Bringer of Fire Read Free Page A

and stared at each item while concentrating on making one of them move. If I could inadvertently cause soap bars, telephone handsets, and TV remotes to leap into my hand, perhaps I could deliberately manipulate one of the items before me.
    However, after nearly an hour, during which time I felt like some hack magician, all that I managed to do was hold my breath and coax a vein to pop out on my forehead. It really pissed me off.
    What was I missing?
    I placed my palm face up on the table and concentrated on making the pencil or ink pen go to my hand.
    Nothing.
    “Figures.” I held my hand palm outward to each of the writing utensils and imagined one of them leaping into my palm.
    No response.
    I tried for another twenty minutes.
    Nothing.
    I slammed my palm onto the tabletop in aggravation. The pen and pencil both rolled around a little bit.
    “Yeah, that’s successful. It’s called the magic of vibration.”
    The entire evening had given me a pounding headache, so I got up to take a couple of Tylenol capsules with some 7Up.
    Minutes later, and to my surprise, I could feel my head beginning to clear.
    “Damn, if that Tylenol isn’t great stuff.”
    I wandered over to the TV remote control and tuned into the news. I’d become used to checking for periodic updates on the explosion.
    Placing the remote control atop the coffee table, or rather on top of all the junk stacked on it, I turned to look back at the items on the dining room table. I held out my hand and concentrated on bringing any one of the items to me.
    Nothing.
    “What a load of crap! I must’ve been hallucinating after all.”
    However, rather than reassuring me, that only scared me. What if I’m losing my marbles after everything I’ve been through?
    It succeeded in making me feel angry.
    I pointed an accusing finger at the items on the dining room table, wishing that I could cast them across the room.
    “Move, damn you!”
    A sudden series of loud knocks against the front door startled me, and the pencil, paper, and salt and pepper shakers flew off the table, impacting the far wall as if they had been thrown.
    I stared across the room in awe.
    “No way.”
    The knocking on the front door startled me back to reality again.
    I was torn between rushing to the dining room to pick up the items and going to answer the door, but propriety won, and I headed to the door.
    I was greeted by a man and a woman, each wearing dark suits.
    “Mr. Logan Bringer?” asked the man.
    “Yes.”
    Both of them flipped open black leather wallets that revealed badges and ID cards.
    “We’re with the FBI. I’m Special Agent Ted Burroughs, and this is Special Agent Megan Sanders. We’d like to visit with you if you have a few minutes to spare.”
    I was somewhat surprised. I’d expected to be contacted by the local police, but not the FBI.
    But there they stood in my doorway. It was the sort of thing that I had only seen on television. Maybe like on… The X-Files .
    “Sounds reasonable,” I said.
    The lady agent—did he say her name was Sanders?—looked at me with a curious expression.
    “May we come in?” she asked.
    “Yeah, sure,” I replied and held the door open for them to enter.
    It was then that I cast a disparaging look at the state of my living room. After closing the door, I awkwardly cleared off the pillows, comforter, and laundry from the couch and piled them on the floor at one end of the couch.
    “Please, have a seat.”
    Agent Burroughs looked like the poster child for FBI agents with his closely cropped haircut, athletic build, and neatly pressed suit. He appeared to be sizing me up, as well, and part of me got the impression that he was resisting the urge to shake his head.
    Meanwhile, Agent Sanders also seemed to be assessing me, though with a bit more amusement. Her hazel eyes seemed to twinkle slightly and she appeared to be trying to suppress her amusement.
    “You’ll have to pardon the mess,” I said.
    “Not a problem,” Sanders