The Psychic Samaritan

A Short Story

by

Don Lewis Wireman, Sr.

©2010 Don Wireman, Sr. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed herein are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people, incidents or locations is purely

coincidental.

Deborah Nickels picked up her cell phone, located her friend, Sandy's

number on the menu, clicked on it; heard it buzz. A man's voice answered,

"Manfred."

"Manfred—Deborah Nickels—can I speak to Sandy?"

"Hi Deborah—no she went for a walk on the beach."

"Where on the beach?"

"I don't know—probably down by the radio tower—that's where she

usually goes for a walk."

"What was she wearing?"

"Hell, I don't remember what she was wearing. You sound rattled—

what do you need to talk to her about?"

"Oh—I’m not rattled—I just want to invite her to lunch," she lied,

"Thanks—I'll catch her later." She clicked the cell off, slipped it into the

little case she carried it in on her waist, found her straw hat, put on her

walking shoes. I've got to find her—fast.

It was ten o'clock in the morning. The beach was already crowded. Deborah

quickly scanned the length of it, then carefully examined the full length of

the pier looking for her friend Sandy—medium height—fiery red hair you

couldn't miss, even in a crowd. She spotted a young, redheaded woman

walking a dog on the pier, slowly walking out in the direction of the ocean.

I should have asked Manfred if she took the dog.

She knew the dog's name was Ruffy she'd seen him many times

when she'd visited Sandy and Manfred's home on the beach—a black, male

Russian Terrier—cute but would bite your hand off in a second if he got the

chance. Deborah quickened her pace.

I've got to find her—warn her—there may be no time to lose.

She began to jog at a rather quick pace, across the hundred yards or

so of beach, up the pier ramp, onto the pier. Then she slowed down a bit so

as not to attract attention to herself as she passed the men sitting around

tables at the outdoors bar having their Bloody Mary wakeups. She kept her

eyes on the redhead as she approached her from behind. She was beginning

to have doubts that the redhead was Sandy. Her build was like Sandy's, but

her walk wasn't, but maybe she'd strained a muscle. That would explain her

strange walk, but the damned dog didn't look like Ruffy, either.

I better find out for sure, she thought as she caught up to the

redhead, "Sandy?"

The lady turned—it wasn't Sandy. "Sorry—I'm not Sandy?"

"I'm so sorry I bothered you. I'm looking for a friend of mine. She

has red hair—thought she might be you—important I find her right away."

The redhead pointed toward the beach. "I saw a young lady with red

hair earlier. She was walking south near the tower, I believe—had a black

dog—that's why I noticed her, I guess. We dog walkers notice each other, I

suppose."

"Thanks so much," Deborah said. "So sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem. Hope you find your friend."

"Me too—it's a matter of life and death—I've got to find her in a

hurry," Deborah said as she dropped back, then turned, scanned the beach,

saw a flash of red and a black dot way down the beach.

Must be Sandy.

Deborah ran most of the way down the beach, caught up with the

flash of red and the black dot, turned out to be Sandy and Ruffy.

"My God—I thought I'd never find you. I've never seen so many

people out this time in the morning," Deborah cried.

"It's the races. Lots of people in town for the car races. You're all

out of breath—what's the matter?" Sandy said, stopping.

"I had to catch up with you before it's too late."

"You're not making any sense—what are you talking about?"

"When does your plane leave?"

"How the hell did you know I was going on a plane?"

"I'm psychic, remember?"

Sandy laughed. "Not that again! You ought to see a doctor about it.

What is it this time?"

"Then, you are planning a trip on a plane?"

"Yeah, I'm leaving this afternoon. I'm going to a conference in

Vancouver. That reminds me—I've got to hit the shower and pack—"

"No—you can't go! The goddamned plane is going down."

"My plane is going to crash?"

"I had a flash about it—this morning—I had to find you and stop

you."

"That's crazy—how do you know it's my plane—you saw the flight

number, I suppose?"

"No. I saw you sitting in a window seat on a plane."

"Yes. My ticket is for a window seat. You're scaring the hell out of

me—but it must be some mistake—some coincidence—I have to go to

Vancouver. I can't miss the conference—I'd lose my job."

"Sandy, honey, you can't take a plane. I saw lightning flashing

outside the plane's window you were sitting by—then there was fire and the

plane went down."

"Maybe you just had a bad dream."

"No. I can tell a dream from a flash—this was a flash, Sandy—

please say you won't fly—take the train."

"Too late for the train."

"I won't let you fly."

"Just try and stop me! I never told you before—but I have never

believed in your psychic nonsense. I pretended to believe it because you're

my friend."

"That's why I'm telling you not to go—no, I guess that's not why. I'd

warn a stranger. I tell you the plane I saw you on is going to crash."

Sandy didn't say another word, shook Ruffy's leash, got him moving,

walked on down the beach.

Deborah watched her and the dog a few moments, then turned for

home.

The phone rang. Deborah picked it up. "Hello."

It was Sandy's husband Manfred. "What's the idea of scaring Sandy

half to death. You've got her worried. What's the matter with you, anyway?

She was barely able to pack for her trip. She had to take a sedative and now

she's taking a nap. I have a meeting to go to. When John gets home I'm

coming over and have a talk with you two. This prediction nonsense has got

to stop."

Deborah heard the busy signal as Manfred hung up the phone.

'Taking a nap…' That gave Deborah an idea. She gathered up a few

things, tossed them into her bag, put on her straw hat then went out.

When she reached Manfred and Sandy's beach house, she saw that Manfred's

car was gone. Sandy's Porsche, that she'd be driving to L.A. to catch the

plane in for Vancouver, if Deborah couldn't stop her, was still parked in the

driveway.

Deborah slipped into the house through the back door, saw the dog,

Ruffy, asleep on the floor by the kitchen. She knew if he woke and saw her,

all hell would break loose. She quietly made her way to the master bedroom.

