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KND Freebies: Psychological thriller JUMP is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

4.5 stars for this suspenseful thriller!

Think “Quantum Leap meets
The Time Traveller’s Wife“…

Another JUMP into a stranger’s body —
and now he’s Jeremy Roberts, but with none of Jeremy’s memories. Can he unravel the unsolved tragedy of Jeremy’s family in time to make a daring rescue?

Take the leap while JUMP is 40% off!

JUMP

by Stephen R. Stober

4.5 stars – 42 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Jeremy Roberts is suddenly a stranger in his own body with no memory of his life. When he discovers he’s entangled in an unsolved tragedy, he must mount a high-stakes investigation to rescue someone he can’t remember.

Jeremy Roberts’ life is reset one morning in Boston’s Quincy Market when an inexplicable event leaves him a stranger in his own body. He quickly relearns his name and his place in the world, but can’t explain the heavy feeling of grief that pervades every moment of his day.

Hiding his complete lack of memory about his life, he sets to work finding the source of his emotional anguish. Uncovering files from his own computer, he learns that a terrible tragedy has befallen his family and its mystery remains unsolved.

Calling on a crack private investigator and a computer security expert, Jeremy delves deep into the case. After piecing together a startling theory, he plunges into a daring plan to rescue a woman he can’t remember… before it is too late.

5-star praise for JUMP:

Terrific story & original concept
“I loved the original premise of this book and the very exciting plot….Great first novel!…”

Unique idea, phenomenal read

“…extremely well written and engaging…I could easily picture the story being adapted for a screenplay – the descriptions were so vivid it was as if the movie was playing in my head!…”

an excerpt from

Jump

by Stephen R. Stober

 

Copyright © 2014 by Stephen R. Stober and published here with his permission
I do not know who I am;
I do not know what I am.

Chapter 1 – Jeremy

    This time it happened without much warning. I had to jump quickly in Quincy Market, at a shoe store. The switch was much faster than usual. I didn’t have much time to choose.

    It’s been about a minute since the transition. I feel dizzy and a little off balance as I stand among shoppers who are focused on a man lying on the floor. Damian Murdoch had lost consciousness and collapsed. His wife, Carrie, is frantic and screaming for someone to call 9-1-1. There’s chaos in the store.

I feel something in my back pocket; it must be a wallet. The distraction gives me time to quickly take it out and look through its contents. There’s a Massachusetts driver’s license in Jeremy Roberts’ name with a home address shown as Heath Street in Brookline. There are some credit cards, cash, a few business cards, and an emergency contact card with a name, Jennifer Roberts, her phone number, and an e-mail address containing the name Jen.

The ambulance arrives in minutes, followed by the police. The woman standing beside me must be Jennifer, or maybe she calls herself Jen. Before the switch, she and Jeremy were talking to each other in a way that couples do in stores. I had sensed a profound grief within them.

The paramedics ask for everyone to clear the area as they tend to Damian. As he starts to come to, he mumbles something to Carrie, who is bending over beside him, crying. I had loved Carrie deeply. Damian will be okay.

Jennifer whispers to me, “Come on, let’s go home.”

I hesitate. I don’t want to leave Carrie. I won’t see her again. Jennifer takes my numb hand and starts to lead me away. I stumble, almost falling to the floor as I experience initial coordination problems. Jennifer tries to grab me as my hand slips from hers. She calls out my name with a gasp. I regain my balance and reach for her hand.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

“I’m not sure, I feel a little dizzy.” In actual fact, much of my body has no feeling. As usual, for the first few moments of a transition, the neural messages being exchanged between my body and brain are not fully engaged.

“Do you want to sit down for a bit?”

“No, it’s ok, I don’t think it’s anything, Jen. Maybe that guy falling to the floor got me a little woozy.” Hopefully, she is Jennifer.

“Why are you calling me Jen?”  She seems surprised.

I have nothing. I often have nothing at the beginning. I’ve learned that silence gets filled with information. Silence is powerful. Moments pass. Jennifer gives me more information.

“You haven’t called me Jen for years. What’s with you?” It is her.

I remain silent. Jennifer continues. “Are you okay? Do you think another migraine’s coming on?”

The opportunity. “Yes.”

“I better drive home,” she says firmly.

I’m relieved. At this point, I wouldn’t know where to go. She puts her arm around my waist, trying to give me support as we start to slowly walk out of the store. With each step, the neural pathways are connecting and I’m beginning to feel sensations in my limbs.

“I think I’m okay now,” I say as we reach the street. I concentrate on each step as I awkwardly place one foot in front of the other, trying to keep my balance.

I take her arm from my waist and hang on to her hand as she walks slightly ahead of me. As she proceeds, she looks back at me struggling to walk in a straight line.

“Jeremy, what’s wrong? You look drunk!”

“I’m just a little woozy. Let me sit down for a bit.”

We go to the curb where I sit. As the moments pass, I can feel sensations growing throughout my body. A few more minutes and it will be complete.

“The paramedics are still in the store. Do you want them to have a look at you?”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be all right in a minute or so. It’s probably just this migraine thing coming on. Let’s give it a couple of minutes. If I’m still dizzy, we’ll go see them.”

My new voice is deeper than Damian’s. It sounds odd as I talk. I clear my throat to hear the sound again.

After a couple of minutes, I feel complete and stand up. “I’m alright, let’s go to the car.”

Jennifer leads the way. I study her as she walks ahead. She’s a beautiful woman, five feet seven or so, high cheekbones, straight black hair formed into a ponytail threaded through the back of a pink Nike ball cap. Her aqua blue eyes, tanned skin, blue denim shorts, pink tank top, and immaculate white sneakers with the pink swoosh is a look that you’d see on a Nike commercial. She must be in her early forties, a very feminine woman in perfect shape.

I watch her every move and take in all of the cues that she’s unknowingly sending as she walks. To me, these signals are giant billboards indicating intention, feeling, and even thought. The way someone walks, how they move their feet, swing their arms, position their head, and even move their eyes can clearly reveal their level of comfort or stress, confidence, and their emotional state. My success has depended on my ability to read these nonverbal cues.

At first glance, Jennifer seems to walk like a confident woman. However, with a closer look, I can detect that she’s unsettled. Her overall posture, expressions, hesitations, and the way she touches her hair, suggest that something emotionally significant is happening within her. Is it related to the grief feelings I felt in both her and Jeremy before the transition?

Jennifer walks toward a white Mercedes SL, presses one of the keys, and the trunk lid pops open. She places the Nine West bag inside and closes the trunk. With another press of the key, the doors unlock. As I struggle to coordinate my limbs to get into the passenger seat, she asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, my back’s a little stiff, that’s all.”

“Can I put the top down?”

I nod. She presses a button and the trunk cover whirs to attention, gradually lifting open. The roof begins its folding dance and gently places itself into the front part of the trunk. The cover silently closes with no hint that the entire metal roof is hidden within. I watch as Jennifer adjusts the mirrors and seat. In one smooth movement, she belts herself in and starts the car with the push of a button. Her hands are beautifully manicured—clear polish on firm nails. She moves the car confidently away from the curb, narrowly missing the bumper of the Honda in front of us.

As she drives away, she says, “That poor man. I wonder whether he had a heart attack. Why didn’t anyone give him CPR?”

“I think I saw him breathing; it didn’t look like he needed CPR.” I knew exactly what had happened. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

“How can you say that? It could have been a stroke!”

I respond with a shrug.

“It’s interesting that it took no time for the police to arrive. I wish she had gotten such quick attention,” Jennifer says with a sarcastic tone.

Not sure what she means by that. I stay silent.

I close my eyes and place my hand on my forehead, feigning a migraine as Jennifer drives us home. I take this time to think about my new life. What lies before me? How quickly will I figure out my objective? Do Jennifer and Jeremy love each other? Do they have children? What’s the nature of the grief that I had felt within them? These are all pieces of the puzzle that I will have to figure out to help them navigate through their despair.

***

I do not know my name; I do not know how old I am. I have memories of thousands of people from countries and cultures around the world, but I can’t remember anything about me. As I often do at the beginning of a transition, I start asking the questions that I can never answer. How did all of this start? Who am I? Where is home? Where is my family? Do I even have a family? It’s all a puzzle and I am no closer to the answer than I ever was.

The one thing I do know is that today, and for some time to come, I am Jeremy Roberts. This morning, the tingling in my hands was the sign that the process was beginning. As always, I was not sure when or where it would occur, but I knew I had to act quickly. I needed to get to a busy place with many people. I asked Carrie if she wanted to go with me to the market.

