Proof of Life

by Sheila Lowe

  “She must be frantic. I sure would be.”

  “She is. I was wondering whether maybe you could help.”

  “Me? How can I help?”

  “You could tune in to Ethan and help us figure out where he is, like you did with Hailey.”

  “Zach, I told you it doesn’t work that way,” said Jessica, exasperated all over again. “Anyway, the people who show up are dead.” Her stomach tightened. “Do you think Ethan is dead?”

  “Not necessarily. I just thought—you were so good with the Martin case—maybe you could get some information we could use.”

  “That was different. Hailey came to me as a spirit. She wouldn’t let me sleep, remember? She hounded me for days until I called you. And her voice was the strongest out of all the voices I was hearing. Besides, she was dead. I don’t think a little boy would be loud enough to—” She broke off, picturing her own frightened boy crying for his mother. “I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thanks, Jess. Look, I hesitate to ask—in fact, I feel kinda stupid. But since it’s a kid’s life at stake…”

  “You didn’t feel stupid asking about Finley Hunter.”

  “Yeah, that box thing you made—that was extreme.” He gave a sheepish chuckle. “Maybe I’m getting used to the idea of you being psychic or something.”

  “Or something.”

  “Hey, wanna get together for breakfast tomorrow? My treat. We can kick around some ideas, and take a ride out to Benedict Canyon. There’s a vacant house I have to look at. We think Starkey may have taken the kid there to hide out. He’s a realtor, and—”

  “Can’t tomorrow. I’ve got a thing in Ojai.”

  “Ojai? What’s up there?”

  “I’m going to a talk on spiritualism.”

  “No joke? I never knew you were into that stuff. Is it because of the voices?”

  “Yeah, the voices. I’m hoping to meet some people who can answer a few questions.”

  “Want some company? We can go to Benedict Canyon later.”

  “Not this time, but thanks.”

  “Maybe we can get together later for a beer.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Why couldn’t she shut him down and refuse? Oh, yeah. There was that “he saved me and my sister” thing.

  It was an open secret that Zach would be happy to reignite the relationship they once had. Knowing he was bummed at her rejection gave her a twinge of regret, but not a big enough twinge to tell him about Sage Boles.

  “Can you ask if there’s some way to reach out to someone who’s alive?” Zach asked.

  “I said I would try, Zach. If I get anything, I’ll let you know, okay?”

  Her goodbye bordered on snappish. Zach had some nerve, asking her to do this for him after he had been so angry about the shadowbox crime scene.

  Jessica went over to the wastebasket where she had dumped the evil thing. Being near it made her feel ill. Apart from the red paint, the wooden box itself was intact. It was the furnishings and torn bits of fabric that were destroyed. For half a millisecond she considered painting over the bloody-looking mess and re-using it. The thought made her shudder. She didn’t want to even touch it. Using a rag to pick it up, she carried the wastebasket out to the bin in the back alley behind the cottage and emptied its contents inside. The lid dropped shut with a satisfying bang.

  Many more episodes and nights of fending off the voices and she might go over the edge, she was that close. She let out a sigh. The rain had petered to a sprinkle. At least if another episode came on and she woke up outside again, she would not get wet this time.

  Then, reality hit her over the head with the weight of an anvil. She was dealing with murder victims and the safety of a missing child. Zach seemed to think she was his personal hotline to heaven.

  What the hell am I getting myself into?

  Please, let me find what I need in Ojai.

  NINE

  The Regina Boles Center for Traumatized Children was encircled by a six-foot high fieldstone wall with no signs proclaiming the semi-rural property as the location. But there was Sage, standing outside the wrought iron gates, waiting for her. In black Levis and a turtleneck sweater, he was as stunning as she remembered.

  Jessica left the Mini on the street and headed up the long driveway. A quarter mile back from the gates, visible beyond massive oak trees was a sprawling ranch house. Under the watchful eye of a young woman in purple overalls, a half-dozen children crawled and climbed and swung on a jungle gym on the vast lawn.

