by Radclyffe
“It’s nothing. I told Nic she watched too many of those spy shows.”
“I want to hear about it anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you know more than you think you do. And if there really is a mole within the FBI, you’re our only hope of discovering them in time. You can see things, Kara, things that we can’t.”
She didn’t like the way Elsa was looking at her so eagerly, as if she expected her to produce a crystal ball at any moment and start rattling off a list of the terrorist’s names. Something clicked in Kara’s head then, and she licked her lips nervously. “Just what exactly do you do for the FBI, Ms. Cramer?”
Elsa sighed heavily, and Kara wondered if she’d been expecting the question. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”
“I see.” Around them the crowd had begun to disperse, but Kara paid them no attention as she scowled at the other woman. “So what, they sent you in to find out if my near-death experience has suddenly triggered some clairvoyant sixth sense? You think I can see the future now? Read minds? Speak to the dead, maybe? I’ve changed my mind, Ms. Cramer. I think you’re the one who’s been watching too much TV.”
Her soft brown eyes were sad as she shook her head. “I’m afraid you didn’t have a near-death experience, Kara.”
“And I don’t have any special powers either. So I think you should just leave me alone. I’m done talking to you.”
“Kara,” Elsa said firmly, “there’s something you should see.” She pointed over Kara’s shoulder.
Kara turned around, determined to stalk away and leave this crazy woman alone with her absurd supernatural fantasies. But the scene she confronted made her draw up short.
A second fresh grave had been dug next to Nic’s, and the mourners had moved to surround it. Another casket, this one in a pretty blond-colored wood and spread with a stunning arrangement of hydrangea, delphinium, and roses, was being lowered into the waiting cavity. The flowers descended past the headstone slowly, revealing the inscription. Kara Stinson, 3/14/1978–6/26/2011. Then, in prettily curling script beneath: Beloved Wife of Nicole.
Kara staggered forward, her mouth agape. “That’s not possible.”
She watched Lexi, tears streaking her cheeks, tossing flowers into the opening. And then to her complete and utter astonishment, Nic’s parents did the same thing, with expressions of utter reverence mingled with guilt. Nic’s mom turned to bury her head in her husband’s shoulder, and he held her with one arm while extending his other to embrace a distraught Lexi. They stood there in a grief-stricken family embrace, and Kara shook her head. “Now I know this isn’t real.”
“It is real, Kara.” Elsa moved to her side again. “You and Nic died together in that bombing, along with dozens of others. But you were the only one who remained behind to help us catch the ones who did this.”
“But they hate me,” Kara whispered in disbelief as Nic’s parents tenderly draped her headstone with a gorgeous wreath of roses. It was a perfect match for the one they’d left for their daughter.
“Death is a funny thing. It has a way of changing one’s perspective, sometimes radically.”
Understanding dawned and Kara turned to her slowly. “I’m not the one who can speak to the dead, am I?”
Elsa shook her head with a small smile.
“How long have you been, um…gifted?”
“A very long time.”
Kara found that she didn’t feel as horrified as she ought to at the revelation that she was, in fact, deceased. She didn’t feel devastated, or sad, or even angry. In fact, all she experienced was a sudden surge of hope. “If Nic and I were both killed in that accident, then we can be together now, can’t we? Where is she? When can I see her?”
“Soon, I hope. She’s waiting for you on the other side.”
“The other side of what?”
Elsa’s cell phone beeped at her waist and she flipped it open, scanning her text messages. “The next bombing’s supposed to occur in exactly three hours and fifty-two minutes, and we still don’t know where or who’s behind it.” She looked up at Kara urgently. “We don’t have much time. There’s a reason spirits remain behind, Kara, especially when their death was particularly violent or traumatic. They need the circumstances of their death resolved in order to find peace. And that’s what I do—I help you achieve that resolution, so you can cross over where you belong.”
Kara felt a twinge of panic rise up in her throat as she considered Elsa’s words. “You mean, unless these terrorists are caught I won’t ever be able to leave here?”