For some reason, this time I felt that I wouldn’t have much control over timing. As soon as we arrived, it began. Carrie wanted to go to the shoe store. I followed her in. As she was paying for her sandals, the tingling—which feels like a very mild electrical shock that starts in my hands—encompassed my entire body. It can happen very quickly.

During a transition, for a brief period of time, I feel compassion for everyone physically near me. The feeling takes over my mind and body as if I’m in a thousand places at the same time. This morning I could clearly hear all the noise, conversations, and even whispers around me. I could see everything in my surroundings and smell the scents of Quincy Market: the food, perfume, body odor, garbage, Boston harbor, and even the rotting spills on the sidewalk. I took it all in.

I sensed all of the emotion—all of the pain, happiness, frustration, and sadness—within the people at the market on this Saturday morning in June. My transitions last for seconds only, yet it always seems much longer to me. It ends when I land. Jeremy and Jennifer were nearby. I felt a deep sense of sorrow and grief within them. I had to make a decision. I targeted Jeremy because of his anguish. It had to be him.

Then it happened. I jumped from Damian to Jeremy.

The sunlight strobes through the trees as Jennifer drives up Huntington Avenue. Billowing cotton clouds form in the summer’s blue sky. It’s a beautiful day for the beginning of this new life experience. Jennifer’s cell phone rings. She picks it up to her ear.

“Hi, sweetie. Hold on for a sec. Let me put in my earpiece.”

She puts in the Bluetooth ear bud and continues the conversation. “Where are you? Is Jeff with you? Are you coming home for dinner?”

It sounds like she’s talking to one of her children. As she continues the conversation, I discreetly reach for Jeremy’s wallet. I look through the contents once again, searching for more clues. I find his business card—Roberts & Levin Consulting Company, Jeremy Roberts, CPA, President—with phone number, address, e-mail and website. Jeremy is an accountant.

As I look through the wallet, I notice my hands—Jeremy’s hands. It’s strange when first looking at my hands in a new host. They always look and feel odd at the beginning. I can sense them as if they’re mine, but they look like someone else’s. They’re larger, a little rougher, and seem older than Damian’s. As I stare at them, I’m having difficulty controlling their movements while going through the contents of the wallet. Manipulating the papers and cards is awkward. If I look away and allow my hands to feel through the wallet, my dexterity returns. It will take me some time to coordinate what I see and how I feel in this new body.

I take out a photo from the inside pocket of the wallet; a frayed, worn picture of four people sitting on a sofa next to a Christmas tree. It looks like a younger Jennifer and Jeremy with two children. I put down the sun visor and look into the mirror. It feels like someone is looking at me but it’s my image being reflected back. Jeremy’s piercing blue eyes are staring at me. Even now, after so many transitions, it still feels unreal to look at a new ‘me’ in a mirror. I put back the visor.

I focus on that family photo again. The two little girls are maybe ages eight and ten. I assume they are Jeremy and Jennifer’s daughters. There are two other pictures in the wallet, one of a girl in her early twenties, wearing a cap and gown. She looks very much like a grown-up version of the younger girl in the family photo. She’s very pretty, with blonde hair and a huge smile. She looks so proud.

The other picture is of another young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, dark hair, standing in front of what looks like Niagara Falls. There’s some resemblance to the older child in the Christmas family picture. She looks remarkably like Jennifer and quite beautiful as well. On the back, there’s some writing: I love you, Daddy. Thanks for all of your help. – Jessie.

Jennifer continues her conversation as I pretend to organize the wallet. I listen carefully to her words. There’s some tension in how she’s speaking. Her intonations, mannerisms, and how her thumb plays with her wedding band confirms that she’s talking to one of her children; one of the girls in the pictures?

I take a chance. “Is that Jessie?”

She glances over at me with a surprised look and narrowed eyes that seem to be screaming. “It’s Sandy, Sandy, for God’s sake!”

Now that was a mistake. I should have known better. All these years have taught me to wait and take in much more information before offering anything other than a neutral statement. Something is terribly wrong. Why such a negative response? I look away from Jennifer, but listen intently over the noise of the wind blowing through my hair.

Jennifer lowers her voice and says, “He asked if you were Jessie. Can you believe it? I know, I know, but still…”

Jennifer stops talking about me while continuing the conversation. It’s hard to hear, but I think they’re talking about plans for the weekend—shopping and various topics. She’s not offering me any more clues.

Through my closed eyes, the bright pulsating sun creates flashes of light, and abstract images race through my mind. I think of Carrie. I didn’t know it at the time, but last night would be our last time together. It was late, maybe one in the morning. We were in bed talking, sipping wine, and listening to an Al Jerreau CD. After making love, we were still locked onto each other, our legs intertwined. With her head on my chest, Carrie looked into my eyes and whispered, “I have never loved you more.” We kissed and fell asleep.

I will miss her dearly. A wave of heavy sadness and apprehension washes over me as I find myself awkwardly sitting next to this new stranger, Jennifer, in the body of her husband Jeremy, whom I know nothing about.

After Jennifer finishes her conversation with Sandy, she turns to me and says, “What the hell were you thinking?”

I don’t respond. I wait for more information. None comes forth. We are quiet for the rest of the drive to the house. I hold my hand to my head, hoping that my error will be perceived as a result of my supposed migraine. I feel tension with Jennifer. I don’t know enough yet to begin any conversation with her.

***

        I do not have Jeremy’s memories or his expectations, worries, realities, dreams, or ambitions. I do not know any of the people in his life, their history, or their connection to him. I know nothing about his work or his finances.

For now though, I am him. I will be living in his world for some time. Although my life as Jeremy is now an empty canvas, his family, friends, and colleagues will soon paint it with colorful and intricate images. Their conversations, nonverbal cues, and even their touch will reveal their expectations of me. And from that, I will learn much about him.

I will have to learn all about his world quickly. Jennifer’s interaction with me is already giving me clues and is kick-starting my quest for information. When I arrive at their home, there will be a wealth of information about Jeremy and Jennifer’s lives that I will gather from their files, computers, and other clues that I will discover.

It will be my starting point towards understanding his life, and discovering my objective.

Chapter 2 – Home

Jennifer drives down Heath Street, in a beautifully area that contrasts with the high-density neighborhoods that we drove through from Boston. We pass entrances to large estates and barely visible mansions in this wealthy enclave. We turn onto a long driveway of a contemporary home set back from the street. Perfectly placed old oak trees line the crushed-stone drive. Curiously, there is a yellow ribbon on the first oak tree. I look at it as we go by.

The driveway splits into a circular turnaround passing in front of the entrance. A sculpture of a child with water cascading over a protecting umbrella is at the center of a well-manicured lawn. The fountain creates relaxing white noise as we approach. We stop at the parking area on the left side of the entrance. Jennifer parks next to a black Lexus.

I look at the construction of the stone and brick building and presume it has replaced an older structure. The mature oaks give away the property’s history. The new building seems to have been erected in the footprint of the old home. It fits the setting perfectly.

As we get out of the car, Jennifer coolly says, “I want to finish the conversation that we started this morning.” She seems emotionless and dry, like she’s reading the news.

“Sure, but I’d like to lie down for a few minutes first.” I’m hoping to buy some time to look around the house.

“Remember to take your Maxalt, I’ll meet you on the patio in a half hour. We’ll have a light lunch before my appointments this afternoon.” I nod.

We enter through the large oak double front door, which opens onto an impressive foyer. I quickly glance around to get my bearings. Light-colored birch floors lead to a majestic staircase just ahead on the left. I take in all of the images and create a mental map of the home. A central floor plan—living room to the left, dining room to the right, the kitchen must be just off to the right, behind the dining room. I can see a den just ahead beyond the staircase. There must be a study or library to the left of the den. The house is eight to ten thousand square feet, vintage 1990s, high-end.

There are probably five bedrooms upstairs with a large master bedroom overlooking the backyard. If there’s a bedroom for each of Jeremy and Jennifer’s two daughters, I suspect that one of the remaining rooms will be an office. Hopefully that’s where I’ll find the family’s files. If not, they’ll be in the master bedroom, in the study next to the den downstairs, or possibly in the basement. Files are key. I have to find them to learn more about my new life.

The house is immaculate, and understated yet elegant. A Latina woman greets us.

“Good morning, Señor Roberts.”

“Morning,” I respond, then wait to take my cue from Jennifer.

Jennifer asks, “Carmella, could you please make us a salad with a scoop of tuna?”

“Si,” Carmella responds.

I look at Jennifer. “I’m going to lie down upstairs. See you in a half hour.”

She walks off toward the kitchen with no response. She isn’t happy. I suspect that the upcoming conversation will reveal what’s bothering her. I hope that I’m able to find something during my preliminary search to help me through that discussion.