  “I gave your hug to Claudia,” Sage said, coming down to meet her. “She sent one back.” He leaned down and wrapped her in an embrace, then let go.

  “Uh…oh…okay…thanks.”

  What’s wrong with me? He’s not the first good-looking guy to hug me.

  But none of them made me feel like I stuck my finger in a light socket.

  “You’re an extraordinary artist,” he went on, acting as though he had not noticed that Jessica was struggling for words. “Claudia couldn’t have been happier with the piece. Her neighbor who owned the dog full-on cried real tears.”

  “It’s so cool that it went over well,” she murmured, flushing.

  “It was incredibly lifelike. I see why Claudia is such a big admirer of your work.”

  “Thank you. I hope you show me yours sometime. I mean, your art. I’d love to see your art. Artwork.” Omigod, did I really say that? She could feel the blush deepen.

  “I’ll be happy to show you mine,” said Sage with a definite twinkle in his eye.

  Jessica turned away, regarding the tall gates guarding the property behind them, where children needed to be hidden behind that kind of security. “Are the gates always locked?” she asked.

  “Always,” Sage said. “We’re very careful. There are motion sensors around the walls. We give the kids every protection possible. Some of them are here under court order. Nobody gets in without proper credentials. I’ll show you around later.”

  He told her that The Ojai Spiritualist Association was a half-mile away and asked whether she minded walking. She didn’t.

  They set out on the tree-lined street, where rain-washed sidewalks were dappled with shadows and the sun beamed down on them like a good omen.

  “You’re a tiny person, aren’t you?” said Sage.

  “And you’re a very tall person. I’m 5'3.”

  “I’ll have to mince my steps so I don’t get ahead of you,” he said, doing a ridiculous little prance to demonstrate.

  Laughing, Jessica tried to match his gait. “I know I’m short. Just pretend I’m one of the kids at your Center.”

  “Not short. Diminutive. And adorable. And I definitely can’t pretend you’re one of the kids. I’d go to jail for what I’m thinking.”

  “Stop it, you’re embarrassing me. Tell me about the kids. Where do they come from?”

  Sage got serious. “Some of them were removed from their parents ‘care’. A couple were brought over from countries that are at war—you can imagine how traumatized they are. And there are other situations. We have a seven-year-old boy who was rescued from a human trafficking operation in L.A. They were selling him for sex up to nine times a day. The Feds found nineteen children in that one house.”

  Seven years old. Justin’s age, had he lived. The age he had shown himself to be in the spirit world. Everything came back to Justin.

  “What kind of person would—” Jessica stopped herself. “Never mind, it’s pretty clear what kind. Do the kids live on site?”

  “We have space for twenty full-time residents, the toughest cases that need extra-special full-time attention. Some kids come for day therapy. If everything goes as planned, once we’re up to speed, I intend to add a wing.”

  The decision to take on such a project and the dedication it must have taken to see it through kindled Jessica’s admiration and respect, as well as just plain liking him. Everything she had seen and heard heightened her interest in the program and, if she would admit i
t, in Sage. She was curious to understand what had motivated him, but her intuition told her it was too soon to ask.

  “How long has the Center been here?” she asked.

  “We’ve been operational for three months. Our grand opening was the week before last Thanksgiving. I bought the house and land back in March but renovations took longer than expected—isn’t that always the way with construction?”

  Thinking of her rental cottage Jessica grinned. “Can’t say; I’ve never had anything built.”

  “Take my word for it. On top of everything else, City and County building permits, all the licensing requirements—it’s a nightmare to get through. Long before we were ready to open, we had a waiting list of kids needing a place. I wish we were able to handle every one of them, but there are so many. We had to accept the ones with the most urgent needs.”

