Patterns die hard. Jane was off the clock, so she didn’t hesitate to locate a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels leaning against the bed and drain the final few shots from the bottle. Between the bone-breaking fatigue and the warm blanket of whiskey, she languidly collapsed on her bed, as her soul dove into that silent space.
The stale air of her bedroom disappeared, as she inhaled a blend of lilacs, spring daffodils and…sandalwood. Opening her eyes, she stared into the aqua sky and verdant grass. She felt the wicker chair against her back and then a
gentle hand on her shoulder. Her body was so heavy—the weight of the world like a yoke around her waist. She tried to turn to him, but the movement was too difficult.
Devinder walked in front of her, his eyes warm and grateful. “Thank you, Jane.”
She heard his voice clearly without his lips moving. Her head hurt and she felt a deep pressure she hadn’t felt before in this place. “The light behind my neck,” she asked, struggling with the words, even though she was speaking with her mind, “it’s bright again?”
“No. Not completely,” Devinder said.
“But I survived their attack.”
“Yes, you did. But…” His eyes briefly looked off to the side.
“What?”
“I’m not certain. There’s something else… very soon.” He studied the white-planked porch floor. “There’s a child… a little girl. She dies. Be careful, Jane.”
Jane’s chest tightened, as a blistering heat engulfed her left hand. “Tell me how to save her.”
“You can’t save her. It’s her fate. Her karma.”
“No! Tell me her name. She deserves a life.”
“It’s only one of her many lives, Jane. Just like the rest of us. I’ll live again in a stronger body. But now, I need to rest and review.” Jane noted that the light behind Devinder’s neck grew much weaker. He took her hands in his. “You can take all the credit because you won’t remember any of this.”
“Of course, I will!”
“No. I promise you, you will not. And because you’ve never spoken a word of our meeting to anyone, there’s no trail of the memory to others.”
“I will remember you,” Jane stressed.
Devinder smiled. “You won’t. But I’ll remember you. Forever.” And with that, his image dissolved.
8
The next day, Friday, Jane sat at her desk waiting for Weyler to give her the heads up. The pressroom downstairs was filled with local and some national media. Chris was primping in the hallway and accepting congratulations from fellow officers. She hated the whole idea of the press conference, especially since her mind was like Swiss cheese. What if they ask me how I cracked the case? Could she tell them it was her gut instincts because, right now, that’s all she could dredge up. She attempted to piece together the events of the last four days, but it was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with twelve missing pieces. She remembered following Miles to Cath Bashir’s home, but she couldn’t understand why she did it. She recalled how she visualized the murder of Devinder Bashir with stunning accuracy, but she couldn’t grasp how that was possible.
Something tugged on her memory—something safe and gentle. But every time she tried to grasp the feeling and give it dimension and meaning, it evaporated. Jesus, the booze really is taking its toll.
Turning to the window that looked down on 13th Street, she abruptly felt an uneasy clench in her gut. There was a little girl and there was darkness around her. And there was so much blood. But then the vision dissolved and she was numb and dead again, staring out the window and wondering how many inane questions she’d have to answer downstairs.
“They’re ready for us, Jane.” She turned to see Chris standing there. “You might want to fix your hair,” he added.
Everything moved in slow motio,n as Jane reached inside her leather satchel and pulled out various items in an attempt to find a hairbrush. She felt around for the brush and, once locating it, had to disentangle it from her cell phone charger before pulling it out of the satchel. But there was something else stuck between the combs on the brush.
Lifting the brush out of the satchel, she found a single stick of incense. Somebody must have dropped it in my bag by mistake, she decided.
She wasn’t sure why, but the sandalwood scent made her feel safe.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
The Story Plant
The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC
P.O. Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907
Copyright © 2009 by Laurel Dewey
eISBN : 978-1-611-88018-2
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.
First Story Plant Paperback Printing: April 2011