by Gary Starta
~ * ~
Grant’s ruggedness gave me strength. The notion that I would be flying in single engine plane brought back the wave of nausea I had experienced when I first experienced my cold symptoms. Only the cold symptoms were gone, along with any dizziness one might feel when imbibing a cup of murky green cold medicine. I couldn’t explain this. I couldn’t explain a lot of things. Yet an eyeful of Grant gave me courage, even inspiration. Robust and bright eyed, Grant possessed a pair of broad shoulders and a six-foot three-inch frame, nicely packaged in a gray pinstriped designer suit. Sea green eyes peered at me, hungry, curious for answers. Carter must have laid it on thick concerning my psychic skills. Did this man have every confidence in my clairvoyant abilities, or did he just want to jump my bones? Hard to tell, I thought, staring out a window at the murky brownish colored sea below us that was nothing as effervescent or alluring as Charles Grant’s eyes. Yes. It had been a long time since I dated. And my horizontal dance with incubus boy didn’t count. Youth is nice but this man could be a walking definition of the “whole” package.
Charming as well, he comforted me straight away as we lifted off. “Don’t worry Ms. Diggs, the Cessna 400 is the most reliable single engine piston powered-plane on the market.” I smiled with the alacrity of a mental patient when he accentuated the words “piston powered.” Yes, much too long without the company of a man. I unconsciously began to fan myself although the cabin temperature had been cool enough, in fact quite a welcome relief to the 90 degree plus weather outside.
So he could immediately pick up on my worries and needs. Maybe just a coincidence, I told myself, still foolishly fanning myself with a Chinese takeout flyer I had dug out of my purse. And merely coincidental I found him irresistibly attractive. No, this isn’t about falling in love on at first sight. Nooo…
Then he put his hand on my knee, and I felt my heart thump.
“You know,” he began, “if you need privacy to conjure up your vision or dream state, I can go sit with the pilot.”
“Oh, no.” I nearly screamed it. His eyes told me he either realized my phobia of flying in small aircraft had been a ploy to garner his attention or perhaps a real deep seated fear, one which might invite a panic attack.
“Okay, then,” he said. His voice became gentle and lilting in reaction to my squawk. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s just that it’s imperative we get a lead, any kind of lead to stop Mollini.”
“Yes,” I said staring into his sea green eyes. “I know what it means to be desperate… I… uh, mean, desperate for a break on a case.”
“Now do you?”
I wondered how Grant could not recognize me. Surely, he must have at least heard my name. I had had the best arrest/conviction rate in the Bureau. But I realized it would be best if he continued to think of me as a civilian--which I now was. The Bureau hadn’t been kind to me lately. And I had left in large part because I believed they would never accept my gift; or how I had come to acquire it.
“Oh, I just watch a lot detective shows,” I said.
He laughed, hopefully swallowing my lame ass explanation.
So he possessed an open mind, at least when it came to crunch time. That point in a case where you would rub a bald man’s head for luck if it brought you any closer to apprehending the perp.
“Then we probably realize we’ve got to make a stand.”
I could tell by the way he said it that even he didn’t give it much chance of success. And his gaze fell away, distant, probably counting the number of colleagues who would be fitted for body bags.
“Have you thought about an alternative?” I blurted out.
“I’m open to suggestion.” His eyes rejoined mine. Again, I could literally hear my heart beat.
“I suppose following protocol would be best,” I said half heartedly, my eyes fighting to disengage from his.
“I don’t want to pressure you. But do you have any inkling? Any hint where Mollini might be ultimately headed?”
Shit, I thought. I sure as hell did. And now I couldn’t share with this man, something my physical self desperately desired. And as I wallowed in guilt, I began to question my sudden attraction to this man, the irresistible urge to bare all with this man-damn it--the near uncontrollable urge to unfasten the waist ties on my halter and bare more than just the truth. What was happening to me? I thought about it for a few seconds.
Perhaps Grant believed I had fallen into a psychic trance. If so, that would buy some time. I stared, pensive, eyes trained on the floor, playing the stereotyped crystal gazing psychic to the hilt. And I realized that along with my vision, came my ability to read people. My empathic gift had come back as well. Possibly this power seemed so overwhelming to me because I had spent the last few weeks living as a shut-in. As if black clouds suddenly rolled away exposing a radiant, blinding golden blast of sunshine, I could read the goodness of this man, not only see his aura but also feel it. Intoxicated, I realized the reconnection to my feelings and emotions had caused sensory overload. Maybe that’s why I had nearly succumbed to infatuation when I should have been plotting how to stop Mollini.