As Manfred had said, Sandy was fast asleep, an alarm clock near her head.

Deborah went in, quietly closed the door behind her, reached into her bag,

got a piece of duct tape, tiptoed up to the bed, quickly slapped it over

Sandy's mouth. Sandy woke up—tried to scream. Only "m-m-m" came

from her nose. She swung on Deborah. Deborah blocked the punch, backed

off, got a long length of duct tape and a length of rubber hose from her bag,

forced Sandy's feet together, wrapped tape around them. Seeing Deborah

wielding the rubber hose, Sandy stopped resisting.

"Be a good girl—just relax or I'm going to knock you out with this

hose. Yeah, I know—you probably think I've gone crazy and am going to

kill you or something. I'm not. But I am going to keep you here until after

the plane crashes."

Sandy made some more "m-m-m" sounds.

"Okay. I'll take the tape off your mouth—If you promise not to

scream."

Sandy nodded. Deborah removed the tape from her mouth.

"You are nuts! I told you you needed a shrink. What the hell do

you think you're doing breaking into my house like this. There's a law

against that."

"I had to take the chance. The damned plane really is going to crash.

I can't let you get killed."

"Yeah, sure! So, if you're so damned convinced the plane is going

down, call the airline and tell them."

Deborah thought a minute. "Okay. What airline is it?"

"You mean, you didn't see the name of the airline in your dream-

prediction-thing?" Sandy cried, sarcastically.

"No. I didn't. Okay, what's the name of the airline?"

"Northwest."

"What's the flight number?"

"732."

"What time does it leave L.A.?"

"Five after three."

Deborah looked at the alarm clock. "It's one-thirty. It'll leave L.A.

in about one and a half hours."

"You're a mathematical genius," Sandy whimpered, sarcastically,

shutting off the alarm clock. "I should be leaving for L.A.—in ten minutes!"

Deborah got her cell phone out of its case on her belt, got the

airline's number in L.A. from the operator, punched in the numbers, waited.

A man's voice came on.

"Northwest. May I help you?"

"Yes. Can I speak to whoever is in charge of Northwest?"

"What is the nature of your call?"

"I know how crazy this sounds, but I'm psychic and I know for a fact

that one of Northwest's planes is going to crash if it isn't kept from flying

today."

"I will connect you, immediately!"

Deborah waited. Quickly, another man answered.

"This is security agent Anderson." His name really was Anderson,

but he didn't work for the airline. He was an FBI agent. "I understand you

are psychic and you know one of Northwest's planes is going to crash today.

Do you know which plane it is?"

"Flight 732. It leaves L.A. for Vancouver at five after three."

"What is your full name and address?"

"Deborah," Deborah said, got scared, pressed the off button on her

phone.

"What now?" Sandy asked.

"We wait," Deborah said, went over to the T.V. hanging on the wall,

turned it on, found a soap opera, walked across the room and sat down in the

overstuffed dressing chair.

At five after three, Deborah changed the T.V. channel to the news. "How

long is the flight?"

"Three hours," Sandy answered groggily, just waking from a nap.

"The sedative I took worked too well. I thought I was having a nightmare—

but you really are doing this thing, aren't you?"

Deborah didn't answer, sat back down in the chair.

A half hour passed. The doorbell rang.

"Now you're in for it—someone's at the door."

"Be quiet—or you know what."

The doorbell rang again and again and again.

They could hear Ruffy barking.

Suddenly, a man pushed open the bedroom door—walked in.

"Nasty dog you have there—but then that's the best kind of watchdog to

have, isn't it? We put him in the kitchen. I'm agent Anderson, F.B.I."

Anderson said, showing his credentials. "The door was unlocked, so we

didn't have to break it down. Who is Deborah?"

Deborah was visibly shaken. "I am," she said. "How did you find

me?"

"We have ways—something to do with your cell phone. I hope I

haven't interrupted a romantic interlude. Who is the lady in bondage?"

"I'm Sandy. Sandy Bondfield."

"Why are you bound?"

"Deborah has this crazy notion the plane I was to take to Vancouver

today is going to crash."

"Flight 732?"

"Yes," Sandy said, removing the tape from her feet. "She thinks

she's saving me."

"I take it you don't think so and she used some persuasion to stop

you, is that about it?"

"Yes."

"You know, of course, it may be considered to be a terrorist threat to

an airliner. It's a very serious matter, actually. You could both be in serious

trouble. There will be an investigation."

"Oh, no! You have it wrong," Deborah cried. "My husband can tell

you I really do see flashes of the future. He's been trying to get me to see a

doctor about them. This time—I saw Sandy sitting in the window seat of an

airplane, saw lightning through the window, then fire, then the plane

crashed. Honest. That's what happened—what will happen. Did they

ground the plane?"

"No."

"If it's so serious, why didn't they ground the plane?" Deborah

persisted.

"I have no idea, but you both will have to come downtown—lots of

forms to fill out and so forth. A judge will decide what to do with you."

"That's crazy!" Deborah cried.

"Lots of crazy going around these days," Anderson said. "Let's go."

As they were about to leave, a large message appeared on the T.V.

screen. It said: BREAKING NEWS.

"Wait," Deborah cried, went to the T.V., turned up the volume.

The lady news anchor said, "There's been a terrible plane crash. A

Northwest flight from Los Angeles to Vancouver, flight 732, crashed about a

half hour after takeoff in heavy weather. There are no survivors…"

Anderson's phone buzzed. "Anderson…yeah I just heard. Yeah, the

psychic lady was right. Yes chief, I'll apologize to her profusely…"

"God—those poor passengers and crew," Sandy cried, threw her

arms around Deborah's neck. "Oh, hell—I don't know how to thank you

enough. I'm so sorry I doubted you. I'll never doubt you again!"

"It was nothing—that's what friends are for," Deborah cried.