  His use of the singular pronoun when he spoke of purchasing the place, rather than referring to a board or a group, aroused Jessica’s curiosity. She would love to know where the money had come from to buy an estate of this size and renovate it. Property in California was far from inexpensive. His murals would have to bring in a lot of money if his art had paid for it.

  “I hope this isn’t a rude question, but does insurance cover the treatment?”

  Sage shrugged. “In some cases, but it doesn’t matter, we won’t turn anyone in need away.”

  “That’s—I don’t even have a word for how great that is,” said Jessica. “I can’t begin to imagine how hard it must be for a child to recover from the kind of abuse they’ve had to suffer. From what I saw back there, it looks like a wonderful place for the little ones to recover.”

  “Recovery takes time and tons of care and attention. We use anything and everything that emphasizes creativity and helps them express their emotions—art, music, dance. Graphotherapy, too. Claudia comes up to work with the therapists once a month.”

  “Graphotherapy? She teaches them to write?”

  “No, it’s a system of special drawing exercises they do to music. She says it makes changes in the brain to help them release trauma. I’m amazed at how well it works. Claudia teaches the therapists and they teach it to the kids, then she checks their work to make sure they’re doing it right.” Sage warmed to his topic. “We have a totally awesome team of doctors and therapists. Plus, there are volunteers, amateurs like me.”

  “Can anyone volunteer?”

  “Sure, as long as they can pass a very strict background check. Plus, Claudia analyzes the handwriting of every successful applicant, regardless of whether they’re a paid employee or a volunteer. If there’s one red flag, they’re toast. What I care about most is that the kids know they’re safe. The best way to do that is to bring in the right people.”

  “It must be a huge amount of work,” Jessica said, throwing caution out the window and deciding to get personal. “What made you do this, Sage?”

  When he hesitated, she regretted not following her instincts. She should have waited to raise the subject.

  “Let’s talk about that another time,” he said.

  Why did he look so uncomfortable? He had named the Center after his mother. That made her think he must have had a good childhood. But what had sparked his interest in traumatized children? With her own secrets to protect, she could hardly blame him for his reticence.

  “Okay, sure. What kind of work do you do here as a volunteer?”

  “Art projects. I’m working with the kids on a jungle mural we’re painting on the dining room wall. I’ve painted several murals, but none with kids.” Sage grinned broadly. “I’m having a blast learning how to work with them.”

  “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “It is.” He paused on the sidewalk, turning to her with a look that was hard to interpret. “How about you, Jessica?”

  “What about me?”

  “We can always use more volunteers. Have you got any experience with kids?”

  Now it was her turn to hesitate. How do you tell a virtual stranger—one that you have a strong desire to get to know—that you have a dead child, without making him feel awkward for asking? She decided on the short version. “I have three-year-old twin nieces.”

  “Wow, twins. Do they look alike?”

  “Exactly alike.” Thinking of Sophie and Emma made Jessica smile. “Of course, they’re the most adorable little girls that ever lived. Take it from their aunt.”

  “I bet you’re right,” said Sage, stopping at a two-story office building. “This is it.”

  A sign on the unpretentious front door stated that The Ojai Valley Spiritualist Association met in a suite on the first floor.

  Inside, the sanctuary wasn’t a whole lot larger than Jessica’s cottage. In lieu of church pews were rows of folding chairs. At the front of the room was a podium on a small riser, fronted by a beautiful flower arrangement: pink roses, lilies and baby’s breath.

  “There’s coffee at the back,” Sage said, indicating a table at the rear of the sanctuary, where a white-haired woman was arranging a basket of cookies and coffee paraphernalia. He leaned close to Jessica and said in an undertone, “You might want to decline. They use instant.”

  She grinned. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Let me show you the gift shop. You said you wanted to learn about spiritualism, and they have some excellent books.”

  The gift shop was no bigger than a walk-in closet. A sweet-faced woman with tight grey curls and a pleasant smile stood behind a counter, ringing up a packet of incense.