But first things first, I had to misdirect Grant. It would be for his good. And mine as well, from a selfish standpoint. Whether my lust had been organically or paranormally stimulated, I genuinely perceived Grant to be an honest and caring man. I could not lead him to his slaughter. And with that realization, came baggage. I also could honestly say that one part of me really didn’t care if a butt load of FBI agents went down fighting. That part of me, the self-righteous, self-absorbed portion, would say they had it coming, foolishly attempting to combat a supernatural power with conventional weapons, and in the process only making the perpetrator stronger. I only cared about Grant’s safety--his sea green eyes, melt-me-in-his-mouth kind of safety… Shut up, I told myself, trying to disconnect the imagery. I had to quell that voice. That would be the voice of pride speaking--and possibly the voice of lust as well. And while I was in full self diagnosis mode, it was a voice that needed to feel justified for leaving my FBI career. A voice that said they would regret allowing me to resign. Shut up, I said again, more forcefully. Who am I kidding? I am replaceable. Even this wonderful agent doesn’t recognize me.
Time to get a grip, Caitlin, it’s time to do your job. You didn’t join the Bureau for glory, I told myself. You did it because you had no other choice; the job was already part of you--it never needed to become part of you. You and the job were already symbiotic. Okay, so now it’s time to do the job. Despite the fact I was no longer FBI, I would think like I was. Unconventional, that’s how I solved the lion’s share of my cases. I would use my paranormal abilities to combat Mollini’s. It all sounded so simple, in theory. I would stick to the plan. I let my eyelids flutter as if the vision were ending. And I spoke.
“I think I have a lead. I see where Mollini will make his stand.”
As Grant’s eyes bore into me for detail, I glanced away for a second, to catch the time.
“Where are we now?” I asked.
“Somewhere at the end of New England, and the beginning of the tri state area.”
“That’s good. You’ll continue on--without me--to this address.” I rummaged through my cluttered purse, amazingly pulling both a pad of paper and pen in my first attempt. I wrote the address down, tore off the sheet from the pad and handed it to Grant.
“That’s where you can get Mollini. He’ll need to replenish himself there.” Grant stared at me. “Yes, with souls from living bodies,” I said in reply to his polemic gesturing. “He’ll need a mass killing. But he’ll be vulnerable for a window of time. You and an attack team might be able to take him down, even without firing a weapon, possibly in hand-to-hand combat. Although,” I quickly added, “I wouldn’t recommend that. And even though I knew this encounter would most likely never happen, I couldn’t bear to see Agent Grant get caught in Mollini’s demonic grip.
Grant stared at the slip of paper. He scratched his chin with his left for
efinger and thumb. “At Kennett Square, Pennsylvania?”
“Yes,” I said, quickly and confidently. Kennett Square had popped into mind because I once visited the historic town on my house-hunting trip with Tara. We had literally stumbled upon the very majestic and glorious Longwood Gardens there. A one thousand-acre garden of paradise, home to thousands of breathtaking flowers of every specie and color, Tara and I had consequently drained both batteries on our digital cams in our attempt to record the exquisite grandeur.
“Agent Grant, I probably don’t have to remind you, it’s tourist season. I’m sure Mollini is well aware of this. At the same time, I wouldn’t make any plans to evacuate the grounds. If Mollini suspects an FBI presence, you might lose your one and only chance to stop him.” And, I thought, a great opportunity to see beautiful orchids, roses and tulips, spanning all the vivid colors in the rainbow--wish I could be with you, strolling arm in arm on the way to the fireworks display… I couldn’t believe I had suddenly become so good at deception. His eyes told me he believed every word, and I could also sense, from my empathic awareness, he felt comforted by my concern for him. Well, that part had been genuine at least.
“I thank you, Ms. Diggs. The FBI is in your debt.”
I almost blew the whole thing by laughing at the absurdity of his statement. I could also picture the deputy director perhaps succumbing to a chuckle or two. I could sense Grant had become puzzled at my attempt to stifle a laugh. I squeezed my eyelids together, enough to produce a few tears to redirect the emotion.
I covered quickly, taking his hand in mine. “Just promise you’ll be careful, Agent Grant.”
“Is this some kind of thing you need to do, tactile touch, in order to see if I’ll be all right? Well, if it is, can you tell me: will I come out of this okay? I’ve got a fiancée.”
Oops. Game over. I released his hand.
“Uh, sure. You’ll be fine. But remember these statements haven’t been evaluated by the USDA--or the FDA for that matter.”
He laughed, full and from the diaphragm. We liked each other. No doubt about it. Paranormal influence or not, fiancée or not, what my mind’s eye could foretell would be a blossoming friendship, a gorgeous eye catching decorum with stunning firework like colors. Yet how would we meet again? Well, Carter did say Grant worked out of Boston. I suppose when this threat had been settled, I could always dream of a way to make Grant’s acquaintance again. And no, I’m not moving in on his fiancée. This relationship would be strictly professional. Like it had been with Carter; I had done platonic before. I repeated this to myself several times, attempting to block a vision of myself nuzzling Grant’s neck.