A few weeks later, Deborah and Sandy were having lunch on the pier.

"I love living here," Deborah said.

"Yeah, me too. I like the beach life. Lots of fresh air. The winters

are mild, the people are friendly", Sandy said, then took her gaze from the

sea, looked over at Deborah. Her first thought was that Deborah had dozed

off. "Are you okay?"

Deborah didn't answer for several minutes, then said, "My God!"

"What?"

"The children—the poor children—they'll be burned to death!"

"Let me guess—you had a flash!"

"Yes."

"What did you see?"

"I saw the Episcopal Church—you know—the one on south Pedro

Drive?"

"Yeah. I've been by there several times—what about it?"

"The church bells were ringing. I saw myself looking through the

doorway into the church. The church started shaking. I saw the statue of

Jesus behind the altar—topple over and crash to the floor."

"My God—an earthquake!"

"Yes, then I heard screams of children from somewhere inside the

church, then I saw myself standing away from the church. I saw the church

explode into a fiery inferno—the flames—the children," Deborah cried,

putting her hands to her face.

"You heard the church bells ringing, right?"

"Yes."

"They ring the bells every noon. What time is it?"

"Eleven-twenty," Deborah said.

"If it's going to happen today—we've got just enough time to get

there!"

"Yes—let's do it!"

"Let's run to my house—it's closer than yours—get my Porsche!"

Sandy cried.

Deborah quickly tossed a twenty on the table.

They moved swiftly through the people gathered on the pier, down

the ramp, across the sandy beach, disturbed a pelican that slowly lifted off

and gracefully flew out to sea, reached the Porsche, got in, set off for the

church.

Sandy weaved through traffic as fast as she dared, honking, breaking

and dodging.

"Take the next left!" Deborah said.

"No. It's the one after that!"

"No, damn it—it's this next left!"

"Okay—okay!"

The tires screamed as the Porsche whipped around the turn.

"What time is it, now?" Sandy cried.

Deborah looked at her watch. "Twenty till!"

Two blocks later, Sandy turned right. The church was dead ahead.

She parked the car. There were many cars in the parking lot. They got out,

hurried to the church, went inside, saw the statue of Christ still standing

upright behind the alter.

"Nobody here," Sandy said.

"Let's look in the back rooms!"

They quickly found their way to the back, heard children's voices

coming from a room; went inside.

The church's reverend, Reverend Ishmael Johnston was at the head

of the classroom telling the roomful of children a bible story.

Deborah ran up to the reverend. "I'm sorry to interrupt—but there is

no time—that is—there may be no time—anyway please—we've got to get

all these children out of the church—way away from the church! Please

hurry!"

"What ever are you talking about, young lady? Wait, I think I

recognize you from T.V. You saved someone's life with your psychic

ability, right?"

"Yes, reverend—I was the one she saved—please hurry," Sandy

cried, then whispered into his ear. There may be an earthquake and the

church will explode.

My God! he whispered, then said, "Children—children—leave the

church in an orderly manner—no running—okay, now—go! Go! Out into

the parking lot!"

The children were delighted to be getting out of bible school early.

They all quickly made their way out of the church. The reverend, Deborah

and Sandy followed.

"Now, what?" the reverend asked.

"Hopefully, nothing," Deborah said. "I hope it's a false alarm. What

I saw in my flash of the future was—I heard the church bells ringing—then

shortly after that there was an earthquake—it toppled the statue of Jesus—I

heard children screaming—then a terrible explosion—the church blew

apart—fire everywhere."

"My God! You say you heard the church bells ringing?"

"Yes."

"They ring at noon—what time is it?"

Deborah looked at her watch. "It's noon."

She'd just finished saying it when the church bells began to peel.

"Oh—my God—Tom!" the reverend cried.

"Who's Tom?" Sandy asked.

"He's the bell-ringer! I've got to rescue him!" the reverend cried.

"No—I can run faster—where is he?" Deborah cried. "You stay

here with the children."

"He's in the bell house—in the front of the church. Go in the front

door—turn right—go through the little door—up a few steps!" the reverend

cried.

Both Deborah and Sandy lit out towards the church like a pair of

sprinters, entered the church; turned right, dashed through the little door;

bounded up the steps. There was Tom, diligently pulling the bell ropes.

Deborah and Sandy each grabbed one of his arms, hustled him out of

the church, out to where the reverend stood with the children.

A few seconds later an earthquake hit. The ground shook furiously.

A couple of minutes later—boom! The entire church exploded into

thousands of pieces—fire everywhere. The children screamed.

"My God!" the reverend cried. "I don't know how to thank you—

you saved us all."

Deborah called the fire department on her cell, had trouble getting

through as there were fires all over town, but finally did.

The children's worried parents began to arrive.

Finally, a fire truck showed up. Firemen ran out hoses, started

spraying the flames.

"What do you think happened?" Sandy asked one of them.

"I'd say the earthquake broke a gas line—gas filled the church until

it found the pilot light in the water heater—boom! It's a miracle no one was

in the church at the time!"

The reverend had overheard the conversation. "A miracle, indeed!"

he cried. "Praised be to Deborah and her psychic powers!"

"What do you mean?" the fireman asked.

"The children and I and Tom were all in the church. Deborah has a

psychic ability. She saw in advance that the church was going to explode.

She and Sandy came and rescued us!"

"Well, I'll be damned!" the fireman said.

"I doubt it!" the reverend replied.

Two months later.

There's a reason I suggested we come up here to The Point for

lunch," Deborah said.

"My guess would be you've had another flash," Sandy said, forking a

piece of chicken salad.

"Correct. Do you see that tour boat out there moored to the dock?"

"Yes. I've been on it a couple of times. It's a fun trip down the coast

a ways then to Catalina Island."

"I saw it sink."

"No—how horrible!"

"Yes—a yacht struck it about in the middle. It went down fast."

