralph pushed, extending his arms until his elbows locked. Then, without being told, he dropped the weight.

  “I did it,” Ralph said, beaming.

  Jett reached for the locking key, intending to take it up another fifty pounds. Compton stopped him.

  “It’s your turn, Nate,” she said.

  Agents customarily used only last names. Compton was using “Nate” to mock him.

  Jett took over Ralph’s position under the bar. He pressed the weight confidently, knowing his limits. Compton nodded in appreciation, then set the weight at three hundred pounds.

  “Try it now,” Compton said.

  With another sharp exhale, he pressed until his arms were fully extended; they wobbled slightly with the effort.

  “My turn, Nate. This is fun. Did you know your face gets red when you do that?”

  Ralph matched Jett’s lift, then waited while Compton reset the weight.

  “It’s at three-twenty-five, that’s as high as it goes,” Compton said.

  Jett’s personal best was four hundred and ten pounds, but he didn’t routinely lift at that level.

  Ralph pressed the weight, expelling his breath like Jett, his face turning red. There was no wobble in his arms.

  “Can you do it more than once, Ralph?” Compton asked.

  “Sure I can,” Ralph said, then pressed the weight five times in quick succession.

  “That’s lots heavier, Nate,” Ralph said as he got up to make room for Jett.

  “Yeah, lots,” Compton said, smiling.

  “If you need help just let me know,” Ralph said.

  “I won’t need help,” Jett said, irritated by Compton’s smile. “If you want in on this, just say so,” he told her.

  “I might bulk up and need new clothes. The agency is already on me about my clothing allowance,” Compton said.

  Jett positioned himself, then went through his breathing routine, ending with a deep breath and a sharp exhale. Just as he started his press Ralph spoke.

  “Yuck, he blew spit out his mouth.”

  Compton snorted, and Jett lost his focus. The bar remained exactly where it had started.

  “Is it too heavy, Nate?” Ralph asked.

  “Don’t talk while I’m trying to lift.”

  “Okay, Nate. I won’t say a word. My lips are sealed.” Ralph took an imaginary key out of an imaginary shirt pocket, pretended to lock his lips, then put the key back.

  Jett looked at Compton, who smiled and made a zipping motion across her lips.

  Jett went through his breathing routine again and then pressed with all his might, blowing loud and long as he did. He pressed the bar until his elbows locked, then lowered it to his chest. Knowing what Compton expected, he lifted again, and a third time. When he got to his fourth lift he barely made it; he collapsed on his fifth try.

  Ralph went through the routine of unlocking his lips with the imaginary key.

  “I did it one more than you, Nate. You want to try it again? I could help you?”

  Compton unzipped her lips with an exaggerated motion.

  “You want I should help you, too?” Compton said.

  “Funny,” Jett said to Compton. “Go watch cartoons, Ralph.”

  “Well okee-dokee, then. I hope Yogi’s still on. I want to see Boo Boo.”

  “Say hi to Boo Boo for me,” Compton said.

  Jett towelled his face and neck, waiting for Ralph to leave. He knew Compton had something to say.

  “What the hell are you doing, Jett?” she asked. “You know he shouldn’t leave the room.”

  “He’s like a wild animal,” Jett said. “He’s got too much energy to sit around all day. I brought him down to work some of it out.”

  “If you feed him Slurpees and ice cream, he’ll sit in front of a TV twenty-four hours a day.”

  Jett ignored her, settling into the seat for leg lifts.

  “You brought him down here to test him, to see how he matched up against you. Well, now you know—he’s stronger than you.”

  “Strength isn’t everything,” Jett said.

  “That’s my line,” Compton retorted.

  “I’m saying he doesn’t have the intelligence to use his strength to full advantage.”

  “If you’re saying intelligence beats strength, then I agree.”

  Jett paused between lifts, shaking his head. “I’m not saying that. A gorilla will kill a computer nerd every time,” he said. “There’s an optimum combination of intelligence and strength.”

  “And you have that combination?”

  Jett smiled, then began his leg lifts again.

  “You know, Jett, a computer nerd with a gun is more than a match for a gorilla.”

  She was quick, another ability Jett admired. Unfortunately, she used her mental agility against him.

  Compton’s cell phone rang. After a clipped “Yes,” she listened for a moment, then hung up.

  “They’re ready to open the door to Pot of Gold.”

  It was time. Jett felt his pulse quicken ever so slightly, and it pleased him.

  FOUNDATION

  They spent a day with Dr. Birnbaum talking to police, neighbors, and two psychics whom Birnbaum had tested in the years before his accident, but turned up no clues to Ralph’s whereabouts. The Columbus Police Department was investigating but had no leads. The local news carried pictures of Ralph, generating many calls of concern from the seemingly hundreds of people Ralph had introduced himself to, but no concrete leads. It was clear that the authorities in Columbus were doing everything possible to find Ralph, so the next day Wes and Elizabeth flew to Chicago to meet with a trustee of the Kellum Foundation, promising Dr. Birnbaum that they would stay in touch.

  Robert Daly was sixty, but looked fifty—the fifty of someone who could afford a persona
l trainer and cosmetic surgery. He was fit, handsome, tan, and looked prosperous in his tailored suit. Assured of his own financial future and that of his children, Daly now spent his days determining which supplicants would get handouts from the deep pockets of the Kellum Foundation. Wes had expected to meet with a staff member, not one of the trustees, and now found he was nervous. If money was power, and to a researcher it was, then this man had the power to make or break Wes.

  “Dr. Martin, Ms. Foxworth, it’s wonderful to finally meet you both face to face,” Daly said, smiling. His teeth were white, even, and probably caps.

  They shook hands and exchanged greetings, then Daly led them into his office.

  Wes sat on a leather couch, with Elizabeth next to him. Daly sat in a matching chair, his legs crossed, looking like a CEO. One side of his office was arranged like a living room with a couch and armchairs, end tables, lamps, and a coffee table. A large desk and office furniture occupied the other half of the office. Most of the office was leather and mahogany, but the desk was a simple glass surface held up by four large, strangely twisted, ornate brass legs. It was the ugliest desk Wes had ever seen, but he had no intention of mentioning it.

  Elizabeth got right to the point of their visit.

  “Have you been told why we’re here?”

  “Yes. Is there any news about Ralph?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “No one saw anything, no one heard anything. The police have no leads to follow.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Wes said.

  “How can we help you?”

  Wes thought Daly’s reactions appeared genuine; his tone expressed concern. But Wes could tell by Elizabeth’s crossed legs, folded arms, and furrowed brow that she didn’t find Daly convincing.