I walk upstairs and instinctively know where I’m going. I enter the large master bedroom to the right of the stairs. It’s painted a muted green with a dark blue accent wall that’s a backdrop to the king-size four-poster bed. It’s a very large room, and it too is immaculate.

There are night tables on either side of the bed, a large plasma TV on the opposite wall, and a matching lounge chair and sofa in the corner of the room, positioned to view the TV. A large blue-green modern art painting hangs above the bed. I walk through the glass doorway to the master en suite. The ultra-modern bathroom leads to a balcony overlooking a large backyard, which has a pool and tennis court. I can see the balcony stretching along the back of the house.

I leave the bathroom and go back into the bedroom. An open door between the TV and bathroom leads me to a huge wardrobe room, which I suspect was a converted bedroom. The back wall has floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors leading out to the back balcony. The room is painted to match the bedroom and consists of built-in closet doors that are tinted in the same colors as the corresponding walls but in a high-gloss finish. The doors respond to a slight push of the finger. They open smoothly and silently, as if by remote control.

I push one of the green doors and it reveals drawers of women’s underwear, hosiery, and scarves. As I search for documents, I open and close all of the closet doors, which conceal many drawers, hanging clothes, and cupboards. There must be fifteen green closet doors. There are fewer doors in the blue area, and they open to reveal men’s clothes—Jeremy’s clothes.

There’s a makeup area in the corner of the room, complete with a large white desk, upholstered chair, and a mirror framed by round white light bulbs, Hollywood style. A set of stand-up mirrors next to the desk are set at oblique angles to view all sides of one’s body, similar to what you would find in a clothing store.

Positioning myself in front of the stand-up mirrors, I take a long look at my new image and study my features. Jeremy is about six feet tall and fit—a good-looking man with a solid jaw, and a full head of light brown hair that is graying at the temples, combed slightly off to the side, with a part. His looks remind me of President Kennedy. I touch my face and hair. I smile, stretching my lips to see this new image respond. Like always, it feels awkward at the beginning.

I move an arm and reposition my body. I watch the image in the mirror move. It looks like someone else in the mirror is copying me. Eventually I will see me in the mirror, but now I’m seeing a stranger. Right now, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience—which, of course, is exactly what’s happening. It will take time for me to feel one with my new body.

I turn away from the mirror and move on.

I go back to the closets and open more doors, looking for files, notebooks, papers, or anything that I can use for information. I find nothing, but that doesn’t surprise me. Jennifer and Jeremy’s home is obsessively neat. Everything seems to have its place, and this room is clearly designated wardrobe only.

I leave the dressing room through a door that leads me back to the hallway. A quick glance around reveals a bedroom next to the dressing room. Across the hall, there appears to be two more rooms on either side of a bathroom.

I enter the bedroom next door, which is obviously a girl’s room, painted in pink with purple linens. There’s an adjoining bathroom, which, like the bedroom, is very messy. Sliding glass doors on the far wall also open onto that long connecting balcony. I scan the contents of the room, taking in as much as I can. I see a B.A. diploma from Boston University in the name of Sandy Roberts, hanging on a wall. There are a few unopened letters on the desk addressed to Sandy. Pictures of friends are randomly scattered on the walls.

At the top and stretching along the length of one wall, there’s a red Boston University banner that reads, “Go BU!” There’s also a single large photo just over the bed. It’s the same image that I have in my wallet of Jessie in front of the falls. A large yellow ribbon is taped to the window.

I leave Sandy’s room and cross the hall to one of the rooms on either side of the bathroom. The yellow room is immaculate, as if no one sleeps there. The queen bed is covered with a green patterned comforter and loaded with neatly placed colorful pillows and stuffed animals. Awards and diplomas in Jessie Roberts’s name are on the walls of the bedroom. A Cornell University banner with large lettering saying, “Go BIG!” is hanging along the top of one wall, just like the banner in Sandy’s room. I smile. There must be quite a school competition between the girls.

There are pictures of high school and college kids perfectly aligned on the walls, as well as many pictures of dogs and cats. There’s a large National Geographic poster of a male lion hanging over the bed. It is sitting under a tree on a grassy area, with its large, beautiful green eyes staring into the camera, as if posing.

There are two long shelves mounted on the wall between the entrance and the bathroom door. Each shelf is dedicated to a different sport. On the top shelf are ten or fifteen trophies of different sizes with little metal images of people in karate positions. Most say first place, and a few say second. Just below that shelf are two certificates in Jessie’s name: Karate Black Belt, First Dan and Karate Black Belt, Second Dan. The second shelf is full of similar trophies for fencing. Pictures under that shelf show someone, I presume Jessie, in various fencing positions, wearing a protective helmet with a full-face screen cover.

I feel odd in this room; something’s just not right. I experience a deep sense of sadness. I look around and can’t get a handle on what’s causing my unease. I leave the room feeling quite uncomfortable. I know I will soon find out why.

As I had expected, the room on the other side of the bathroom is an office. It’s very neat. There’s a large mahogany desk with two drawers on either side of a leather chair. A silver MacBook laptop computer is sitting in the center of the desk. A notebook-sized calendar is lying just to the right of the laptop. The only other items on the desk are a green glass and bronze banker’s light and a wireless phone in its dock. I open the drawers of the desk. They are neat and contain some pens, paper clips, and odds and ends; nothing of significance.

There’s a comfortable reading area in the corner of the room, with a leather armchair and a brass stand-up reading light. Modern artwork adorns the grey wall behind the desk, as does a CPA certificate. Jeremy’s degree in economics, from Boston University, issued in 1984, and his MBA degree from Columbia Business School, 1987, are hanging on the opposite wall. Beside them, there’s an award of recognition in Jeremy’s name, dated 2009, issued by the Big Brothers and Sisters of Massachusetts, acknowledging Jeremy’s “hard work and dedication” to the organization.

As I open the closet, I hear Jennifer calling me. “Jeremy, did you take your Maxalt yet?”

“No,” I call down. “Just about to.”

No response.

I see a large four-drawer file cabinet in the closet and a standing safe on the floor—a treasure trove of information. I open the top drawer of the file cabinet and take out the first file. They’re all alphabetized. Automobile Association of America is the first one. I scan its contents, and, within seconds, it’s memorized.

***

Over the years, I have jumped thousands of times and explored the minds of people from all over the world. I’m continually astonished at the distinctive nature of an individual brain, which is as unique as a fingerprint. I have come to understand that our sensations, experiences, and thoughts are unique to each individual. The perception of color for instance, is a subjective experience, different from one person to the next. The color of red does not look the same to everyone. Although we associate a particular visual image as red, the actual sensation of red that we experience is uniquely different for each person.

Our sensation of smell is also subjective. The smell of a rose can be very sweet to one but less sweet or even pungent to another. The perception of the sound of music can be so dissimilar between people, that when I’ve heard the same song in the minds of more than one person, the song can sound completely different. I can identify the song by its melody, words, and beat, but the actual sensation that it creates in my mind is entirely unique to the brain of my host.

This diversity of neural processing may explain why people are so different in terms of their approach to the world. What is beautiful and emotional to one may not create the same impact to another. These differences may explain why some people are artistic while others are athletic, why some can learn languages easily while others cannot.

Mind jumping has given me a gift. I am able to use my experience dealing with the diverse brain patterns and neurological processing that I have experienced to create an optimum way of using my host’s brain.

Examples of this are the encyclopedic and photographic memory capabilities that I have developed over the years. My encyclopedic memory allows me to remember every detail and image that I have ever seen or experienced. My photographic memory enables me to scan and store images holistically, and only when I want to see the details of an image, are those details processed by my brain. It’s my version of data compression. It’s like looking at a downtown street scene, taking a snapshot of it in my mind, and then, at a later time, bringing up that image to look for the smallest details.

I can scan documents extraordinarily fast—many times faster than an electronic scanner. I’m able to take in and process information on a written page at a glance, and when I quickly scroll down a website on a computer, I can take in all of the information instantly in real time, without pausing. I’m able to cross-reference information from my scans immediately. These abilities enable me to quickly absorb details of my host’s life and ultimately help me achieve my objective.

***

Over the next five minutes I scan the first file cabinet drawer—files A through F—thoroughly. As I usually do after a scan, I sit down silently for the same amount of time to permanently store the information I’ve just viewed into my active memory. During this meditative state, my mind randomly explores and reviews all of the images and data that I’ve scanned. To finish off, I usually start to explore my memory with one bit of data to ensure that I have successfully transferred the images. This time I choose a random date to see where my memories of Jeremy take me.

February 15, 2011. Using information from his American Express Platinum card statements, I can now recall that on that date, Jeremy purchased lunch at Charley’s Crab in Palm Beach, Florida. I cross-reference this information with any file I’ve scanned that refers to that Palm Beach trip.