"Sure it was that tour boat?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's the only one around with the clear plastic dome

top. That was the one I saw alright. We have to somehow keep it from

happening. My flashes have always come true within a couple of days."

"So, if the captain of the tour boat could be persuaded to not take it

out for a couple of days, that might keep it from sinking," Sandy suggested,

taking a bite of buttered roll.

"Right. I wonder if we can find him and have a chat with him."

"Maybe the waiter knows him," Sandy suggested.

Deborah raised her hand, signaled the waiter. The waiter came to

the table.

"Could I have the check, please—and by the way—do you know the

captain of the tour boat?"

"Oh, you don't have to see the captain to take a trip on the tour boat,

miss—just buy a ticket on the dock."

"Yes, I know all that, but I want to talk to him about something

else."

"Oh, I guess I spoke out of turn. Well, let me see—yes—you see the

gentleman in the navy blue jacket having lunch out on the pier?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's the first mate, I guess you could say. He serves juice and

sandwiches to the tour passengers. You might talk to him."

"Thanks," Deborah said.

The waiter started to leave.

"The check?" Deborah said.

"Oh, yes," the waiter said, handing it to her.

Deborah paid the cashier and she and Sandy went out to the mate's

table.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but it's important I talk to you,"

Deborah began.

The mate was a pleasant young man of about her same age, Deborah

thought. Dark hair, swimmer build, a little on the thin side. He looked up at

her.

"Please sit down."

They did.

"What can I do for you?"

"You, of course, know the captain of the tour boat that's moored at

the dock," Deborah said.

"Indeed I do."

"We need to talk to him. Do you know where we could find him?"

"Oh, if you want to buy a ticket…"

"No, it's about something else, but while we're on the subject, when

is the next tour?"

"Tomorrow. Ten in the morning. So—what's it about?"

"We need to discuss something with him."

"Has he done something wrong?"

"Oh, no."

"Then what is it?"

"Let's just say—it's…" Deborah said.

"Confidential!" Sandy added.

"Yes. Confidential," Deborah confirmed.

"Well, in that case—he might be at home," the mate said. "He's

married though."

"Oh, we're not looking for a date."

He found his cell phone, punched in some numbers.

"Captain…there's a couple of pretty ladies that want to talk to you. Yeah,

I'm getting a bite to eat on the pier. You will? Great—see you in a jiff."

"If you ladies can wait a few minutes, the captain will be here to chat

with you."

"Oh, thank you," Sandy said.

"By the way, I'm Randy."

"I'm Deborah and this is Sandy."

"Glad to meet you. Would you like something while we're waiting?"

"I'll have coffee."

"Me, too, with cream and sugar," Sandy added.

The mate signaled a waiter, ordered.

A few minutes later, the waiter brought the coffees.

"Here's Bill now," the mate said.

A man in his late thirties, a little on the heavy side, thick lens dark

glasses, captain's uniform, came to the table, pulled up a chair. "I'm Captain

Bill Tollman."

"These are the ladies I told you about on the phone, Deborah and

Sandy."

"Deborah…Deborah," the captain mused. "Yes, I remember now—

you're the Psychic Samaritan. I read about you. Am I mistaken?"

"Is that what they're calling me now—the Psychic Samaritan? Well,

anyway, you have the right person. We need to talk to you—it's of a rather

confidential nature."

"Oh, I see," the captain said. "Well, anything you have to say to me,

you can say in front of my mate here. He won't spill the beans—will you

Randy?"

Deborah didn't think it was a good idea for the mate to hear, but she

could tell that was the only way she and Sandy were going to get to talk to

the captain.

"Well, alright," Deborah said. "It's about the tour boat."

''What about it?"

"I had a flash of the future this morning—I saw the tour boat in a

terrible accident. A yacht ran it down. The tour boat sank, quickly."

"So, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Keep it from happening. Keep the tour boat moored for a few

days?"

"Are you out of your mind?" the captain erupted. "That's how I

make my living—and Randy's besides…yeah, I read your stories, but I think

you just got lucky. I don't think the future can be predicted."

"No, Mr. Tollman—I didn't just get lucky—that's the thing—I get

flashes of the future—and they happen later on."

"She does! She saved my life with one," Sandy said.

"Yeah, I read about that. You two could have cooked up that whole

business about the plane crashing."

"I suppose we could have—but we didn't!" Sandy cried.

"So, are we to understand, Mr. Tollman, that you won't cooperate?"

"That's about it," Tollman said.

Deborah got to her feet, tossed five dollars on the table. "For the

coffee."

Sandy followed Deborah down the pier. When they reached the

beach, Deborah said, "Let's take a walk and think this over."

"Let's," Sandy said.

The little, long-legged birds Deborah admired so much skittered

about in the waves by their feet as they walked.

"We have to do something. We know what will happen. Maybe a

hundred people will drown," Sandy said.

"Yes. Put on your thinking cap."

"I hope this is it," Sandy joked, tapping her red beret. "What about

the Coast Guard?"

"What about it?"

"Maybe they could keep the tour boat out of trouble somehow."

"That's a good idea," Deborah agreed. "They could keep an eye on it

for the next few days. But how do we convince the Coast Guard to do it?"

"Who do we know who might be able to help?"

"Manfred," Sandy said.

"Manfred, your husband?"

"He belongs to the Elks. He might have met somebody with a Coast

Guard connection."

Sandy got her cell phone out of her bag, called Manfred's cell. "Hi

Hon, it's me. Do you know anyone connected with the Coast Guard who

may be willing to do us a favor?…Commodore Richey? He's retired. But

always wears his uniform anyway. Okay…you'll give him a call and see if

he'll meet us at the pier restaurant. We can be there in half an hour. Where

are we? At The Point. Psychic stuff again? Yes—quite serious, I'm afraid.

