Brainstorm

Sheldon J.D. Cohen

Description

IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
"This is my third version of Brainstorm. The first one (my initial writing effort) I wrote before 2003 and managed to get published by a California publisher who promptly, after printing a few hundred copies, declared bankruptcy. My luck! As my first attempt at writing, I can safely say the book was not very good. But I persisted and rewrote it as I slowly learned my craft. The second version, under the title Possessed, is currently in softcover print. Brainstorm, the current and third version in ebook form, represents my latest effort at revision. I believe this third version is the final and best version in my evolution as a writer."
– Sheldon Cohen

One Friday night in Chicago, two friends leave their neighborhood bar and head home. One man never makes it. Stabbed in the heart by a crazed assailant, the victim is brought to a nearby hospital. A respected young carpenter who seems to have it all...wife, children, friends...finds himself at the same hospital. Mysterious stomach pains, violent mood swings, and uncharacteristic forgetfulness have plagued George Gilmer. Though he remembers nothing, it was George's knife that killed the man, his blood on the man's body

Brainstorm leads the reader into a world where the human capacity for evil extends beyond belief, into a world where it hard to draw the line between insanity and innocence.

Sujets

• Droit privé
• Droit privé
• Droit privé
• Droit privé
• Criminal Law
• Droit et juridique
• Law
• Droit pénal
• droit pénal
• Droit pénal
• Droit pénal
• Droit pénal

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456607456
• Langue: English

Extrait

BRAINSTORM
SHELDON COHEN
 


Copyright 2012 Sheldon Cohen,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0745-6
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 


IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
"This is my third version of Brainstorm. The first one (my initial writing effort) I wrote before 2003 and managed to get published by a California publisher who promptly, after printing a few hundred copies, declared bankruptcy. My luck! As my first attempt at writing, I can safely say the book was not very good. But I persisted and rewrote it as I slowly learned my craft. The second version, under the title Possessed, is currently in softcover print. Brainstorm, the current and third version in ebook form, represents my latest effort at revision. I believe this third version is the final and best version in my evolution as a writer."
-- Sheldon Cohen
 