“I don’t know. But I think, if we can stop them, that you should be able to find the path. If not, I promise I will continue to help you until we figure out what’s holding you here. But right now hundreds, maybe thousands of lives depend on the two of us figuring out what you know. I need you to tell me what you saw earlier, when we were discussing the mole.”
“But it was just a flight of fancy. I’ve never actually seen him before in my life.”
“You’re a ghost, Kara. You exist on a whole different plane now, one that’s much less limited than ours. I don’t fully understand it myself, but in my experience spirits can see things they would never have been able to in life. Especially when it’s something they need in order to find closure. Whatever you saw, I believe you can trust it.” She laid a hand on Kara’s forearm. “You can trust me.”
Elsa’s touch felt curiously foggy, more like a memory than an immediate sensation, and Kara found it disconcerting. But Elsa’s gaze was entirely sincere, and so hesitantly Kara began to describe the impression she’d gotten of the man with the glasses and bald spot.
Elsa listened carefully and nodded. “Would you be willing to come back to the office with me? I’d like you to sit with our sketch artist.”
*
After a few more pencil strokes and a little smudging with the tip of his finger, the heavyset man pushed the drawing across the table toward Elsa. “That him?” Without waiting for an answer he picked up his cell phone from the desk and lazily scrolled through its text messages.
Elsa had said that Reggie Guest was one of the FBI’s best sketch artists, but Kara didn’t like him much. He made it clear he thought their entire session was an enormous waste of his time. Kara caught every one of his skeptical eye-rolls whenever Elsa turned to her to get the answers to his questions. She didn’t suppose she could blame him, really. From his perspective, Elsa was carrying on a conversation with thin air, and it had to look strange. But from what Kara had seen, this behavior seemed to follow Elsa everywhere she went. From the moment they’d walked into the FBI office, people had steered politely clear of the paranormal investigator as if she had some dreadful contagious disease. Kara had caught a number of whispered comments as they passed.
Check it out, the ghost hunter’s back!
Will never understand why the FBI wastes the taxpayers’ dollars on these quacks.
Creepy Cramer says her new ghost BFF is going to help her catch a terrorist. What a freak.
Whereas that very morning she had been just as ready to ridicule the idea of communing with the dead, Kara now found herself wishing she could leap to Elsa’s defense. She was impressed by the grace with which Elsa ignored the derision of her coworkers. Head held high, she’d just marched past their cubicles, seemingly blind to the stares and whispers drifting in her wake. She’d planted herself before Guest’s desk and gestured to Kara to follow. The sketch artist appeared to be waiting for them, however reluctantly, and now lying on the desk before their eyes was a finely detailed composite of the man that Kara had envisioned.
She nodded at Elsa’s questioning look. “That’s him,” she said firmly.
The man’s image had sharpened in Kara’s mind as she’d tried to describe him, until she could see his face as clearly as a photograph when she closed her eyes. And though she had no idea what his name was or even what FBI office he worked in, Kara had never felt so absolutely certain of an
ything in her life. This man was real, and he was collaborating with terrorists for personal gain. She stared down at his face and rage welled up inside her. This man was responsible for Nic’s death. He might be responsible for hundreds more in the next few hours. Someone had to stop him, and Reggie Guest’s not-so-subtle contempt for Elsa was really beginning to infuriate her. Elsa Cramer was the only one Kara could share this with, so she was the only one who could find this man before it was too late.
Elsa pushed the drawing back to the artist. “I want you to run this against the FBI’s personnel database immediately. When you find the match, go pick him up. This man is our leak, and he’s the only chance we’ve got at stopping this bomb.”
He looked up from his cell phone with a sneer. “We don’t have the resources to devote to a massive project like that, Ms. Cramer, just because you say some ghost told you…”
“Do I need to call Director Stevens?”
He bristled. “Don’t you go name-dropping with me, Cramer. You may have the director convinced you’re our nation’s greatest secret weapon, but he’s not going to start a witch hunt through the FBI based on a description from some loony psychic.”