Can't tell you on the phone—tell you later, bye…love you, too."

Half an hour later they found the Commodore seated inside the pier

restaurant. He would have been hard to miss. He was tall, in a white, full

dress uniform, had gained a few pounds since retiring, was smooth shaven,

had a full, white mustache and beard as one would expect to see on a

commodore. He stood as they approached his table.

"Good afternoon, ladies, Manfred called me. I've been expecting

you. Please sit down."

"You look exactly like I would expect a commodore to look,"

Deborah commented.

"Thank you," he said then seated himself again as Deborah and

Sandy sat down at the table. "Manfred sounded a bit mysterious on the

phone, what is it you want to talk to me about?"

Deborah related what she'd seen in her flash.

"My God—that is serious. The yacht will cut the tour boat into!"

"Unless something can be done about it," Sandy said, hopefully.

"Well, now…yes the Coast Guard should be able to accompany the

tour boat when it makes its next trip. When is the next tour due?"

"Tomorrow morning at ten," Deborah said.

"I see you've been doing your homework," the commodore said.

The commodore produced a cell phone, called a number, waited.

"Yes this is Commodore Richey—let me speak to Admiral Ferrigutt. Yes,

Fer—I have a favor to ask." The commodore related the plan he'd discussed

with the ladies. "You will—uhuh—they can? That's splendid! Yeah, later,

Fer."

The commodore tapped the off button on his phone.

"What did he say?" Deborah asked.

"He said, not only will they do it—you both can go on the Coast

Guard cutter while the do it!"

"Wow!" Sandy cried.

"As a matter of fact, I think I'll go along with you, if you don't

mind."

"Of course we don't mind. Thank you so much," Deborah said.

The next morning the three of them were at the Coast Guard station at nine-

thirty sharp, were met by the officer of the deck, taken aboard the Coast

Guard cutter and without further preliminaries, were soon out on the bay on

their way up the coast towards The Point.

"There's the tour boat," Sandy said, pointing.

The deck officer came up to Deborah and introduced himself. "I'm

Captain Evers, the cutter commander. I have a question for you, if you don't

mind."

"Oh, not at all—what do you want to know?"

"When you had you vision…"

"I call it a flash of the future—please go on."

"Do you recall whether the yacht was coming from up the coast or

from down the coast when it struck the tour boat?"

"The yacht was coming from up the coast."

"Thank you," the captain said, tipped his hat, went back to his post.

The cutter quickly maneuvered out toward the sea, then up the coast

a ways, then circled back towards The Point and stopped dead in the water.

They could see the tour boat was filled with passengers as it slowly

moved out to sea.

The captain kept the cutter about a hundred yards up the coast from

the tour boat, then followed it as it went on out into the deeper, shark

infested water.

The tour boat ran parallel to the shore for awhile so the passengers

could get a good view of the quiet, well flowered, little towns along the

coast, then veered on out to sea, toward Catalina Island.

Deborah noticed the commodore had something plugged in his right

ear.

He saw her glance at it. "It's a communication device. I can hear

what the captain is telling the crew," he explained.

"Oh, what is he telling them?" Deborah asked.

"He has just given instructions for the cutter to shadow the tour

boat—to stay about a hundred yards from it and keep up with it."

"Kind of like a mother hen," Sandy said.

"Yes, kind of like that," the commodore said.

"What's that thing up there that keeps going around and around?"

Sandy asked.

"That's the radar."

"This is a fancy ship," Deborah said.

"Yes, it's well equipped. It has two three-hundred horsepower

engines and a helicopter."

"Really?"

"Yes—please be quiet now so I can hear—the radar operator is

telling the captain there's a blip on the radar screen—says there's a boat

heading this way. It's about two miles north—coming on at about forty

knots. The captain is giving instructions—asking someone to see if there

could be an intercept between the tour boat on it's present course and the

boat picked up on radar."

"What does intercept mean?" Sandy asked.

"It's a point where, if the tour boat and the boat on radar maintain the

same speed they have now—it's the point where they will come together,"

the commodore said.

"Like crash into each other?" Deborah asked.

"Yes…okay…they have a fix on the intercept. The boats will

definitely hit each other if something doesn't change."

"Your flash was right, Deb," Sandy cried.

The cutter had a powerful set of outside speakers that the captain

used to blast instructions to a nearby vessel, like to tell drug smugglers to

surrender. He directed the speakers towards the tour boat. "Ahoy, tour

boat—this is the captain of the Coast Guard cutter alongside you. Reduce

your speed—you are on a collision course with another vessel—reduce your

speed, immediately!"

The tour boat continued on at the same speed.

The captain repeated the order.

"It's that blasted Captain Tollman—he's as bullheaded as they come.

If he can't see a reason for doing something—he'll do things his way," the

commodore said. "If he doesn't slow that tub down—I'll personally have his

license taken away. He won't even be able to captain a rowboat when I'm

done with him!" the commodore said.

The tour boat continued at the same speed.

The other boat was coming on fast. Now they could see it visually.

"Look—there it is!" Sandy said, pointing. "That's the yacht you saw

in your flash, Deb!"

Then they heard the whine of the helicopter engine as it prepared to

lift off the cutter.

"What's happening?" Deborah asked the commodore.

"The captain has given orders for the helicopter to check out the

yacht. The helicopter is about to take off."

Soon they saw the helicopter lift off the cutter, tilt to the right, level

off and head for the speeding yacht.

In a few minutes it was flying above the yacht.

"The captain is talking with the helicopter pilot, telling him to

inspect the yacht from the air—the pilot reports there's a man lying on the

bridge of the yacht, not moving. The captain asked if it would be too risky

for a member of the rescue team to be lowered by cable onto the yacht and

take over the controls. The pilot said, no go. They are traveling at forty

knots—too much wind at that speed to put a man on the yacht's deck."

The yacht and helicopter was now only half a mile from the cutter,

coming on fast.

