Fast forward: Jeff and the soon-to-be-ex-missus were undergoing divorce proceedings, and the missus, understandably hurt, had been ruthless and spared no quarter. Jeff didn’t know what to do. He’d dropped the woman he’d been caught with, even offered to go through therapy, but it all fell upon deaf ears. Too little, too late, Melissa Skopchek had said. All Jeff wanted, he’d last told Joe, was a happy life with the right woman, and now he was at a loss over how things had gotten so rotten. He’d never meant to stray, but things had just… “happened.” Joe, however, told Jeff, “Things don’t just ‘happen’ my friend; we make them happen.” Jeff sat silently, sipping his brew. That had been the night before Joe’s accident.
And Lizzie had not picked up on any of this. Not one iota.
Lizzie had never been one to need prompting in such matters; if the issue was important enough in her worldview, she’d always picked up on it, but this was the one strangely aberrant exception, and, unfortunately, it was the one exception that had cost her her husband.
The next day, Jeff showed up to work without a word to his fellow workers, donned his hard hat, and began moving steel around like Lincoln logs…
To Lizzie’s credit, if the term be used, she’d awoken queasy that morning, actually sick to her stomach. The feeling remained with her throughout the morning. She didn’t remember dreaming that night (she always dreamed and always remembered them). When that fateful phone call reached her around ten-fifteen that morning, her world fell apart.
Would her seeing it have prevented anything?
Could she have gotten to Joe in time?
Should she ever have met him in the first place?
The lawyers were more than supportive and helpful, and Lizzie did all the right things, though she did them all in a haze. No stranger to the paranormal and the fantastic, but all this was acutely unreal to her. She kept whispering to herself, when she was alone, that none of this was supposed to have happened! They were supposed to have lived their lives blissfully happily ever after, the vows and all the signs had said so. That she had never seen anything untoward happening to them, before or after they’d met. None of this, she continued to swear through her hot and copious tears, was ever supposed to have happened! The entire situation was wrong!
Lizzie painfully collected Joe’s insurance, sold the house, and bought a manufactured home in a trailer park.
Why hadn’t she been able to foresee any of this?
She’d retreated from as much human contact as possible, which, essentially, meant men. No one, she told herself, could ever replace Joe, and even if there was someone out there remotely compatible — she never wanted to know.
And then there had been the other dreams, the dreams she’d had as long as she could remember.
The dreams about children.
Those had also made it especially difficult. She’d always had dreams about lots of children — scores, hundreds — and had always taken that to mean that they would have many of their own. But, for all their attempts and supposed premonitions and signs, she’d never become pregnant, and now, with Joe’s death, she would never — ever — have that opportunity. So, to throw salt on the wound, she felt many times cheated.
Or, perhaps more to the point, short of memories and pictures, she would never have a physical reminder of Joe she could hold and love and hug.
So, it was with much confused pain that Lizzie created the room she now sat huddled in against a wall.
She continued to have her dreams, continued to have her visits from her “little people,” but she also continued to remain child and spouseless. The pain never went away. Some days she dealt with it better than others. She continued to buy her baby toys and books, and continued to keep this room alive. And on those days when she could better handle things — or when they actually called out to her, like now — she entered. But she usually ended up leaving the room in tears. There was no way to ever close the wounds, and she was not sure she wanted to. The pain made her feel good. The pain reminded her of Joe. The pain brought her closer to him. As much as she knew he was all right wherever he was, this made her feel… comfortable. She had never been able to contact him, but had, on occasion, felt him around. It was a never-ending source of frustration with her that, along with not even seeing his impending death, she could also never contact her husband after his death. But she could pretend he was still with her, that he was just late in getting home… and that they had their children running around their
(house)
trailer.
Of course, it didn’t help that she actually had visits from ghost children she could never explain. Those who came to visit her, talk with her, and even seem to leave their toys lying around, and she could no more explain their ghostly presences than she could explain why, why, why the hell she hadn’t been able to foresee Joe’s goddamned death.
Lizzie threw the books across the room, then, sobbing softly to herself, curled up into a tight little ball of pain…
Chapter Thirteen
1
Kennedy refused to believe it had anything to do with senility or hallucinations, but still had a hard time explaining the events of the previous night. Dreams of a mysterious man with no name — a man whom he’d met over thirty years ago, and had had no contact with until now?
Sixteen thousand feet over eastern Massachusetts, Kennedy peered out the port window of his Learjet, and checked his watch. He’d called an emergency board meeting in Boston with the Global Foundation for Peace, an organization he’d founded back in ’69, but he still wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He was just supposed to call an emergency board meeting and things were supposed to fall into place, the Man With No Name had said.
Right. Just like that.