Connected images from the scan immediately become available. Jeremy flew business class on Delta Flight 2123 from Boston to Palm Beach International at 6:40 AM on February 11, and returned on February 17, leaving PBI at 8:05 AM on Delta Flight 1184. He rented a luxury car from Avis, picking it up on his arrival and returning it to PBI an hour and a half before the scheduled departure.

There are many other charges made during this time period shown on his AMEX statement, including his hotel stay at the Four Seasons Resort in Palm Beach, where he paid $999 a night for a premier ocean-view room. In addition to a number of room service and mini-bar charges, there were two charges for in-room movie rentals. The value of the rentals suggests that one of those movies was X-rated. It looks like Jennifer was with him on this trip, as the airline tickets were in his and her names and the hotel reservation was booked for two people.

I don’t have time to go through the other files. It’s been fifteen or twenty minutes and I have to get down to Jennifer before she finds me in the study rather than lying down taking care of my ‘migraine’. Before I head downstairs, I scan through the calendar on the desk.

Chapter 3 – Discovery

The kitchen is a large, bright room that seems to have been recently upgraded. A sliding door opens onto a patio overlooking the backyard. I can see Jennifer sitting at a table that’s been set up for lunch. She seems to be waiting impatiently.

“Hey there,” I start.

She looks unsettled and asks quickly, “How are you feeling? Did you take your Maxalt?”

“Yes, I feel a little better.”

As she straightens up in her chair she asks angrily, “Why the hell did you ask me if that was Jessie on the phone?”

“I don’t know. It just came out. It must be the migraine.”

She shakes her head slowly, rolling her eyes “What did you mean this morning?”

Not knowing what to say, I probe, “Uh, this morning?”

She squints her eyes. “About your plans for next weekend?”

I quickly think about next weekend’s dates from the calendar on the desk that I scanned and an image comes into memory. There’s an entry that says “Palm Beach” next Friday, June 17. There’s another entry that says “Back from PB” on the following Monday. I don’t know anything more.

“You mean the trip to Palm Beach?”

“Yes!” she blasts with her eyes boring into me.

I touched a nerve. She is clearly unhappy about this trip. I take a chance.

“Do you want me to stay home?”

“Yes, of course I do. You know that!”

With nothing to lose that I know of, I reply, “Okay, I’ll cancel my reservation.”

She seems bewildered. “What? You’d cancel your trip with Vince and Gary just because I asked you?”

“Absolutely. I didn’t think my trip would have such an impact on you. I’m not going to go if it makes you feel like this. Consider it cancelled.”

She looks at me with a confused expression. She’s silent. I can see her cheeks start to flush. I can sense her skin radiating warm energy. The hairs on her arms are standing on end. She’s unsure of my response, yet her body position, eye movements, and energy level suggest that her anger is being replaced with warmth.

She moves her fork randomly through the salad that is before her. She seems to be thinking of what to say. A few moments pass. She breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry that I screamed at you in the car. I just can’t hear her name without reacting.”

I stay quiet.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks with a sly smile. “Why are you being so damn nice?”

“Um, I’m not sure. The migraine?”

Jennifer responds with a cute wrinkle of her nose and a smile. Her mood has lifted. She seems less burdened. She finishes her lunch and asks if I want to go to the mall with her. I tell her that I had enough shopping at the market this morning and that I’d like to try to rest.

As she leaves, she touches my hand, smiles, and kisses my cheek.

I hear the Mercedes start up and begin to leave, and then the car engine stops. I hear the car door open and shut, and see Jennifer walking back through the kitchen to the patio. She hands me my iPhone. “You left it in the car.”

She waves as she turns around and heads back to the car. I watch her walk back through the kitchen and wonder how our relationship will unfold. What’s the nature of their grief that I felt in Quincy market? How will I help?

As I hear the engine restart and the car drive away, I turn off the iPhone. I wouldn’t know what to say if it rang.

***

My overall objective, as always, is to bring calm and peace—what I like to call balance—to my host and his or her family. I will try to understand the nature of the grief that I felt within Jeremy and Jennifer at the market, and then try to help the family through whatever difficult time they are facing.

When I leave, Jeremy will not know that during my visit, I took control and made decisions that may have changed his life forever. He will remember everything that happens while I am here as if he was present and in control, even though he was not. Although he was absent, he will not remember his absence and he will not be aware of my presence.

While I am managing his life, Jeremy will be in a suspended state until I gradually pull him back. As he returns, he will take control and I will fade into the background of his mind, watching until I leave. I will still have an influence on his behavior, as I did this morning with Damian when he decided to go to Quincy Market to satisfy my need to jump.

There will be one aspect of this extraordinary experience that he will also remember: he will know that something special happened during the time that I was visiting. He will remember having clarity of thought, a rush of creativity and insight that he had never experienced before and does not have on his return. He will look back at this time as being very special and life changing, but not know why. It will seem like a dreamlike memory to him, yet he will not feel comfortable discussing it with anyone—unless I contact him in the future.

***

I run upstairs to continue the scanning process. I begin to consume all of the information in Jeremy’s file cabinet. I go over everything: financial statements, cancelled checks, credit card charges, bank files, bills, invoices, warranties, insurance documents, birthday cards, letters, work files…everything. I finish scanning the three remaining drawers in about thirty minutes and begin my meditation for another thirty. I test out another clue to complete the process.

I sit down at the computer to continue my search. I open up the MacBook, and a screen lock appears. A password is needed to get into Jeremy’s computer. From the memories of my scans, I quickly retrieve anything related to the computer in that file cabinet. I recall a computer security file; there’s a list of phone numbers, memberships, account names, and what appear to be passwords.

I try the first password to unlock the computer. It’s a combination of letters from Jeremy’s immediate family, “jessjensan”— that must be it. Most people create passwords using embedded loved ones names, birthdays, and even their home addresses. I get lucky. As soon as I type in the password, the home screen jumps to life.

I scan the Mac and look through all of Jeremy’s e-mails in the inbox and sent box, as well as deleted files. I review his address book and calendar, and go over files that are easily available. Later, when I have time, I will run a program that will search for any hidden or locked files. I learned that particular technique when I was visiting Daniel Sloan, a computer scientist who works at an IBM research center in Westchester County, just north of New York City.

It’s now around five and I’ve finished scanning everything in the office, the filing cabinet, much of the Mac, and the iPhone. I still have to get into the safe and visit the other rooms on the main floor. Then, of course, there’s the basement, where I’m sure there will be many more clues to uncover.

I expect Jennifer to arrive home soon. Seeing as I don’t have much more time to search, I decide to sit back in the leather office chair to actively think about what I just processed in order to move as many of these scans into my active memory.

I first think about Jessie. What was that feeling about that I had in her room, and why did her name spark such a negative reaction from Jennifer?

Within a minute, I know. I feel a surge of anxiety and panic emanating from Jeremy’s soul. My head is spinning and I begin to feel sick for the first time as Jeremy.

… Continued…

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Sora Fallcrest always dreamed of adventure, but as a member of the nobility, she learned the ways of a Lady instead. Now seventeen, she is expected to choose a husband and marry. She plots to run away, but just as she is stepping out the door, she runs into a mysterious man–and is kidnapped.

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Here’s the set-up:

Zimbabwe’s last hangman retired in 2004. As the nation drifted towards abolition, no determined effort was launched to find a replacement. However, the discovery of carnivorous flame lilies at the Great Zimbabwe monument triggered a spirited search for a new executioner. Those who know why this discovery energized the recruitment effort refused to talk.

The frantic attempts to find a new hangman were impeded by the lack of suitable candidates. Well-placed sources confirmed that the fear of ngozi was a deterrent. According to this traditional belief, the spirit of a murdered person torments the killer and his family for generations. However, this is only half the story. Several promising applicants did come forward. None met the minimum requirements for the job. The selection criteria were designed to exclude the mentally ill, the vindictive, and the sadistic. However, they did not rule out the desperate.

The Sprout of Disruption (Book 1) introduces the universe of characters whose lives have been set alight by the plant which sparked the recruitment effort. It tells the story of the aspiring hangman who was obsessed with securing the job, the sympathizers who fought to protect him from his prize, and the anxious men who believed that emptying death row would end their horror before the meat-eating plants constricted around their necks.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

The Interview

 

The chairman of the interview panel opened the windows when Abel Muranda walked into the room. Though he insisted that this was meant to counter the poor circulation, everyone, including Abel Muranda, knew that the candidate’s stench was the culprit. His bar of soap had fought in vain.

