Black Samsara Effect

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62095-750-9
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 354 Seiten

Deep in the basement of the University of Chicago Biological Sciences Building, Dr. William Kanter is on the brink of developing a technology that will replace the MRI. Yet the images captured aren't of his brain, they're his memories. And they only take up only a small portion at the end of the scan. What Kanter discovers throughout the rest of the scan could rock the very foundation of humanity. Across campus, child psychologist Dr. Trenna Anderson is reviewing a disturbing home video of a young Wisconsin farm boy who suffers from night terrors. After witnessing the boy become a Nazi prison guard, L.A. crack whore and Inuit native, Anderson suspects the eight-year-old may have multiple personality disorder. But when conventional psychotherapy fails, Anderson reluctantly meets with a maverick inventor named Kanter who's rumored to have created a revolutionary machine that might be the boy's only hope. Kanter thinks his invention will help mankind, but there are forces at work that want to destroy a machine that threatens to expose the world's most precious beliefs. Soon Kanter and Anderson find themselves embroiled in a deadly and dangerous world of government espionage, corporate greed and religious fundamentalism. Is Kanter's invention capable of changing the world? And if so, at what cost?

Autoren/Hrsg.

Black, Paul

Leseproben

2.    Maybe you’ll learn something. “How did this kid get into his father’s gun cabinet? And how did you get this video?” Trenna Anderson clicked back to the point where the boy pulled the trigger. The angle was high, apparently from a camera mounted in a corner of the ceiling. The living room was dark, and she couldn’t make out much until the flash of the gun filled the frame with horrifying details. “Eric’s night terrors have been getting worse,” Thomas Prost explained. “My sister’s doctor suggested videoing him because he wanted to study what he did during the episodes. They’re way out in the sticks, and getting in to their doctor can take weeks.” Anderson watched again as the rifle discharge illuminated the room. The shot went wide of the father. The recoil sent the boy flying backwards over the headboard of the chaise. When the boy landed, the gun fired again and must have hit the video camera, because after the second flash the screen went black. She clicked back and paused on a frame that showed the boy’s face. His eyes were partially rolled back, like a character out of a horror film. “You didn’t answer my first question.” Tom Prost was a rumpled, thickset man who didn’t seem to care about fashion or style. A theoretical geneticist and tenured professor, he had been a good friend ever since Anderson had arrived on the University of Chicago campus. Prost was nice enough, always confiding in her about his latest dating debacle or asking her opinion about this or that. He looked away, then back. “You tell me. You’re the kid shrink.” “Tom, I can’t help unless you help me.” Anderson leaned onto her desk and nudged the picture of her and her dad at the Naval Hospital Camp Pendleton the week before she had shipped out to Iraq. She pushed it back into position next to the photo of her at the surgical unit in Al-Asad. “What about the German Eric was speaking? You said he’s never taken a class. Does he watch movies or have any friends who speak it?” Prost stared at her wall of books like he was grappling to find an answer. “Tom?” Prost scooted his chair forward and leaned onto her desk. He regarded her through his thick, outdated glasses. “Tren, this is serious.” “You’re damn right. Your brother-in-law should have locked his gun cabinet.” “Kim and Scott are good parents. The cabinet was locked. And no, he’s never taken German in his life.” His tone suggested Anderson had hit a nerve. “I’m sorry, Tom. Go on.” “Eric has never had an episode like this. Usually he sleepwalks, mumbles to himself, occasionally has a screaming fit, but nothing Kimberly hasn’t been able to handle. They consulted with their family doctor because they didn’t want Eric to hurt himself. He’s already fallen out of bed once and almost knocked himself out.” Prost looked away again. “Tom, what is it?” “There’s something weird about all this.” His attention went to her wall of books. “Eric would never point a gun at his parents.” “I could show you a hundred case studies of seemingly perfect kids who turn into monsters overnight. It happens usually around puberty, but I’ve seen it happen earlier.” “I’m telling you,” he said, “Eric wouldn’t do this. It’s not in his nature. Kim and Scott are fundamentalists … I’m talking the Right of the far Right. Eric’s never been exposed to anything that’s bad. Kim censors everything he comes in contact with. And Scott is very responsible. He’s taught Eric about gun safety. Hell, he hasn’t even taken him hunting yet. Eric knows his butt would be tanned if he so much as looked at Scott’s guns.” Prost angrily crossed his legs and accidentally kicked Anderson’s desk. Her Academy picture fell flat. “Sorry.” He began to right the picture. Anderson stopped him. