THE GOOD doctor hurried from the room and did not return until the next day. He looked sick and exhausted and I felt sorry for him.

“I’m sorry.” He looked sharply at me for a moment, then his professional face took over.
 “The medication that you use: How long have you been using it?”
“Since my accident. It’s the only thing that helps with my migraines.”
“I see.” He was thoughtful for a moment.
“Could I see my wife and daughters?” I pleaded.
“Not just yet, Travis.”
My temper flared. “How would you like to be denied access to your wife when she’s suffering so much?” I demanded.
His face looked ashen, and he gripped the table so hard that his knuckles looked as if they wanted to pop out of his fist.
“What nonsense are you talking!” His face had progressed to cherry red by now.
“She has terminal cancer, and you blame yourself for not spending enough time with her. Your kids feel the same way; that’s why they hate you so much.”
Springer ran from the room.
After that incident, I was subjected to a battery of tests and profiling. Expert after expert prodded and enquired. Each one left scratching their heads in puzzlement. There seemed to be no scientific reason or rational explanation for my extraordinary ability to guess right.
I was transferred to an institution with a team of doctors who did more observing than questioning. My lawyer eventually penetrated the layers of bureaucracy and forced the FBI to either charge me or release me.
I subsequently learnt that Flight AA167 had encountered engine problems, and one engine had failed during takeoff. This was according to information from crew and the ‘black-box’. I would be released in a matter of days.
Dr. Springer and another FBI agent came to see me.
“Could you help us out?”
“Sure. What can I do for you?” They placed a number of photographs on the table in the middle of the room and we sat around it.
“Just take a close look at each of these men and see if you feel anything.”
Puzzled and a bit amused, I complied. Halfway through this process, I looked into the eyes of a young Arab and felt a strange tingle in the back of my neck. This photo was separated, and three more were removed by the same means. They both thanked me and left, trying to conceal their excitement.
The next day, I was summoned to the office of the Director of the FBI, and he briefed me on the photos. The four young men were terrorist suspects, and were wanted in connection with a number of bombings around the world. Efforts to track and apprehend them were unsuccessful. Somehow, I had picked them out from among photos of agents and ordinary workers.
“We would like to offer you a job.” The Director was looking expectantly at me.
“What about my family?” I enquired.
Mr. Brooms smiled. “They’ll be well taken care of. You’ll all receive resident visas, a house and car. We’ll put your kids into school and find employment for Molly.”
I started working the same day.
The photos of the four suspects and a map of the Middle East was given to me. Looking at the four and then the map, I drew blank. A map of mainland USA changed that drastically. My ‘tingle box’ went wild. State by state, I soon fixed my attention on LA. Somehow, ‘X’ seemed to be popping into my head and I couldn’t understand why.
My family arrived in Washington DC, and we moved into our new home. Molly was happy about how things had turned out for us. I tried to explain everything to her, and we talked way into the night. There were some things I was asked not to discuss for security reasons, so I told her as much as I could.
The late news came on, and a story about baggage problems at the Los Angeles International Airport was the main story. The large neon sign, LAX, caught my attention, and my ‘tingle-box’ went crazy. I called Director Brooms and told him about this new development.
The next day, two of the suspects were arrested at LAX. They were working in the baggage handling department.  The other two worked for a catering service which supplied airlines using LAX. Both managed to escape.
My family settled in the USA, and I became fully involved in the activities of the FBI. My life was hectic, and I spent less and less time with my family, and more and more time travelling all over the world looking for criminals. Molly and I slowly drifted apart. Then came the tragic events of ‘September 11’.
A week before the two passenger jets hit the Twin Towers, I was reading a copy of Forbes Magazine, and each time the word trade came up, my ‘tinkle-box’ went off. I disclosed this to Mr. Brooms, and he got experts on trade to beef up security at all American foreign trade facilities. He told them that an attempt would be made to disrupt American trade and plunge the economy into steep decline.
Necessary precautions were taken, but nothing happened. My ‘tinkle-box’ kept going off. After lengthy questioning about trade being the centre of my premonition, they decided for the first time that I had got it wrong. Two days later, tragedy struck Manhattan, and as they say, the rest is history.
In the melee that ensued, there was little time to worry about me. I was ignored and often sidelined. There was no part for me in this investigation. It seemed that somehow they felt I was to be  blamed for the incident. After three months of semi-isolation, I resigned.
I am now back in Guyana and happy to be home. Molly and I are rediscovering love and romance. The girls are in school in New York. We visit them during the July-August break, and they come home every Christmas.
The horseracing service has three more outlets, and business is now booming. Suresh is a government consultant. Don’t know what he has that can help the government, but he’s doing well.
As for my ‘gift’, I am now employed at the weather station. If you know anything about tropical weather, you’ll appreciate that even I can be rendered impotent.
Whenever my ‘tinkle-box’ goes off, it is never in time to adequately warn the public. So whenever I am asked about the weather, I just smile and reply: “Make sure you have your umbrella handy.”
Come rain or shine, I can’t go wrong there.