The interview panel had three members: two men and one woman. The chairman was a Mr. Kuripa. He was stout, friendly and endowed with the demeanour of a man who had been destined to become a bureaucrat. He appeared educated, intelligent and deferential to authority, even when he disagreed with his superiors.

To his left was Mrs. Sibanda. She was in her late forties. Her sharp grey suit and gracious smile enhanced her confident presence. And yet, her eyes had a glimmer of calculation that could impregnate a trivial question with a hidden agenda.

To the chairman’s right was the largest man that Abel Muranda had ever seen. He had the muscular definition of a man who had spent his life restraining elephants in heat. Each of his sleeves looked like a python which had swallowed prey that was larger than the snake was elastic. The garment was losing the fight. The man’s size was not his only striking feature. He also had a massive moustache that looked like a scruffy kitten had nestled above his lips and fallen asleep.

The man’s name was Mr. Gejo.

Though he wore civilian clothes and sat with the bureaucrats, one fact was clear: Mr. Gejo was neither a civilian nor a bureaucrat. Abel Muranda did not know what to make of this man. How could he warm up to anyone who punished his own clothing? How could he relate to a man who hid his mouth behind a hedge of hair? Could such a person be trusted?

After the introductions, Mr. Kuripa opened the interview.

“Mr. Muranda, welcome. This interview will be in Shona. I trust that works for you?”

“Yes, Mr. Kuripa. My Ndebele is poor. I know some English words but not enough to carry on a conversation.”

“Then Shona it is. So how was your journey?”

“Good. Thank you.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“Were you followed?” asked Mr. Kuripa casually.

“I do not believe so. The terrain between Gwenzi and Harare is unkind. If anyone tried to follow me, they must have perished along the way. I barely survived.”

“Ah, a sense of humour! So, your village is named Gwenzi?”

“Yes.”

“Where is that?”

“Near Hambakwe.”

“Where is Hambakwe?”

“Not far from Rukukwe.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Muranda, I do not know where Rukukwe is either.”

“About two days from Makwere.”

“Oh. I see. Okay. So how did you hear about this job?”

“I sold my last goat to a man. He was visiting relatives near my village. He told me he lived in Harare. We spoke for a while. As he was about to leave, he asked me whether I had ever considered a job in the city. I told him that I did not know how to go about it. I had never been to the city before. I think he noticed my poverty and decided to help me. He told me that upon returning to Harare, he would ask around on my behalf. He would then send word if something came up. A few months later, here I am.”

“I see,” said Mr. Kuripa. “So this person told you to come to Harare for an interview?”

“Yes. A few months later, he sent a message to tell me that the interview had been arranged. He gave me the date, time, and directions to this building.”

“So you did not formally apply for this job, then?”

“I did not know I was supposed to apply. I just followed the instructions.”

“But we have an application letter in your name. You did not write it?”

“No. I can neither read nor write, Mr. Kuripa. But I compensate for this shortcoming with my enthusiasm.”

“Well, enthusiasm is usually appreciated in most jobs. However, it is not something we encourage for this particular position.”

“Of course, Mr. Kuripa. My enthusiasm is not for the process of executing people, but for the privilege of serving the state.”

“That is better, Mr. Muranda. That is what this job is about. National service. No more. No less.”

Mr. Kuripa shuffled some papers with a great sense of self-importance. Never is a man more proud than when he shuffles paper in front of an illiterate person.

“Well, before we go any further, I will tell you more about the job. After that, each of the members of this panel will ask you some questions.”

“That sounds good to me, Mr. Kuripa.”

“Excellent! So, this vacancy arose in 2004. As you will understand, we are taking our time in choosing a replacement. We need to find the right person.”

“Of course.”

“Officially, the post pays a part-time wage. Nevertheless, we are considering a full-time salary. A bonus is out of the question. As you can appreciate, it is difficult to prove that you deserve a bonus in a job where you have no peers to provide a comparison. It is also impossible to place the duties along any spectrum of performance that can allow us to measure degrees of competence. Either the condemned will die or they will live. There is no room for achieving intermediate results. Besides, you would only work a few days each year. At most, a total of two weeks between January and November. We will never schedule work in December. It’s Christmas time, you see?”

“I see.”

“Good. Now, if you get the job, you will live in a government house. It will be in either Mbare or Kuwadzana. That is still to be decided. Either way, the house will have five rooms and a chicken coop in the back. The full-time salary will be about twelve thousand dollars a year. We also pay fifty percent of your children’s school fees.”

Mr. Kuripa paused when he noticed Abel Muranda’s confused expression.

“‘Fifty percent’ means half, Mr. Muranda. We pay half of your children’s school fees.”

“Right,” said Abel Muranda. His nodding head dispersed the fog of innumeracy.

“Further, we will provide you and your family with free health care.”

“Free health care? Really?”

“Yes, Mr. Muranda. Really.”

“Does that mean my family can see a doctor? Like the ones who wear white jackets?”

“No. Your family will only have access to Doctors of Philosophy. Of course, such doctors are free to wear white jackets, but the only treatment they can prescribe is mind-bending – as they say in English – ‘postulation’.”

Mr. Kuripa cast a smug smile at his colleagues. He was so proud of himself.

“I am sorry, Mr. Kuripa. My English may be terrible, but if I understood that final word correctly, I must protest. I only need health care for my family. I want nothing to do with mind-bending ‘prostitution’.”

Mrs. Sibanda buried her face in her jacket. Her shoulders trembled violently as she tried to suppress her laughter. Mr. Gejo simply sat back in his chair. Deep creases formed at the corners of his eyes. Mr. Kuripa laughed nervously. He was not sure whether his colleagues were laughing at him or at Abel Muranda.

“It was just a joke, Mr. Muranda. Prostitutes are not a benefit of this job. Mind-bending or otherwise.”

“So my family and I will be able to see real doctors then?”

“Yes. The ones who wear the white jackets and carry stethoscopes …”

Mr. Kuripa waited for Abel Muranda’s relief to set in. Before it could, a fresh cloud of confusion drifted across the candidate’s face.

“A stethoscope is a long pipe with two splitting trunks that branch off into the doctor’s ears … Doctors use it to listen to a patient’s circulation? … How many doctors have you ever met, Mr. Muranda?”

“One. He saved my life. I do not remember him using the object you described, though. Anyway, I do not care if a doctor pounds me on the head with a wheelbarrow. If he went to doctor school, and he wishes me well, I will trust him.”

“Naturally,” replied Mr. Kuripa. “But though I am not a doctor, I can assure you on behalf of the profession that pounding patients with wheelbarrows would not be therapy. It would be assault. Besides, not many of our doctors are built like Mr. Gejo. Lifting a wheelbarrow for such a purpose would cause more injuries among the doctors than the patients.”

Mr. Kuripa laughed and slapped Mr. Gejo on the shoulder. The camaraderie did not extend beyond Mr. Kuripa’s portly frame. The big man remained expressionless, unreadable behind his massive moustache. Mr. Kuripa quickly moved on.

“We also provide a ‘spiritual travel benefit’.”

“What is that?”

“It pays for your expenses if you need to go away to a quiet place for spiritual recovery. But we only provide it when the year has been … especially busy. Officially, we do not set a minimum number of days you need to work before you can claim the benefit. Nevertheless, the Budget Office has placed an informal condition. You can only use the funds if you work at least eight days a year. That said, we are flexible. Your mental health is our priority. However, try not to use the benefit if you work less than six days a year. At that level, our superiors will begin to doubt your fortitude. Maybe even your work ethic.”

“That sounds good, Mr. Chairman. I am sure that working six days a year without a break for spiritual recovery will not place an unbearable burden on my soul.”

“Well said, Mr. Muranda. But remember the unwritten rule. Eight days is the unofficial minimum. Budget cuts. Every department is struggling with them. Still, if you work eight days a year, you will have 357 more to enjoy your spiritual recovery. Unless it is a leap year, in which case … Never mind.”

Mr. Kuripa placed his plump forefinger on the bridge of his spectacles and slid them towards the tip of his tubby nose. Peering over the frames, he looked straight at Abel Muranda, eyeball to eyeball. Mr. Kuripa always did this when he wanted to stress an important point.

“Do not underestimate how much time you need to spend on spiritual recovery, Mr. Muranda … Spiritual recovery is very important.”

Abel Muranda realized that expressing wisdom gave the chairman a profound sense of self-importance. It was Abel Muranda’s first interview, but his instincts told him it was wise to embrace a recruiter’s cherished values. The aspiring hangman nodded respectfully.

“Mr. Chairman, I will value every second I spend on spiritual recovery.”