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. We’re talking about your nephew, and you’re upset. That’s natural.” Prost sighed and rubbed his face. “There’re still two things I can’t get my head around. One is the German. I had it translated. The first thing he says is: ‘Stop, you Jewish bitch, or I’ll shoot.’” “What?” “Yeah, weird isn’t it? All the other stuff is like what a World War II German guard would say to a prisoner … ‘Raise your arms. Shut up. Get in line.’ Crap like that.” “Maybe he picked it up off of satellite … some old war movie.” “No. Kim would never allow him to watch anything like that. There’s no way in hell that he could have picked up German. And get this –I had a friend of mine who’s a linguistics prof do the translation. Some of the words he’s using are colloquial. Tren, what the hell is going on?” “Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” “Is there any violence in the home, possibly of a sexual nature?” Prost shook his head. “No, absolutely not. Kim and Scott are great parents. I can’t imagine there’s anything like that.” In her years as a pediatric psychologist, Anderson had never seen anything like this. “Tom, without seeing the boy I can’t be certain. It could be several things, like delusional disorder, schizophrenia–” “What about multiple personalities?” Even though Anderson was progressive in her practice, jumping to dissociative identity disorder was a bit of a stretch, even for her. She took a deep breath. “DID is a possibility, but it’s usually associated with severe physical or sexual abuse, and we don’t have that here.” “But the mind can’t just spontaneously have command of a German dialect. He’s eight, for God’s sake!” There was anguish in her friend’s voice, and Anderson’s heart went out to him. Prost began pacing. He walked over to her bookshelf and ran his fingers down the spine of an older book. He looked at his fingertips, then wiped them on his pants. “There’s something else. The cabinet.” “Right. How did he get the gun?” “The lock was picked.” “What do you mean picked?” “It was picked. Granted, it wasn’t a modern case. It was our grandfather’s. But it has a good lock. Nobody could get into it unless they had a key or was a pro at picking.” “Maybe your brother-in-law left it unlocked … by accident?” Prost shot her a look. “Okay, then explain to me how an 8-year-old could professionally pick his father’s gun case, learn colloquial German, and fire a gun that’s as big as he is?” Prost pulled a book from the shelf and turned it over in his hands. “What?” Anderson asked. He walked over and handed it to her. She read the cover: Edgar Cayce. Modern Prophet. Prost grinned for the first time that evening. “This is something you’d find on my shelf, not yours,” he said, sitting. Anderson pensively drew her fingers across its embossed cover. “An old boyfriend gave this to me. You would have liked him. He was into Eastern philosophy.” “Doesn’t sound like your kind of guy.” “We all have an experimental phase. So what’s this have to do with–” Anderson stopped, remembering the boyfriend and their long talks about life and religion. He was cute: dark wavy hair and a set of green eyes that could melt a woman. Any woman. He had been her bad boy, although her Protestant upbringing wouldn’t allow her past his belief in reincarnation. She leafed through the book and stopped at the page where he had written her a note. “Tom,” she said, and closed the book, “Are you suggesting Eric is having a past-life episode?” “You have a better idea?” She placed the book on her desk and slid it up to the Iraq picture. Its cover reflected in the frame’s glass and created an eerie juxtaposition of Cayce’s upside down face between her own and two cot-ridden patients. “I’m not qualified for this. Shouldn’t you be talking with … I don’t know, someone who believes in this sort of thing?” “That’s why I think you’re the right person for this. You’ll be objective. I’ve read about your work with the inner-city kids. You’re good. Real good. I know you said you didn’t want to take on any more patients, but my sister’s at the end of her rope. Come on, Tren. I need your help.” Anderson’s attention went back to her computer and the video. She was already booked to the end of the semester, but this case was just too intriguing. She stared at the paused frame of the Wisconsin boy. His eyes were haunting, and Kimberly Nelson had her arms halfway raised. The rifle looked like a movie prop in the arms of the 8-year-old; its barrel pierced a shaft of moonlight such that Anderson couldn’t take her eyes off it. A shiver went through her. “Okay,” she said resignedly. “When can I see him?” Prost walked around her desk, his arms...