Livid, Kara snatched Guest’s cell phone right out of his hand and threw it. It sang past his ear and smashed into the cubicle wall behind him, splintering into pieces on the carpet. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped at least thirty degrees as she shrieked, “Listen up, you asshole, this man murdered my wife!”
The sketch artist let out a surprised puff of breath that formed a cloud of mist in front of his lips, and he stared down in absolute shock at the fragments of his phone. A chorus of startled shouts went up throughout the office at the abrupt change in temperature, but Elsa only sat back in her chair, a smile playing at her lips.
“I think you’re pissing her off, Guest.” Elsa stood and cocked her head to the side as Kara spoke angrily in her ear, then nodded and turned to leave. “One more thing,” she tossed breezily over her shoulder. “When you find the mole, grab his cell phone. It’s a disposable, but there should still be more than enough evidence on it to prove his guilt. Maybe even help track down his terrorist buddies before they manage to blow anything else up.”
*
Nic’s smiling face was the most beautiful thing Kara had ever seen, and her heart caught in her throat as her wife, tall and perfect and haloed in glorious brightness, extended a welcoming hand to her.
“I’m coming, babe,” Kara called out. She could feel the light tugging at her, Nic’s presence beckoning to her soul like irresistible music. She wanted to let go immediately and fly right into her wife’s strong arms, and she knew without doubt that once she was there nothing would ever part them again. But she held back, because there was one last thing she had to do.
Kara turned to Elsa and wrapped her in a hug, even though she knew the other woman would barely feel more than a slight chill at her touch. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Oh Kara, no, thank you. Because of you we were able to catch not just the FBI leak but eight of his terrorist friends. The FBI disarmed the second bomb in Chicago’s Union Station just seconds before it detonated, and we got our hands on plans for a third and fourth bombing that will never take place now. We never would have even gotten close if it hadn’t been for your help. You’ve saved so many lives today.” Elsa’s eyes were sparkling with tears as she pulled back. “More importantly, though, I hope Nic knows just how much you love her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never seen a spirit able to do what you did, throwing that phone. I’ve heard of it before, of course, but ghosts who are powerful enough to move objects within our world are just as rare as those of us who can see into yours. Your passion for Nic is what gives you such strength, and I’ve never seen anything like it. You certainly made a believer out of Guest today, and I never would have thought that possible.” Elsa laughed. “This wife of yours must be one amazing woman.”
Kara looked back over her shoulder and beamed at Nic. “She certainly is.”
“What happened to you two just isn’t fair. I promise you, Kara, the ones who did this will be held accountable for it.”
Kara let herself slide backward, just a little, into the light. “You know, it really is all right,” she assured Elsa happily. “I’m not angry anymore. Nic’s here now, and I get the feeling that our adventures together are just beginning.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” As the light pulled at Kara even more insistently, Elsa smiled. “Go on, Kara. Say hi to Nic for me.”
“I will.” Kara turned, flung her arms out, and surrendered to the light’s coaxing. In an instant she found herself wrapped in Nic’s strong embrace. Her wife’s adoring eyes were as impossibly blue as ever, and a shiver of joy went through her entire being.
“About time you got here,” Nic rumbled in amusement.
Kara captured Nic’s face in her hands, greedily devouring the sight of her. “God, Nic, thought I’d lost you.”
“Not getting rid of me that easily.” Nic chuckled. “Six times you’ve promised me forever, Mrs. Stinson, and I’m holding you to every last one.”
Kara snuggled contentedly against Nic’s chest, love swelling golden and warm inside her. “You think maybe on the other side we can make it lucky number seven?”
Nic’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “Let’s go find out.”
But before leading the way into the waiting light, Nic bent her head and captured Kara’s mouth in a kiss, one so sweet and tender that it was guaranteed to outlast anything that might come next.