Why couldn’t he let him in on some details? Because, the Man With No Name’d equally insisted, if you really knew what you were getting into, you wouldn’t do it, and he really needed him in that boardroom. And in the world of dreams and psychics, sometimes the less you knew… the better.
Kennedy sipped his orange juice and stared out the window, wondering what the hell he was getting into — but was also more than just a little excited. He hadn’t had this kind of excitement since Peru, in ’74…
2
A loud, obnoxious ringing assaulted Lizzie… would not go away. Filled her universe. It was more than just a sound, it was evil… a persistent and nasty evil, burrowing into the very depths of her being. She tried willing it away, but that only made it worse.
Lizzie snapped open her eyes and found herself still curled up on the floor of her children’s room. And the noise… the noise was still there. It wasn’t evil — it was only the doorbell.
Grudgingly getting to her feet and making her way to the door, she wiped at tired and tear-stained eyes and answered it. Unfortunately, she answered it without checking the peephole and immediately wished she’d remained curled up on that floor.
“Morning, Miss Gordon,” Black said, more cheerfully than she ever would have expected from him, “I appear to have awoken you.”
Victor Black stood before her in the early morning sunshine, like a black hole sucking up all the light.
The noise had been evil after all.
The look on Black’s face was far too smug for words — as were the words she instantly knew were forthcoming. She definitely wasn’t prepared to deal with him so early in the morning — if ever at all.
“What is it, Agent Black?” Lizzie asked, squinting in the early morning light and shielding her eyes. A part of her consciousness split off to experience the golden, early morning rays, but she was instantly angered that this man had disturbed and desecrated an otherwise gorgeous experience. How many other beautiful, soulful moments had he destroyed in other people’s lives? “What can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
Lizzie hesitated, swallowing nervously. She was just thirsty, she told herself. She still sensed no good in Black nor his purpose. He knew what she did fo
r a living, and his calling on her so early was clearly an act of intimidation.
“No… you may not. And at the risk of appearing even more rude, what, may I ask, can I do for the FBI?”
Nonplussed, Black continued. “I’m calling on you about our discussion the other day. You have made a decision, I assume?”
Black inhaled deeply, his hands neatly clasped behind him, as he appeared to casually take in the morning… calm, confident. He still wore the same basic black attire as his last visit, but for some reason, looked decidedly more sinister, now, standing before her. And Lizzie wasn’t in the mood, especially since he’d just corrupted what should have been an otherwise glorious sunrise.
“Yes, I have made one. I’ve decided against working for you—”
“But you wouldn’t be working for me.”
His response was just a little too quick.
“Wouldn’t I? And how wouldn’t I, Agent Black, of the FBI, or who or whatever it is you really work for? How would I not be working for you?”
Lizzie was suddenly bombarded by a myriad of images, all angry and spiteful. As calm and collected as he might appear before her, she knew he was absolutely seething inside; would have reached out and strangled her, probably, had she let him in. She suddenly grew extremely uncomfortable about what could have occurred had she invited him in…
Why the hell had he felt such an acute need for her?
“I’m afraid you don’t truly grasp the extent of your—”
“I’m afraid I do.”
“May I ask why?”
“You may.”
They both stared at each other. As frightened as Lizzie was, she was also extremely pissed at this man’s utter presumptuousness; that he and his kind felt they could enter any person’s life — at will — and inflict their might. Offer them a choice that, indeed, never existed. There was never any choice involved when people like Black invaded your existence.
After a moment of an unflinching stare down, Black nodded, and said, “Sorry to have disturbed you.” He calmly turned and returned to his car.
As Lizzie watched him go, his back to her, she found she’d unconsciously clenched her fists and was shaking with a barely contained rage. She still felt as if he continued to watch her. Eye her. Curse her existence. This wasn’t over, and as angry as she was with him, she was more angry with herself. She was terrified of this man — her feelings continued to confirm that — but she also realized she’d just placed herself directly into harm’s way and had never given that any real consideration.
Her hatred for Black burned even hotter.
After all, what could she have done?
She’d been inserted into a no-win situation. There was something dreadfully wrong about this man.
Had she made the right decision?
There were sure to be nasty consequences, and she was certain he would and could make her life quite difficult. Should she have just said she was going along with him… pretend to go along until she’d found out his true purpose, a better time to oppose him?
Then what?
What would a lowly, everyday person like herself do next?
She was screwed at every turn. This was a guy who lived to fuck up other people’s lives, trained to do just that, she was sure of it, and had been no doubt doing it his entire adult life, and now, for some odd reason, had chosen to enter her life and disrupt any normalcy she might have enjoyed. She’d had no choice. He was playing with her. Toying with her. And she’d just sealed her fate.