"The captain has given the order to the helicopter pilot to take out

the screws on the yacht," the commodore said.

"What does that mean?" Sandy asked.

"The helicopter is equipped with a fifty-caliber machine gun. The

screws are the propellers that push the yacht. They are to fire at the screws

to stop them from turning."

"Won't that sink the yacht?" Deborah asked.

"We shall see," the commodore said.

As they watched, the helicopter backed off from the yacht, then they

heard the machinegun firing. The yacht began to slow down, but it was clear

to everyone that it was not going to stop in time.

"It's going to hit the cutter!" Sandy cried.

"Clever captain. He placed the cutter so it shields the tour boat. The

yacht can't do much harm to the cutter when it hits it," the commodore said.

They could see that the yacht was taking on water in its stern. The

back of the yacht was sinking. Then, it slammed into the side of the cutter.

Quickly, a rescue team member lowered by cable down to the sinking yacht,

a basket was lowered to him. He put the man who was lying on deck by the

wheel, into the basket. It was hoisted up, then the team member was hoisted

up. The yacht sank. The helicopter landed on the cutter's deck. A medic ran

to it.

"The captain says the man is dead…probably a heart attack," the

commodore said.

"I thought they had a dead man switch on yachts," Deborah said.

"Must not have worked," Sandy said.

A month later.

Deborah sat in a plastic-covered, aluminum lounge chair. Her long legged

husband John sat nearby in a similar one. Their four-year-old son, Johnny

sat playing in the beach sand at Deborah's left side, trying to make a sand

castle with his little plastic shovel.

"You like—mama?"

"I like!" Deborah said, gesturing toward Johnny's sand castle with

her hand. "I like it very much!"

The day was ideal for their ocean-side outing. The California sky was

mostly a perfect shade of blue with a few lofty clouds floating above the

horizon. A few white sailboat sails spotted the panoramic ocean out in front

of them. Waves gracefully foamed and splashed upon the sand. Small birds

with long legs skittered in and out of waves, feeding on the tiny sea creatures

the waves washed ashore.

Deborah and John had first met on this very beach five years earlier.

She had admired, and still did, his exquisite, blue eyes, muscular build, dark

wavy hair. They had soon been married.

"More chips?" she asked, extending the bag his direction.

"No more, thanks. I'm saving my appetite for dinner on the pier."

She stretched her lithe, medium build, bikini clad body out, leaned

completely back on the lounger, pulled her wide-brimmed straw hat down

over honey blond hair, closed her brown eyes.

Her mind drifted into that comfortable twilight zone just between

being awake and asleep. She could still hear the lapping waves.

She didn't know how long she'd been in that state when, suddenly, she felt a

familiar, shocking, rush inundate her mind; something like terror, yet not

exactly. She knew what it meant—a flash. It meant, at that very instant, she

was "seeing" events that would happen in the future—"saw" little Johnny

running down the beach—out towards dangerous ocean waves, saw herself

running to try to catch him before it was too late, saw a large wave coming

toward him—snapped fully awake—screaming. She jumped out of the

lounger, to her feet. "Johnny—Johnny—where are you?"

Johnny was still sitting in the sand, contentedly playing with his

shovel.

She grabbed him up—held him tight. "Oh—Johnny!"

"You mad at Johnny, mommy?" Johnny asked.

"No, darling. Mama is not mad at Johnny."

Deborah's scream had brought John instantly to his feet. He stood

staring at her. "What the hell was that all about?" he cried.

"You know," she said.

"Oh, hell no—not another precognition experience!"

Her hat brim exaggerated her yes nod.

"Damn it! We've talked about that. I've told you before and I'm

telling you now—you have to go see a shrink about it. We can't go on like

this. You scare the hell out of me—and when Johnny gets a little older—

you'll scare the hell out of him, too!"

"And, I've told you—we don't have enough money to afford a

shrink!"

"We'll mortgage the damned house if we have to. You need help.

You have to stop having those damned dreams—that keep coming true!

What was it this time?"

"This time—!" she began.

"This time—what?"

"This time it was about—Johnny."

"What about him?"

"He was running towards the waves—and—" Tears filled her eyes.

"And what—?"

"Hold me, honey!"

He took her in his arms.

"What?" he probed. "What happened Deb?"

"A huge wave was coming in off the ocean—right at him!"

"But, he's still sitting there—playing in the sand."

"I know—but it will happen. It's a calm day today. I saw a windy

day. I don't know when, but it will happen!"

"What happened after the wave? Come on—what happened after

you saw the big wave coming off the ocean. Did it hit him? Did it drown

him?"

"I don’t know. That was the end of the flash. They only last a few

minutes."

"How do you know it wasn't just a bad dream?"

"When I have one of those experiences, it instantly demands all of

my attention, all my energy. It's almost like there's electricity running

through my body while it's happening. It puts me into a constant state of

shock, I guess you could say. That's how I know it's going to happen

someday. Honey, it scares the hell out of me, too."

"That settles it—we'll get a mortgage on the beach house—get you a

good shrink."

The incident had ruined the tranquility of their outing.

Deborah loaded Johnny into the walker.

They made their way up the beach, past a dozen or so seagulls

fighting over some French fries someone had tossed. Then they slowly

made their way up the ramp onto the pier, and were soon seated for dinner in

the quaint glassed-in pier restaurant.

"Wine?" the waiter asked.

"A bottle of iced Chablis," John said.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Give us a few minutes," Deborah said.

The waiter went away.

"You will see a specialist—if we can find a good one, won't you?"

John asked.

"Yes, of course, I will, but I hate to see us put another mortgage on

the beach house. We just got it paid off."

"I know. So what do you feel like eating?"

"I say we splurge and have the Alaska crab legs and a side of

steamed clams. What do you say?"