  Jessica perused the shelves, which held crystals, candles, bundles of sage and bottles of essential oil—wild rose, patchouli, sweet orange, white jasmine. And books.

  The ones Jessica was looking for dealt with talking to the dead—an entire shelf was devoted to the topic. She read the spines: John Edward, James Van Praagh, Suzanne Giesemann, Sandra Champlain. Names unknown to Jessica that excited her, made her impatient to dive in and immerse herself in their knowledge.

  Sage, who had been chatting with the woman behind the counter while Jessica browsed, turned to her. “Found anything that looks interesting?”

  The truth was, she would like to scoop up every book on the shelf and buy them all. But for now, limiting herself to three, she laid her choices on the counter.

  “These sound pretty interesting: “Journey of Souls” and “One Last Time” and “We Don’t Die.””

  A big smile lit up Sage’s face. “Three of my favorites.”

  “That’s a great recommendation.”

  “You’re gonna love them.” He pushed a credit card across the counter to the woman who was already ringing up the books. “A gift from me.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” said Jessica, flustered for reasons she couldn’t begin to explore.

  “True, but I’d like to. Is it okay?”

  The warm glow that suffused her as she thanked him was either an affirmation from spirit that she had selected the right books, or a sign of her growing attraction. Maybe both. It crossed her mind that Greg would have scoffed at her interest in an afterlife. He would have told her she was stupid to believe in ‘that crap.’ Sage could not be more different than her ex-husband.

  They left the gift shop and returned to the sanctuary. They were not the only millennials among the boomers milling in small groups, but close. Most of the members filtering in showed signs of being on the far side of sixty.

  Everyone who stopped to speak with Sage gave Jessica knowing smiles as he introduced her. They liked him, it was pretty obvious. And it was equally obvious that they were curious about the small woman with the blonde, almost-dreadlocks at his side. Had he brought other women here for them to check out? Jessica wondered as he led her to seats front and center, near the podium.

  The woman who hurried up the aisle and took the stage was dressed in a tailored rose-pink jacket over a fitted, black skirt whose oversized magnolia flowers accentuated what Jessica thought of as a ‘fluffy’ body.

  �
��That’s Bella,” Sage whispered.

  Bella Bingham took a brass bowl from behind the podium and held it aloft in the palm of her left hand. When she tapped the side with a small mallet, a chime rang out and the chitchat meandered to a halt. The bell tones died away, leaving a hush.

  With a warm smile, she introduced herself in an unpretentious British accent as Reverend Bella and welcomed them all.

  “You said this wasn’t a religion,” Jessica said, sotto voce. “Reverend” said religion to her.

  Sage leaned close and whispered, “It’s not. You’ll see.”

  Mimicking the movement of stirring a pot, Reverend Bella began to slowly run the mallet around the rim of the bowl, gradually increasing the speed. The soft sounds that emanated from the bowl grew to a haunting frequency until the vibrations enveloped Jessica and surrounded her heart, stirring emotions that were buried as deep as the grave.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  Sage’s breath was warm against her ear. “A Tibetan singing bowl.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you will all join me in a nondenominational prayer and song,” said Bella. Serenity shone from her face and radiated across the assembled crowd. “Len is handing out copies, so everyone who wants to can follow along.”

  A thin man in a golf shirt went from row to row, joking with members as he left small stacks of photocopied sheets to be passed out. When they all had a copy, a chorus of enthusiastic voices joined in with Reverend Bella’s recitation of the prayer:

  “Let my light shine with the spirit of All That Is, so others may know that I am becoming pure of heart. Let us live always in Love and Light. Allow only the highest and purest energies to touch us. Help us to understand the purpose of our lives and guide us to work through the lessons we have come here to learn. So be it.”

  Jessica chanted the words along with them all, an unaccustomed warmth spreading through her. Her head felt strangely empty of the murmuring spirit voices. She had become so accustomed to their chatter that she missed them. Sort of.