Lizzie watched Black drive off without so much as a backward glance. She stepped outside and sat on the stoop, head heavy in her hands. Why had all this, suddenly, and out of the blue, happened to her? She wasn’t some high-profile psychic, she shouldn’t have ever even been known to him — nor anyone else of his kind. She’d just been trying to make a living, enjoy her life, and look what came in and shit all over it.
How had she come to his attention, and why couldn’t she have seen it coming?
Lizzie looked up toward the sun, as it began to fully crest the tops of the Engelmann and Blue Spruce across the lot. She sighed. Well, kiddo, enjoy the moment, because it’s the last of them you’ll probably see for a long, long time.
If ever.
3
The Man With No Name stood in the center of a granite amphitheater with only the sound and light of a burning pyre against the backdrop of a bright, starry night. Upon the carved-out steps of the amphitheater sat hundreds of children. All silent, all attentive. Each and every one had chosen to be here, and the Man With No Name knew that. He’d hand-selected every one of them. They were ready to begin, if they weren’t already too late. As planned as some things were, there was always room for the unexpected. And as knowledgeable as he was, he was far from all knowing. The unexpected — that was part of the game — the excitement of thinking on your feet and shooting from the hip. Giving it your best shot. As the Man With No Name scanned the faces that sat before him, he watched them wiggle in their seats. They sensed his excitement, and they were antsy for action.
Let the games begin.
4
Sunshine or not, Lizzie just couldn’t stay awake, and ended up crawling back into bed. She’d drawn her bedroom blinds and curtains, found they didn’t want to play together, and grabbed a clothespin to pin them closed. She’d lost her sleep mask, was exhausted, and felt as heavy as a millstone… that undeniably profound tiredness achieved only when awoken after having fallen into a deep slumber — then having been abruptly jarred awake. It actually felt as if she hadn’t slept at all, though she’d been out for several hours. In the comfortable darkness of her bedroom, she slid in between her sheets, cool and inviting, and pulled the covers snugly over her. There was something about going back to bed that felt so deliciously hooky-ish, knowing everyone else out there was getting up and going about their business, but you weren’t. You were shutting everyone out and declaring, night-night, Gracie!
Lizzie repositioned on her pillow and pulled the blankets up tighter about her chin. She was so exhausted she could cry. She let the heavy, already disturbed grogginess continue its takeover of her consciousness. Like that millstone, she sank deeper and deeper into the darkness of her unconsciousness… when the goddamned phone rang.
How could she have forgotten to turn that damned thing off?
She tried to shut it out of her mind, to ignore it, but it kept ringing (and why didn’t that blasted answering machine pick up?).
Grumbling, she reached over, with every intention of lifting, then replacing the handset, when she found herself holding the receiver against an ear. For what seemed an eternity, she said nothing, heard nothing.
“Hello?” she finally asked.
“Um, hello…?” came the uncertain voice.
More silence. “Who is this?” Lizzie asked, annoyed. Unformed — dark — images flashed though her mind.
“Um, sorry to disturb you, but I was, uh… given your number by a Madame Nostra… Nostradameus?”
Lizzie pushed herself up on her elbows. “Who is this?”
“I’m sorry, it’s, ah, Mel—”
Instant wakefulness.
“Oh — yes! Mel! Hello! I’m so sorry…”
Lizzie quickly tried to shake the grogginess from her system. “Yes, um, Mel, I’ve been waiting for your call!”
“You were?”
Lizzie replayed (or tried to replay) her memories, but the sleepiness kept getting in the way. When had all this happened? Last night? The night before? Time had a way of blurring for her. Had it really just been last night? Wow, it seemed like so much had happened already…
“Yes, and I kind of have a confession to make — and I hope you won’t be upset by what I have to say… but, I’m the one you talked with last night. I… I had to keep up my stage persona, if you know what I mean—”
“I’d wondered.”
“Yes,” she said, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry for all the shenanigans — me and that fake acc
ent — all of it.”
“So… what about the psychic part?”
“Oh, no-no-no, that’s real, honey. It’s the only part of all that that’s real. I’m actually getting kind of tired of it, but it pays the bills and I get to help people. I really wanted to help you last night, but just couldn’t, then.”
Mel sighed. “It’s okay — and you did help. I just didn’t know where else to turn. I feel so, I don’t know… alone.”
Lizzie paused briefly, thinking of Joe, and momentarily reexperienced her own acute pangs of loss. Pulling herself together, she said, “Let me see if I remember things, and I certainly don’t mean to upset you, but… you said you lost your parents to an auto accident, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry, Mel, really I am. There’re no words to ever take away that kind of loss. It’s just something we all have to work through. Have you sought any therapy?”
“No. I think that’s why I called. I have no one else. Don’t want to see any shrinks. I was just watching TV, saw your commercial, and it seemed to, well, speak to me, so I thought — why not? It seemed like something different to do. To do something while not doing something, I guess. I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to someone…”
Psychic Page 14