"Sounds perfect!" John said. He could tell from the expression on

her graceful, thin face that she was trying hard to put the precognition

episode behind her.

His look told her what he was thinking. "I'm all right. We'll just

have to be careful—make sure it doesn't come true."

The waiter came back. "Ready to order?"

"Yes," John said. "Do you have any of those little animal crackers

for the boy?"

"Yes, I believe we do."

"Okay—we'll have the Alaska crab legs for two and a side of

steamed clams."

"And for the boy?"

"A small bowl of clam chowder and a large milk," Deborah said.

"Very well," the waiter said, leaving the table.

After checking with the psychology department at the local university,

Deborah was referred to a retired psychoanalyst by the name of Higgins.

Doctor Wilhelm Higgins.

He'd taught at the university for thirty years before retiring. He had

an excellent reputation. A staff member told Deborah Dr. Higgins had gone

into semi-private practice specializing in precognition.

Deborah got his phone number, made an appointment to see him.

Dr. Higgins studied Deborah for a few moments with his dark blue eyes

from where he sat just across from her.

He's short and still quite muscular considering he must be in his

seventies, Deborah thought. She noticed his face was narrow with an old-

world mustache and beard that reminded her of a photo she'd seen of

Sigmund Freud. His "office" was very casual. He didn't use the

psychiatrist's couch. Instead, he preferred to have his clients sit in the very

comfortable, well overstuffed chair so as to relax.

"So, Mrs. Nickels, is it?"

"Yes. Deborah Nickels. My husband is the local architect, John

Nickels. You may have heard of him.

"Yes. I think I have. He designed a wing of the university, if I'm

not mistaken."

"Yes. That's him. But, before we go any farther, I must tell you that

just because he's a fine architect, that doesn't mean he's well off. He—we

were well off, but we invested in what seemed like a solid investment

company. If I said the name, you'd know which one I'm talking about.

Anyway, it went under and we lost all out investment money. So, as not to

beat around the bush—we may not be able to afford your counseling, but

we're willing to mortgage the house, if necessary. It's that important."

"Well, to put your mind to rest—I practice now more as a hobby

than anything else. I'm fascinated by precognition. I've made a special

effort to study it as much as possible. Most people don't require precognition

counseling over a long period of time. I charge by the phase. If the client

only needs one phase, I charge $300. We go through that phase, then see if

the client needs another."

"I see," Deborah said, "So far so good."

"How old are you, Deborah. May I call you Deborah?"

"Yes, please do. I'm twenty-three."

"What brings you to me, Deborah?"

"I've had precognition experiences since I was in the seventh grade.

You may have seen me on the news. They call me the Psychic Samaritan."

"You've just had a bad one, yes?"

"Yes—and I'm scared, Doctor—this time it was about our little boy

Johnny—he's four. I had a very bad precognition experience about him."

She related the experience.

"A surprisingly large part of the population have reported

experiencing insight into the future like you have. There's good news and

bad news as far as precognition goes."

"What do you mean?"

"Many experts in the field have come to the same conclusion.

Precognitive experiences, they say, is nature's way of giving the person who

has them a sense they're on the right track—that their life is as it should be.

And in prehistoric times helped mankind survive in a world of wild animals

and uncertainty, and actual warnings, as in your case. Now you know

something about what is going to happen to little Johnny and you are now a

great deal better prepared to prevent something serious from happening to

him. Do you agree."

"Yes, I hope so."

"Oh, yes, it's true. If you had not had the experience, you would

have had no warning at all. Now, even though you didn't actually see him

get hurt, you now have been warned that he might get hit by the huge wave."

"You mentioned bad news."

"Yes. The bad news is that precognition stops happening to most

people who experience it, when they reach their early twenties. That's the

bad news. No more warnings! So, I know how difficult it must be to know

what you know—but, believe me, it's much better to know than not to know.

It happened to me. I had precognition experiences when I was young, but

my last one came to me when I was twenty-two. Reliance on precognition

reaches back to ancient times, when prophets and oracles were sought for

their access to the future. The Greeks considered the future immutable. Free

will, however, can change the perceived future, as seen in the many incidents

of individuals saving their lives and escaping disasters by changing their

previously formed plans based on precognitive information. Psychical

researchers estimate that one-third to one-half of all precognitive experiences

may provide useful information to avert disasters."

"I had no idea—so many."

"The main thing is your health—both mentally and physically.

Worrying can tear you down. You lose sleep and so forth. I'm going to give

you a prescription to help you relax. Take one, up to three times a day, if

necessary to relax, then take two before bedtime and you will sleep soundly,

but not so soundly that you won't wake up if the baby cries."

"I understand. I'm glad I came to see you."

"I'm glad you did, too. I'll send you my bill. No hurry for you to

pay it. That's all for now. If you feel the need to come back, don't hesitate,

but I think you'll be all right now."

A few weeks later, a storm moved onto the horizon. The effect of it on the

coast was a brisk breeze. Otherwise, the sky was clear.

"You sure you're not getting hooked on those damned pills that doctor gave

you?" John asked. "How many have you taken today?"

"Okay, I took an extra one—sue me! Well—look out the window. I

ask you—what the hell do you see?" Deborah exploded.

"Just a storm way out in the ocean," John said.

"Just a storm—just a storm. Remember the windy day in my flash?

I'm going to stay awake all night and watch Johnny—make sure nothing

happens to him."

"What the hell can happen? No waves can get into the house. He's

safe as his teddy bear in his crib in the nursery. You did put him in his crib,

didn't you."

"Of course, I did."

"You slid the side rail up so he can't get out, didn't you."

"Of course."

"Well, then there's nothing to worry about. He can't get out—no

waves can get in. It's midnight and I've got to get up early."

"Yeah, you're right."

He gathered her up in his arms, carried her to the bedroom.

She left the bedroom a moment, glanced into the nursery, saw

Johnny was sound asleep, went back into the bedroom, got into her pajamas

and crawled into bed beside John.

