Skillful Death by Ike Hamill Read Free Book Online Page A

In fact, he didn’t even mention it when it was up on the screen in front of him.  
    On the monitor, Ted is flipping and turning. It looks like he’s having trouble getting settled again. I hardly take my eyes off Ted as I pour a cup of coffee and load it up with creamer. I like a good French vanilla with enough creamer to make you wonder if you can really still taste the coffee at all. The fake creamer is about ten calories per teaspoon, so I throw a blast of sugar in there as well. I figure that the sugar will boost my metabolism high enough to burn off the creamer. The combination tastes like a rush of chemicals.  
    When I’m puzzled by a case like this, I usually retreat to the subject’s motivation. You’d think that the motivation would always be the same—people trying to claim the cash prize—but it’s not.
    My boss set up this reward over ten years ago, and it’s not the first one ever created, but it’s by far the biggest. If you hunt around, you can find dozens of other prizes for proof of ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, and any other paranormal or supernatural phenomenon. The prize for proof ranges from about a thousand dollars up to a million for the biggest.  
    If someone can pass our test, the reward is ten million U.S. dollars. The other prizes get a dozen applicants per year; we get hundreds. But, like I said, it’s not the money that brings them in. People come in because they want to prove they’re not crazy. People come in because they want their life’s work validated. People come in because they crave attention. Some people are just trying to sell a product or a book and they think they can get publicity out of applying for the prize. Whatever their motivation, I’m usually the first person they talk to.
    So, what is Ted’s motivation? I immediately think of that app he wrote. It’s pretty cool. You could sell it for a premium to people who want to control their dreams. Now that he has it implemented, he just needs some good publicity to get the name out there. There are millions of apps out there, so it takes a lot of luck or some good publicity to get noticed. Maybe Ted thinks this dream email thing is his ticket to getting on the morning talk shows. He doesn’t need me to believe him, he just needs me to investigate. Then, on the next slow news day, someone might pick up the story.
    People have tried this approach before. It never works. We’ll get some professed psychic who has a plan to get his test televised. They show up at the office with a video crew in tow and they always have very complex requirements for the testing. My goal is simple. I want to prove that they’re fakes as quickly and quietly as possible. I get enough hacks. I don’t need every fortune-hunter showing up at the door.
    Even if there’s video of the entire test, nobody will want to air it. It’s like all the TV networks have decided not to show video of scientific tests. They’ll put on a million series about people who hunt ghosts, but TV is allergic to double-blind studies. If that is Ted’s plan, then he hasn’t done his homework. Nobody has ever gotten much exposure from being tested for our prize.
    I sip my coffee, trying to finish it before it gets so cold that the fake creamer balls up. Ted is finally settled. It looks like he might be drifting back into dreamland. He’s not out for five minutes before his phone makes that sound again. Supposedly, Ted is dropping right back into a dream. It seems unlikely, given how restless he was just seconds ago, but I lean forward and stare at the screen like a teenager watching porn. I don’t know what I’m looking for—his fingers moving in his sleep maybe?
    Another email pops up on my laptop. The subject is “Dream email” and the body says, “Shoddy=longer staple than mungo.”  
    Time for a polygraph.
    I pull out a suitcase from my closet. It holds the machine and straps and accessories. Then I go to fetch Ted. I shake him awake and drag him back