“Perfect. Another benefit you will enjoy is twenty-four hour access to the prison chaplain. He has a cottage on the grounds of Mazambuko Maximum Security Prison. That is where death row is located. You can consult him in person during regular hours, but at night, you can only access him through his cell phone. Just to let you know, the chaplain is a truly pious man. The previous one was ill-tempered when contacted in the early hours. However, you should have no problems with Father Masuku. Still, as with all resources, after-hours access to the good Father is limited to three days before, and five days after any given workday. Outside of those times you must wait until the morning.”

“That sounds reasonable. Even priests need a break for their own spiritual recovery.”

“Exactly. Now to the substance. I will ask you the first question,” said Mr. Kuripa, scratching his chubby cheek with his fancy pen. The muscular Mr. Gejo leaned forward with great interest. His shirt was quickly losing the battle to remain intact. He still had not spoken a word. Even Mrs. Sibanda had greeted Abel Muranda and offered him a glass of water when he walked into the room. Maybe the big man could not talk and punish his clothing at the same time?

The chairman placed his pen on the neatly stacked papers before him. His eyebrows curled and huddled around his eyes. He was about to ask a critical question. He needed all his powers of concentration to process the answer.

“Why do you want this job, Mr. Muranda?”

“First, I am a hard worker. Second, I believe in justice. Third, I need the money. The drought in the countryside has been cruel. I lost ten cows. I had to kill all my chickens. As I mentioned before, I also sold my last goat to the man who led me to this interview. My goat’s name was Hurudza.”

“Like the lawyer?” exclaimed Mr. Kuripa.

“What lawyer?”

“Never mind. I am sorry for the loss of your livestock. Particularly your goat. He must have been special to deserve his own name.”

“He was the best goat in the world. Gwenzi goats are known for their hardiness.”

“Ah! Now I know why your village sounds familiar. It is the land of the invincible goats. Those creatures are like cactuses in the desert. Walking biltong! Dried meat with beating hearts!”

“They are, Mr. Kuripa. So when they start to die out, you know the situation is desperate. Hurudza was close to death when I sold him. Anyway, my livestock are no longer an issue. Taking this job will provide my family with good food and health care.”

The panel members listened attentively. Only Mr. Gejo did not write any notes. It was not clear whether he had a sharp memory or whether he would never forget the answer to such a question. He just sat there, constipating his shirt.

Mrs. Sibanda was next. “Mr. Muranda, are you not afraid of ngozi?”

“I do not believe in ngozi, Mrs. Sibanda.”

“So you do not believe that if you kill a man, his spirit will torment you and your family for generations?”

“I am not a superstitious person, Mrs. Sibanda. Besides, even if such a spirit were to rise from the corpse of a man I executed, I am sure it would understand that I was acting on behalf of the state. The spirit will have to take its grievances to the people you represent.”

Mrs. Sibanda and Mr. Kuripa scribbled furiously. Mr. Gejo simply stared. Apart from the occasional twitch of his giant moustache, he remained motionless. The chairman turned to see whether his hulking colleague had any questions. The big man shook his head. Mr. Kuripa continued.

“Let’s discuss hanging protocols. Would you have any difficulty executing someone who is not wearing a hood?”

“I do not understand, Mr. Kuripa. Why would the prisoner wear a hood?”

“Well it’s tradition, I guess. Every vocation has its traditions, you know? Through the ages, many cultures have chosen different approaches to the death penalty. Some have used firing squads. In this approach, a group of men all shoot the prisoner at the same time. That way, no one knows who fired the fatal shot. The burden of killing is distributed across many shoulders.”

Mr. Kuripa patted his own shoulders to mark his point. Secretly, he was congratulating himself for his knowledge of the subject. Secretly, everyone in the room knew that this was exactly what he was doing. He continued sagely.

“A diffuse guilt provides for diffuse consequences. If you can spread the guilt over enough people, each person’s share of the repercussions is reduced to a mere moral shortfall. When everyone is guilty, no one is guilty. At least that’s the rationale behind the firing squad. All the shooters sleep a little better at night. But note that this method was more commonly used in Europe and the Americas. It is relatively foreign to the African continent. I guess we like our killings to be up close and personal.”

Mr. Gejo flinched imperceptibly. The vibrations rippled gently through the room. Only Mr. Kuripa did not feel them. He continued his monologue on execution protocols.

“Our hangman will not have access to a firearm. Neither will he be allowed to manhandle the prisoners. If that was our chosen approach, we would have recruited from – ”

Mr. Kuripa had started to turn in Mr. Gejo’s direction when he quickly snapped his head back to face Abel Muranda. The chairman massaged the base of his neck to sooth the muscular hiccup that had caused the suggestive twitch.

“I must improve my sleeping posture,” he muttered with an awkward wince. Mr. Kuripa had no future as an actor. Before anyone could digest his dismal performance, he quickly returned to his field of competence: human resources.

“This will be a lonesome occupation. Unlike the brotherhood of the firing squad, the hangman cannot resort to the strength of other shoulders to share the load. Only his conscience will sustain the piercing pressure of the spiritual needle-point. The only question is whether a hood will be involved or not. One approach is to place the hood on the prisoner. That way, no one at the execution sees the face of the condemned man before he dangles from the rope of justice. Another alternative prefers that the executioner wears the hood. Some systems even require a combination of the two. This latter option is known as the ‘mutual anonymity approach’.”

“So how can a hangman see what he is doing if his head is covered?”

“In those cases, the executioner’s hood has two peep-holes punched into the front. He can see without revealing the rest of his face. This arrangement allows him to escape the wrath of the prisoner’s spirit, while protecting his reputation as a cherished member of his community. This protection is vital where executions are performed with an axe. The public can excuse a man who pulls the lever of a gallows, but they cannot summon affection for an executioner who beheads with a blade. The differences between the methods are irrelevant, if you ask me. But visuals are everything. The dramatic flair of an axe can overwhelm our satisfaction with the underlying justice it delivers. That is probably why axes have lost favour in many systems.”

“That is comforting to hear, Mr. Kuripa. I would reconsider my interest in this job if I had to use an axe.”

“Wouldn’t we all? Let’s return to a more civilized subject. Can you hang a prisoner without either of you wearing hoods?”

“Well, to be frank, that was my expectation when I came here. I knew nothing about the different approaches to the death penalty. Now that you have informed me of the hood option, I must confess that I do not like it. I believe that if you are going to kill someone, you must be willing to look them in the eye. If you cannot do that, there is no justice in your motive. No justification in your conscience.”

Mr. Gejo’s eyes sparkled at the response. A subtle spasm in one of his biceps alarmed a fly that had nestled on it. The insect fled towards the open window. Mr. Kuripa hardly noticed the reaction. His intellect was formulating a mind-bending postulation of its own.

“You make an interesting point about motives and justifications, Mr. Muranda. But many brutal killers can murder their victims while looking them in the eye. Some even enjoy it more that way. Does that justify their motives?”

“Maybe not their motives, Mr. Kuripa. A hangman’s justification lies in the authority granted by the state, not the pleasure they may get from the act of killing. I would also like to add that on a personal level, I do not think highly of such people.”

“Neither do we, Mr. Muranda. It is comforting to know that you will enjoy no gratification from looking into the eyes of the prisoners you will execute.”

“There would be no gratification on my part.”

Mr. Kuripa scratched his cheek as he regarded Abel Muranda with curiosity. He made a brief note and continued the interview.

“Mr. Muranda. Let me present you with a scenario. Suppose you had to execute a man you thought was not guilty. He is protesting his innocence as you strap him to the gallows. He is only twenty years old. Let’s say he was eighteen when he committed the capital offence. The boy looks like your son. He is crying. Would you be able to go through with the execution?”

“Yes.”

The panel waited. The expected elaboration never came.

The interview lasted another forty-five minutes. Only Mr. Kuripa and Mrs. Sibanda asked any questions.

Did he have any trouble sleeping?

Yes. But only when he worried about money to feed his family.

Did he find it easy to forgive people who wronged him?

Yes. Unless they wronged his family.

Was he a religious man?

Yes. But only when his prayers for his family were answered. Right now his faith was tentative. The outcome of this interview would resolve his indecision.

Did he have any chronic health problems?

Apart from poor eyesight in his left eye? No.

Did he frequent prostitutes?

No. Had he not made this clear earlier? Besides, he did not know of any in his village. Or the next one. There may have been one a few villages down …

How would he handle the guilt of taking a life?

By looking at his family and knowing they had access to health care. The guilt would take care of itself.

How many children did he have?

Three.

How many dinner plates did he have at home?

Two. But nowadays, the whole family ate from the same plate. It was large enough to fit the food they had.

How many meals did the family eat each day?

One.

How many goats did they have?

None. He sold the last one to the man who got him the interview, remember?

Of course. How about a sense of humour? Did he have one? He had shown promise earlier in the interview.