Come to Me
Sam Cameron
In other news today, the Transportation Security Agency is under public fire for the treatment of an elderly, wheelchair-bound grandmother with leukemia. The ninety-two-year-old woman was flying to a family reunion in Boston when she was subjected to a TSA pat-down, scanned with a portable backscatter unit, and then forced to remove her adult diaper. So far, the official government response is that the treatment of the elderly woman was “appropriate” and “within federal guidelines.”—NBC 4, Columbus
Elsa knew from sad experience that most hotel gyms weren’t worth the time it took to swipe a card key. Usually she exercised alone in her room. With the furniture arranged just right, she could mambo left and grapevine right without bashing into anything. Exercising alone was lonely, but it wasn’t as if she was looking to make friends. She was in the business of constant travel. She had one small suitcase, very efficiently packed, and spent much of her time in the clouds.
But the very nice thing about this hotel at Columbus Airport was that it had an indoor swimming pool, and she’d bought a bathing suit in an overpriced shop two airports ago. Fifteen minutes after checking in on a gray Tuesday afternoon, she was sticking her toes into the blue-green water and taking the plunge.
Warm, but not as warm as bathwater. Filled with chlorine, but not so much that her eyes stung. The maximum de---pth was only three and a half feet. It was designed for recreation, not lap swimming. The area was empty except for herself, the water, and some fake palm trees and white deck chairs. Elsa swam east to west, then north to south, and that was maybe twenty-five yards total. She figured she could get a mile done in thirty-six circuits.
She had just passed the quarter-mile mark when the glass door opened and a woman in a white bathrobe came in. Her long dark hair was very curly, and her heart-shaped face open and friendly. Elsa met her gaze, nodded politely. The woman smiled back with dimples that made Elsa dead jealous—she’d never had dimples, herself. Just acne-prone skin and a tendency to sunburn.
The other guest slid out of her bathrobe. Underneath was a very nice green bikini clinging to a very nice body—tall but shapely, not so skinny that you’d want to sit her down and force feed her a plate of pasta. Elsa could think of more enjoyable things to do with her, frankly. Which reminded her that she hadn’t had a date in seven months, and that she had to work tonight, and wouldn’t i
t be better to just get her swimming done? She didn’t hook up with strangers in hotels.
“Is it cold?” the woman asked. “It’s usually cold.”
Elsa shook her head.
The woman stood on the top of the steps and stuck one perfectly manicured foot in. Purple toenail polish. Long leg, smooth and muscled—a runner, maybe.
“I’m a wimp when it comes to cold,” the woman confided, wagging her foot. “I think I was supposed to have been born in the tropics. Near those fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. And those thatch buildings you drink the fruity drinks under. What are they called?”
Elsa stopped swimming. “Tiki huts?”
“Tiki huts,” the woman said, and those dimples showed themselves again. “I’m a big fan of fruity drinks, tiki huts, and sunsets. All of which are sadly far away from Columbus, Ohio.”
“We are at an airport,” Elsa pointed out. “You could get on a plane.”
“I’ve heard of these things called vacations, but they sadly don’t exist in my world.” The woman stepped down and let the water rise up to her knees, then her firm, smooth thighs. She was only five or six feet away from Elsa now. She wore no jewelry, and only a little makeup to show off her dark brown eyes. “What about you? Don’t tell me Columbus is your idea of a relaxing retreat.”
Elsa was torn between chatting or continuing her swim. She glanced at the clock hanging over the complimentary towels. Her crew wouldn’t pick her up until midnight. There was time for chatting and maybe even dinner, and was that hope flaring in her chest? A little romance? No, probably just heartburn from swallowing chlorine.
“I’m not on vacation,” she said. “Just passing through.”
“Then you’re lucky.” The woman stuck out her hand. “I’m Lisa-Marie. Like Elvis’s daughter. Sadly, without his massive fortune.”
“I’m Elsa, like the British actress.”
Lisa-Marie’s face brightened. “Elsa Lancaster! She was in Mary Poppins.”