CHAPTER 1
George Gilmer bolted upright gasping for breath as his heart pounded and sweat trickled down his forehead. Awakened from a horrible dream, he glanced at the clock on the dresser…7:10. He took a deep breath trying to clear his mind full of jumbled disconnected thoughts.
Why would I have a dream like that, he thought? About fire? Could it be because of the recent fire at work? But that was a tiny one controlled by a few squirts of a fire extinguisher. It’s funny how little events become bigger with dreams. The worst part was where the flames trapped Gail and the girls.
The fear he felt in his dream was as real as if he was there in the flesh; the look of terror on his two daughters’ faces, his wife’s panic. He hoped it would all fade from memory soon. He could still feel the smoke of the dream that seared his lungs and irritated his eyes. The power of the brain, he thought…amazing, but he was awake now and the sensations were still there. Why? Could this all be part of the way I’ve been feeling? Why have I been so tense and anxious lately? He thought back to before he was married and his future wife’s girlfriends used to refer to him as Mr. Tranquilizer. I sure as hell don’t feel calm like that now. Why the change?
“George, what is it?” said Gail.
The sound of his wife’s voice stunned him. He turned and looked at her sitting next to him in bed, his mouth and eyes wide open. No words came from his parted lips.
“George?”
“Uhh, nothing…I…” My God, he thought, that was the worst dream of my life. What’s happening?
“You look so weird. Is anything wrong?” said his worried wife.
“I…uh, I had a bad dream…that’s all, just a bad dream. It’s nothing.”
His facial expression concerned her. “What was it about?
“Just stupid…that’s all. It’s, it’s… I’m late. I better get moving.” He shook his head, turned, got out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.
Gail noted the abnormal gait, but before she could say anything, he had closed the bathroom door. Although unsteady on his feet, he took a shower. As he shaved, he observed himself in the mirror. I look okay, he thought. I hope I never have a dream like that again. He shuddered as he dressed in his work clothes and went down to the kitchen where his wife was making breakfast.
“I’ll just take a piece of toast. I’m late,” he said as he rushed out, leaving his wife to ponder his unusual behavior. “Take some milk,” she said as he faded out of sight
He could not forget the unusual dream at work, and it effected his concentration to the extent that he cut a two by four too short to fit. Damn, he thought, when the hell have I ever screwed up like that before? No one saw, he said to himself. He redid the cut with another two by four and resolved the problem. He completed the rest of the day’s work without mishap.
He picked at his food that evening at dinner and noted his wife staring at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Funny. My stomach’s kind of queasy tonight.”
“Anything else? You looked a little unsteady on your feet this morning.”
“No, that’s all; just sort of a dull pain right here in the pit of my stomach. I’m walking okay. Work was no problem.”
“You’re not eating. Doesn’t it taste good?”
“No, it’s good. I’m not too hungry, that’s all.”
“First time I ever heard that from you,” she smiled.
“Anyhow, I better go downstairs. I got work to do.”
He went to the basement where he started working on a fireplace mantelpiece. His wife, startled again at his abrupt departure, could only wonder as to this sudden change in her husband’s routine the last few days.
His reputation was spreading by word of mouth from satisfied customers. No sooner did he finish one mantel then he started on another. He worked on these whenever he had the time from his regular work for a large Chicago construction firm. He loved all aspects of carpentry, but the fine, detailed work required to make items such as mantle pieces and tables or chairs was his favorite.
He was an average student through grade and high school, but he excelled in art. Every chance he got he would work in his finished workshop basement stocked with power tools, easels, paintbrushes, oils, watercolors and whatever necessary to feed his artistic cravings. When finished with his current task he went upstairs to bed. Gail was already asleep.
He awakened the next morning feeling as if he needed more sleep. Damn, is it morning already? I feel like I just went to bed, he thought. He went to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror, noticed dark rings under his eyes and messed up hair. Must have had a restless sleep, he thought. He cut himself shaving and placed a piece of tissue on the blood. At breakfast, he noted that his appetite still was not what he thought it should be. He picked at his food.
Gail said to him, “Am I going to have to start shaving you?”
“Ha, ha, funny,” he answered.
“I still can’t believe you weren’t hungry last night. Are you sure dinner was okay?”
“It was great. I just didn’t have any appetite,” he said, managing a weak smile as he glanced up from his plate.
“You mentioned a queasy stomach.”
“It’s nothing. My stomach was upset, but I’m good now.”
“You usually wolf everything down, but now you’re just picking. I don’t know. Seems to me, you’re losing your appetite.”
“Nah, I’m good.” He gulped down the remaining food. “Look how I finished off my breakfast,” he said, holding up his empty plate. He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. “Time to get to work. I’ll be late tonight, so don’t worry. I have to see Mr. Worthey with the final mantelpiece drawings. He’s got some good ideas, and I think I know what he wants.”
“Okay,” she said, “but…”
He interrupted her by planting a kiss on her lips.
“You sure know how to quiet a gal down. That hasn’t changed, I see.”
“The only time that will change my dear wife is when they put me in the ground.” He grinned and headed for the door. “See you later,” he said, glancing over his shoulder before rushing out.
Work was uneventful that day and the nausea did not return although he did notice a lack of appetite again at lunch. The dream surfaced again in his thoughts. Most of the time he could not remember the details of a dream when he awakened, but this one was vivid—in living color yet.
When he arrived home after work, Gail looked at him concerned and said, “How do you feel?”
“Good, why?”
“Your queasy stomach. Remember?”
“It’s gone.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, your dinner’s ready.”
“Thanks, in a minute.” He hurried downstairs with the plans for Worthey’s mantel under his arm.
He continued working downstairs through dinner. Gail sighed, ate with the children, let the girls go to their rooms to play and then walked down stairs. She found George at his workbench staring into space.
“George?”
He continued looking straight ahead.
“George?” repeated Gail.
He finally turned to look in her direction. “What?” he said with a blank expression. I got tied up with these plans. I’m trying to figure something out for Mr. Worthey.”
“You didn’t eat anything.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Hungry, not hungry, hungry, not hungry,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said with a tinge of anger in his voice that she detected.
That silenced her, but he was already back to work and deep in thought. It would just be one of those evenings, she thought; the frustrated artist would spend all night cooped up in the basement detailing another masterpiece. I wish he would do more artwork for his own enjoyment, but he was always “too busy.” Maybe he’s working too hard. Could there be some problem at work? I hope not. He needs more recreation time doing what he loves to do in his private workshop where he has always been calm and relaxed. She went back upstairs to prepare for bed.
As she was getting into bed, George came up and joined her. He fell asleep in minutes, but during the middle of the night, a sudden severe nausea woke him up. The urge to vomit overwhelmed him, and he leaped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. When he did so he awakened Gail, and she found him on his knees with both hands on the toilet seat and his head hanging over the bowl.
“George! What’s wrong?” She knelt down beside him. He was unable to answer as he continued to vomit. The retching was loud and vigorous; his face was ashen and perspiration covered his forehead.
“Oh, man.” Bracing one hand on the sink, he pulled himself up to a standing position, but his knees buckled and Gail grasped his elbows.
She steadied him with both of her hands. “I knew something was wrong,” she said.
He shook his head and wiped his mouth with a towel. “Damn bug!”
“I’ve never seen you so sick.” She felt his forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Does anything hurt?”
“Yeah, a little pain here,” he said, pointing to the center of