Well, only his children found him funny, but they were young. It did not take much to amuse them. However, if a sense of humour was a requirement of the job, he would work night and day to develop one.

Did he drink?

Always. In better times, he enjoyed goat milk. Nowadays, he only drank water.

How about alcohol? Did he partake?

Only if drinking it would increase his chances of getting the job. Otherwise he had no intention of picking up the habit. Alcohol tasted bad and made people stupid. Abel Muranda did not want to be stupid.

He need not worry. Drinking alcohol would not be necessary. The job was for the courageous, not the stupid.

And flowers? Did he like flowers?

Only those that grew from food-producing plants. Like sunflowers.

“We have one last question for you, Mr. Muranda,” said Mr. Kuripa. “In principle, do you believe in the death penalty?”

“To be honest, I have not given it much thought.”

“Well, now is a good time to do so.”

Abel Muranda looked at Mr. Kuripa with a thoughtless glare.

“Upon reflection, my answer is no, Mr. Kuripa. But I do believe in my family. If my beliefs prevented me from pursuing this job, I would be subjecting them to the death penalty. So whether you hire me or another candidate, people will die. I would rather it were not my family.”

“So it is all about your family, Abel Muranda?”

“It is.”

“Let’s say you got the job. What if you found a suitcase full of money the next day? Assume the amount is more than you need to give your family a good life. Would you abandon us?”

“I always honour my obligations, Mr. Kuripa. I would do the job while you looked for someone else. In any event, I do not expect to find a suitcase full of money. A wise man once said: ‘If you plan your life around the hope of finding a suitcase full of money, you will starve to death.’”

“Which wise man said those words?”

“Me. I only thought of them right now. A true survival instinct always assumes that starvation is one’s fate. Life is a constant battle to change that destiny. Dreaming of unearned riches is foolish.”

Mr. Kuripa and Mrs. Sibanda scribbled furiously. Mr. Gejo simply stared at him. Abel Muranda ignored him and continued.

“Mr. Kuripa, last month one of my neighbours sat outside his house for a week until he died. He had lost two children up to that point. At first we, his neighbours, fed him and his remaining family members. In the end, it became impractical so we stopped giving them food altogether. We had to look after our own families. So they all died in agony. The man expired a few days after his last donated meal. He abandoned his wife and three surviving children to die in his absence. Starving to death is a physically demanding business, Mr. Kuripa. You do not have to invest any effort in it, but make no mistake: it will invest a lot of effort in you. Hunger works the body with a cruel discipline. Even when it knows that you are beyond recovery, it will not loosen its grip. You suffer until the vultures are confident that they can start feeding without much opposition. At that point, a more interactive pain begins.”

Mr. Kuripa and Mrs. Sibanda glanced at each other. Mr. Gejo kept his gaze on the candidate. Abel Muranda paid them no attention. His answer had drifted into a vocal account of an internal trauma.

“Those creatures … The ones in my village are hardier than scavengers elsewhere. Gwenzi has ‘digging vultures’. They are never satisfied with eating a creature that died in the open. They will watch a funeral procession, and after the mourners have left, those birds will descend on the grave and start digging. Their beaks can peck through an elephant’s skull. Their claws can dig furrows that would shame a plough. If the grave is shallower than the height of an adult man, the vultures will get to the corpse … even if they have to dig all night. So when someone dies, we must bury them under massive rocks to prevent this final humiliation. This makes the birds furious. You can hear them screeching in rage as their beaks fail to breach the tomb. The pecking noises haunt the darkness. The sound trembles up your spine. It feels like they are eating you in advance… sending you a warning to say: ‘Pray that they do not leave a gap in the rocks when they bury you. If they do, we will pluck you out strand-by-strand. Muscle fibre by muscle fibre… Like a ball of cotton that’s wedged in the crease of futility’”

The room was still. Abel Muranda looked towards the panel and asked: “How can you tell if a carcass has been eaten by a Gwenzi vulture?”

“How?” asked Mrs. Sibanda. Her voice had fallen to a whisper.

“You can’t. There is nothing left to find. They eat everything, including the bones. Those birds are aggressive. Especially during mating season …”

Mrs. Sibanda leaned back in her chair and crossed her hands. Her eyes remained fixed on the candidate.

“Their cry is like nothing you will ever hear in your life … For days, I saw those birds watching patiently over my dead neighbour’s family … That was a tragic fate for people who were not guilty of any crime.”

Abel Muranda emerged from his nightmare and refocused on his prize.

“Beyond my family, I also plan to help others in my village whenever I can. So even if only a third of the people on death row are guilty, there would be more justice in executing them all than in abandoning this job. My salary would save many more lives. It would also give my family a new life. And free health care. Surely there is a lot of justice in that?”

Chairman Kuripa shuffled his papers with finality. The interview was over.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Muranda. We will let you know after we make our decision.”

“When will that be?”

“Well, we have several other promising candidates to interview. This is an important responsibility. We want to make sure we get it right.”

“Mr. Kuripa, I may be uneducated, but my desperation has sharpened my survival instincts. Right now, I am hungry enough to smell a peanut buried at the bottom of a mineshaft. That same instinct tells me that you do not have any other suitable candidates for this position.”

Mr. Kuripa scoffed out loud. He turned to his colleagues to seek support in expressing surprise at such impudence. They ignored him. The chairman coughed with a bureaucratic dignity before placing his elbows on the desk and leaning forward.

“That is not true, Mr. Muranda,” he said with a well-practised smirk. “In fact, we interviewed a promising candidate just before you came in.”

“Yes. I saw him on his way out,” replied Abel Muranda politely. “He looked happy. At peace. He also shook my hand and wished me well in my effort to find another job. Anyone who emerges from such an interview with a sense of promise rather than necessity will not be hired.”

Mr. Kuripa cleared his throat again. He had done his best to be polite to this peasant. Now it was incumbent upon him to discipline his ignorance.

“Mr. Muranda, my colleagues and I have five university degrees among us. I humbly admit responsibility for three of those. One of my qualifications is a master’s degree in, what we call in English, ‘organizational behaviour’. This credential means that I am an expert in determining the human resource needs of diverse work environments. It also means that I have spent more than twenty years interviewing people for many types of jobs. Given the unfortunate imbalance of education and experience between you and me, it is clear that I am better qualified to decide what sort of person is best for this job.”

Chairman Kuripa had articulated himself more eloquently than he had intended. His forehead was glistening with pride as he turned to accept the dutiful nods of approval from his colleagues. There were none.

Abel Muranda had listened carefully. Mr. Kuripa was an impressive man.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. You are right. I know nothing about organizations and behaviour. I know nothing about how the government hires people in general. But what I do know is that none of you have ever hired a hangman. No qualification can prepare you for this. We are all in unfamiliar territory. You, me, your colleagues and all five of your university degrees.”

A flash of anger was quickly replaced by a plastic smile on Mr. Kuripa’s face. He glanced nervously at his colleagues before shuffling his papers once more. Mr. Gejo was now fighting to suppress a fit of laughter. Fortunately, his moustache was large enough to hide the world’s biggest grin. But sadly, his constipated shirt was on the verge of surrendering to his quaking shoulders.

Mrs. Sibanda wrote furiously on her pad. Abel Muranda was illiterate but her unstructured hand movements told him she was merely scribbling, rather than committing any thoughts to paper. With his plastic smile still glued to his face, Mr. Kuripa looked up from his papers and faced Abel Muranda.

“I admit that this is a unique recruitment situation, Mr. Muranda. But I must maintain my position. We need to evaluate other candidates. It is this panel’s responsibility to be thorough. This is a job in which mental distress and job satisfaction are both discouraged. Balancing these competing demands requires a special personality.”

“Or a special family, Mr. Kuripa. I think it is no coincidence that throughout this interview, you have spoken as though I already had the job. You constantly used the word ‘will’ instead of ‘would’ or ‘may’.”

“I apologize if I gave that impression. I misspoke.”

“You misspoke repeatedly.”

“Then I apologize … repeatedly. This is an interview, not an orientation to a job you have not yet secured. We are merely exploring your suitability. This exploration will continue beyond this meeting. It will not be pre-empted by your desperation.”

“Mr. Kuripa, it took me a long time to get here on foot. If I return to my village, you may not be able to easily contact me. I have no phone. The roads are flooded. Beyond that is a land that is drier than a bag of salt. My hope is to return to my village with the knowledge that I have earned myself a job. I would then return to Harare with my family. I am as desperate for that result as you are to find a hangman. Remember that peanut in the mine shaft? It’s punishing my nose. Please, Mr. Kuripa. Let’s work together on this.”