It was still a wee hour in the morning, when a gust of wind blew open the

hinged window in the nursery.

The sound was just loud enough to wake Johnny up. He wasn't

frightened by it, but rather curious as to what was happening. He rolled

around for a while, listening to the wind and the sounds of the pounding surf

coming through the open window, became restless, struggled to his feet,

began pounding with his fists on the top of the wooden rail that kept him

from getting out of the crib. He wasn't trying to get out. It was just

something little kids do, pound on things. Suddenly, to his surprise, the gate

dropped down in front of him. Deborah had not listened for the "click" when

she'd slid the side rail up. It wasn't locked into place as it should have been.

He lay down on the bottom of the crib, worked his little legs over the

edge, put his feet on the floor and got out of the crib.

He heard a familiar sound coming from outside the window. He

toddled over to near the window. The sound continued. He climbed up on

the toy box that was under the window, stood on it, looked out the window.

He saw where the sound was coming from—a cat. In the moonlight from

the full moon, he saw a meowing cat. He wanted to go to it, pet it. He

climbed up on the window sill, tumbled out onto the beach sand, began to

cry. Stopped crying after a minute or two. The cat came over to him. He

petted it. Then, as cats will do, it began to dance around and play. Johnny

laughed and tried to pet it, but the cat just wanted to play around. It darted

here and there, then darted out in the direction of the ocean. Johnny

followed it.

His cry had wakened Deborah. She rolled over, became wide awake, got out

of bed, went to the nursery—screamed! Her scream woke John. He ran to

her. "What is it?"

"Can’t you see? Johnny's gone!"

They went to the open window, looked out at the moonlight-

drenched beach, but didn't see him.

"Maybe somebody kidnapped him!" Deborah cried.

"I'll call the police!" John said, rushing out of the room.

Deborah looked at the crib, saw the side rail was down. If someone

kidnapped him they wouldn't take time to lower the side rail, she thought.

Maybe he got out by himself. Maybe the wind blew open the window—

maybe he's outside.

She went to the window, climbed out. "Johnny!" she yelled as she

ran out onto the beach. "Johnny—where are you?" No answer.

She frantically ran up and down the beach. No sign of little Johnny.

She saw a figure on up the beach a ways. The figure was dim in the

moonlight, she could just make it out. She ran toward it calling, "Johnny!"

The closer she got to the figure, the more distinct it became. Suddenly, the

realization hit her. It's not Johnny—it's a—man. She approached him

cautiously.

"Hi," he said. "What brings you out here this time in the morning?"

"My little boy—his name is Johnny—he got out—he's out here on

the beach somewhere—you haven’t seen anything have you?"

"No, but I'll help you look for him. My name's Jim."

"I'm Deborah. What are you doing out here on a night like this,

Jim?" Deborah asked.

"I'm a lifeguard. I'm off duty now, of course. I received a message

from the Coast Guard that a rogue wave is coming this way. It's due to hit

any time now. There's usually nobody on the beach this time in the morning,

but I thought I'd make sure."

"I guess I've never heard of a rogue wave—what is it?"

"It's a huge wave—sometimes thirty or forty feet high," he said, as

they quickened their pace as they looked around for any sign of movement.

"Nobody knows what causes them."

"My God," she cried, then began running down the beach, looking

everywhere. "Johnny!"

He ran beside her. "I think I see something!" he cried, pointing.

She tried to focus in on what he was seeing, couldn't see anything

unusual at first then saw what he was talking about. "I think it's—Johnny!"

she cried, running faster.

When they were about a hundred yards away they saw Johnny—

still chasing the cat, closer and closer to the lapping ocean waves.

Then they saw it. It looked like a long, black rolling mountain

coming toward them.

"It's the rogue wave!" the lifeguard said.

The cat saw a bird down by the lapping waves, began running

toward it—toward the rogue wave.

Johnny playfully ran after the cat.

"My God—that huge wave—it's going to get him!" Deborah yelled.

"Johnny!" she yelled again, saw Johnny turn and look at her.

"It'll get us, too, if we're not careful!" the lifeguard warned, then

leaned back on his heals, shot ahead of Deborah as though she was standing

still.

Flashing red lights of emergency vehicles were coming up the beach,

but still half a mile or so away.

Johnny finally caught up with the cat, picked it up.

The huge wave was only a few hundred yards out, coming in fast.

The lifeguard stumbled over something, fell onto the sand.

Seeing him fall, Deborah started running toward Johnny.

The lifeguard quickly got to his feet. "No—," he cried, "I'll get

Johnny—you get off the beach—fast!"

Deborah hesitated.

As the lifeguard covered the last few yards, he released the inflation

valve on the compressed air bottle on his belt. Air instantly filled the

floatation balloon around his waist. He grabbed up Johnny and the cat,

began running away from the waves.

The huge wave hit the beach with the sound of a thousand thunders.

Deborah screamed. "They'll both be killed!" she cried, felt

completely helpless, began running away from the huge wave.

The wave hit the lifeguard and Johnny, drenched them with water—

shoved them inland with violent force. They tumbled end over end across

the sand, then, suddenly, it was all over. The floatation tube had done its

job—saved Johnny, the lifeguard—and the cat.

Deborah ran to them. "Oh, Johnny—you okay?"

"Okay!" Johnny said and still holding the soaked cat, hugged his

mother.

An ambulance pulled up. Two paramedics got out, ran to the scene.

"Anybody hurt?" one of them asked.

"No, we're okay," the lifeguard said.

"We'd like to take you and the boy to the hospital for a checkup just

in case," the paramedic said.

"That would be a good idea," Deborah's husband, John, who'd just

arrived, said. "Take the cat, too."

Everybody laughed.

Deborah went to John. They embraced. "I'll never doubt your

flashes of the future again!" he said.

The End