“You are an odd creature, Mr. Muranda. I concede that your instincts are correct. We need to hire a hangman soon. But please realize that the final decision is not up to us. It must be made by our superiors. The process cannot be rushed. It may take up to three weeks. Can you stay in town for that long?”

Abel Muranda was about to protest when the silent Mr. Gejo nodded once. It was barely visible. Abel Muranda could not tell whether the nod was instructing him to agree with the terms or whether it was validating the panel’s inability to reduce the waiting period. Either way, the authority it conveyed was more muscular than the man himself.

“Three weeks is too long. However, the poor always live on debt. At this point, time is the only thing I still have the credibility to borrow … even though my family cannot afford it. The wait is longer than their remaining rations. I was not planning on being here that long but I have no choice.”

“No, you don’t,” confirmed Mr. Kuripa with a shake of his head. “I must also repeat that we are not guaranteeing that you will have a job at the end of your wait.”

“I understand.”

“Good. The interview is over. Thank you for coming.”

“But I have questions. Are you not supposed to ask me if I have questions?”

The panellists glanced at each other.

“Okay, Mr. Muranda. What are your questions?”

“How many people are on death row?”

“About fifty-eight.”

“You’ve had no hangman for eight years. Why are you so desperate to find one now?”

“Because the prisoners have been waiting too long. After being on death row for extended periods, they start to crave some closure.”

“I see, Mr. Kuripa. Still, I find it strange that this process is being sped up by the emotional needs of the people with the most to lose.”

“Well, it is.”

“Is it true that the government is considering a permanent ban on the death penalty? I understand this may happen as soon as next November.”

“I thought you said you had no access to newspapers or radio waves in Gwenzi.”

“I do not. But this is not the sort of issue that would be publicized in either.”

“So who told you this?”

“The man you interviewed before me. The one who declared himself the most promising candidate.”

“Well, I don’t know who he has been talking to, but I am not a policymaker, Mr. Muranda. I don’t know if they are going to get rid of the death penalty. No one shares that sort of information with me.”

“Maybe not. But that does not stop you from hearing rumours. If I heard it from another candidate, then I am sure you must know much more.”

“If I did, I would not be able to discuss such matters with you, Mr. Muranda.”

“Fine. I have another question. Who will be the first three prisoners to be executed?”

“For a man of no education you are quite clever. But I am also smart enough to realize that this question is a different version of the previous one. I will answer neither. Does that change your desire for the job?”

“No. My questions were driven by curiosity. I never let that get in the way of survival.”

“Or free health care!”

The chairman laughed loud and laughed alone. After the awkward moment passed, he rearranged his papers and made a brief note of no importance.

“Please return three weeks from Wednesday at 2:00 p.m. Ask for Rumbidzai at the front desk. She is our supervisor’s secretary. She will let you know what the final decision is.”

“I thank you all,” said Abel Muranda with a nod.

“You are welcome,” replied Mr. Kuripa.

“Can I ask one more question? Actually, it is more of a favour.”

“What is it, Mr. Muranda?” asked the chairman.

“I do not know anyone in the city. I have no problems with sleeping under a bridge or in the streets. But it would be nice to buy a little food for my family back home. Can I have a small salary advance?”

“No, Mr. Muranda. You have not been hired. No job, no advance.”

“In that case, I ask that you repay my travel costs.”

“We have no such policy. Besides, even if we did, you walked here. If you had taken the bus, you could have made an argument for the ticket price. But walking is neither a job to be compensated nor an expense to be reimbursed.”

“But I also need to buy medicine. I think I have an infection. I would not have contracted that infection if I had not come for this interview.”

“Your infection is none of our concern, Abel Muranda. Besides, I am surprised you would make such a request. A short while ago, you spoke piously about the follies of expecting unearned riches. Now you are asking for an unearned handout? Who do you think I am? Your neighbour who died to feed the vultures?”

Mr. Kuripa shook his head firmly.

“Tell me something, Mr. Kuripa. Did you also earn a degree in being inhumane? If so, I am sure you were the smartest student in the class.”

Mrs. Sibanda covered her mouth with her hands. Mr. Gejo stroked his giant moustache. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. Mr. Kuripa was quaking with anger.

“Listen to me, ‘Mr. Free Health Care’. Does this place look like your god-forsaken village? You are in the big city now. This is not a place where you can just walk up to strangers and ask to borrow milk for your hungry child. People who do that sort of thing in the city are not called neighbours. They are called beggars. Good people pity them. Bad people spit at them. No one envies them. But if you want a free handout, go outside and sit yourself at a street corner. If I pass you on my way home, I may throw a few coins in your direction. But as long as you are in this room, you must behave like a candidate being interviewed for a very important job: with pride and decorum.”

Abel Muranda stood and walked towards the interview panel. He stopped within arm’s length of Mr. Kuripa.

“As a man with a hungry family, I can afford neither pride nor decorum, Mr. Kuripa, even though I deserve both.”

Abel Muranda placed both hands on the table and lowered his face so close to Mr. Kuripa that the chairman felt the aspiring hangman’s breath clouding his face like a moist swarm of invisible bees.

“However, the one thing I can afford is to tell you that serious injury awaits any man who speaks of my children’s hunger in uncompassionate terms. I have a set of muscles that I do not use often. The last creature that provoked their anger was a crocodile. That reptile will spend the rest of its life without the use of its eyes. Generally, I prefer not to use the muscles responsible for that misfortune, but when I do, the disruption is always memorable. These are words I can afford to share, Mr. Kuripa. In exchange, I will accept the apology that you seem eager to deliver. Unless of course, you believe that you are better equipped than a crocodile to defend yourself?”

Mr. Kuripa turned his gaze to Abel Muranda’s fibrous arms. Those muscles would have been thrice their size had they not been dried by the sun and salted in the man’s own sweat. Both arms were taut and ready to fulfill the promise their owner had just made.

Mr. Kuripa turned to Mr. Gejo. The big man sat back and crossed his hands. He would not intervene if the disruption broke out. The chairman turned to Mrs. Sibanda. Surely, if she came to his defence, Abel Muranda would not manhandle her to get to him? The aspiring hangman was a rural simpleton, but he seemed like the type that respected the opposite sex. There was no way he would attack a woman. Mrs. Sibanda thought otherwise. Her eyes were darting around the room. She was calculating the distance to the nearest exit.

Mr. Kuripa cleared his throat. A stream of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose and onto the ream of papers he was so fond of shuffling.

“Well, Mr. Muranda. There is an expression in English which says, ‘I jest—’”

“Apologize.”

The dried meat in Abel Muranda’s arms squeaked with mounting tension. Discipline was imminent.

“I am sorry,” Mr. Kuripa said with more haste than he had intended.

The muscles in Abel Muranda’s arms loosened like the neck of a cobra deflating after a passing threat.

“I accept your apology.”

Abel Muranda bowed to the panel and returned to his seat. Mr. Kuripa exhaled loudly. The storm clouds had passed without urinating on him. However, his ego was drenched.

The chairman tried to regain his composure while turning to his papers. His sweat had bound the corners of the pages together. When he tried to flip through them, the edges refused to separate. His intensified effort only scuttled the papers in all directions.

In a bid to restore his authority, Mr. Kuripa cleared his throat.

“Do either of my esteemed colleagues have further questions?”

Mr. Gejo and Mrs. Sibanda shook their heads.

“Very well, Mr. Muranda. There is only one further point of business. You are to return next Tuesday for another meeting.”

“There is more?” asked Abel Muranda quizzically.

“Yes. You need to see a doctor. I am afraid this doctor does not deal with physical injuries. She is a brain doctor. A ‘psychiatrist’. Her job is to make sure that the chosen candidate is mentally stable.”

Mr. Kuripa hastened to clarify his statement. His recent peril was still at the forefront of his mind.

“Just a formality, of course. We must do this with everyone. Just in case.”

“Mr. Kuripa. I am sure you could identify a mad man if you saw one. Why do you need a special doctor to confirm the obvious?”

“This isn’t just about making sure that the new hangman is sane. It is also about making sure that he can remain so after killing people. Sometimes, sanity is the mere absence of trauma. Many people are provisionally sane until they are tested by unexpected hardships.”

“Well, my sanity has survived more hardships than the regular person will ever endure, Mr. Kuripa. If I was only ‘provisionally sane’ before those tragedies, I have since proven my mental stability.”

“I am sure that’s the case, Mr. Muranda, but I don’t make the rules. Everyone must go through the same process. Come back next Tuesday for your assessment. The final decision will be made three weeks from today. Good day, Mr. Muranda.”

“Good day to you all. Please speak of me kindly to your superiors. I am the best man for this job.”

Mr. Kuripa crossed his hands and muttered beneath his breath, “I wonder if the job feels the same way about you.”        

Continued….

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