We agreed that Grant would request the pilot to land at the airport in Old Bridge, New Jersey. I would catch a taxi and then a rental to return home. I told Grant he should continue to the nearest airport to Kennett Square. He had flipped open his laptop and began Googling before I had finished speaking. Good to see Grant could focus. Now it was my turn, because I recalled how I decided at the last minute to leave my Glock tucked away in its shoebox hiding spot under my bed. It would have been hypocritical to bring it, now that I just intentionally directed a whole weapons cache away from Mollini. So I would be facing Mollini with some empathic ability, a dose of telekinesis to add flavor. Hmm… My plan: unconventional or suicidal? In any event, it surely would make a great topic for an academy thesis.
Seven
Guilt. Doubt. Fear. Lust. Panic. I segued from each, moment to moment, as if I were a monkey swinging from vine to vine. The vines represented my feelings. I guess the monkey stood for me and sometimes monkeys were fools. Nevertheless, parting with Grant left me emotionally mixed. Foolishly, I supposed I felt guilty about misleading him, yet lustful regarding our future. Doubt, fear and panic could all be attributable to Mollini--specifically in regard to how I could stop him, if at all. And if these emotions were literally vines, you might say I fumbled about for the one labeled: courage; a feeling I had not had the pleasure of hooking up with for quite some time, probably not since I had been an FBI agent. Scratch that, definitely “not” since I had been an FBI agent. I could have used courage. It would have stopped the way I had managed to shiver, internally, despite the unrelenting heat.
Second guessing my choice of leaving the Bureau while second guessing my choice of parting ways with Agent Grant, I had spent the next hour and fifteen minutes catching a taxi to Speedy Rental, signing papers and handing over credit card information to a service representative who definitely did not understand the term Speedy. As I navigated my rental, a Pontiac G6--a newer model than my own car, sporting a shiny midnight blue presence in opposition to my emerald green--I fought the vines, imagining my mind to be as sharp as a sickle. I thrashed away until all but one vine had been cut. Doubt still hung there. Why shouldn’t it? Spending all my energy, clinging to this lonely vine, begged me to question my effectiveness as a PI based upon my one case. Solved? Yes. Satisfactorily? No. And now, alone and shivering, navigating my way to a destination I had never been to-except in my mind-I became angry. I could see my failing: Arrogance. I had been the best FBI agent, but I had always had a partner. I had thought I could do it alone. No offense to Celeste but I came to realize in this hour that I required more than just a fluffy companion. I needed a partner. Grant. He reminded me of that all too well.
Maybe a partner couldn’t have stopped me. I am stubborn. Stubborn to the point of being unable to stop myself; it had always driven me. So I kept on driving, wending my way to Matawan. Listening to the audio instructions provided by the GPS automated attendant. Praying I could reach the Route 35 Bridge in time, wondering if Mollini--through my vision--had also had a hand in my dogged obsession. Could he be leading me here? Perhaps he would take ultimate revenge upon Carter by killing me. I had to admit that qualified as one hefty payback.
Finally, the attendant announced I reached my destination: The Bridge. Gravel crunched beneath me as I parked the car on a shoulder not more than fifteen yards away from the overpass. Underneath the bridge ran Monmouth Creek, a tributary connecting Sandy Hook and Raritan Bay. From my open window, I could hear the rush of water, a sound I had always equated with serenity and tranquility. Yet it failed to comfort me at this moment. Its whooshing and bubbling reminded me of uncertainty; about being off course; and in danger of losing my way. I could only think where the creek, or more specifically, where the mysterious portal might lead me. I felt the weight of my decision, as if I were standing at the crossroads, choosing between the smooth ease of the devil’s path and the somewhat rockier trek to heaven. Which was which? I didn’t know anymore. Turning tail and heading back to New England sounded like the easier path right now. If so, the rockier path--or the transparent bluish white portal--might represent my heaven despite the fact that a demon would soon be destined to open it. Despite that contradiction, I did not possess adequate information to figuratively find that portal or heaven’s path at the moment.
Douglas Sweeney had not called. I even checked my cell’s display to see if I had missed the call. I hadn’t. And if I didn’t get direction soon, I couldn’t possibly take my first steps along this rocky path, meaning I could not hope to stop Mollini. I had every faith that my meteorologist/fantasy role-playing nerd could pinpoint the origin of the 1916 shark attack. He lived for such puzzles. He also lived to gain my favor and the prospect of a date. Yet, what if he didn’t call in time? I got out of my car. I had to get moving--even if it meant guessing the destination. The clack of the door closing behind me bounced echolike. Not very comforting, especially when you’re hunting a killer-unarmed and wearing summer casual.
I knew the portal most likely opened somewhere in the vicinity of the bridge. It played a prominent role in the vision. The creek ran east to west. So which way should I head? My eyes scanned the creek below. First, I would have to traverse a bank down to the creek--not an easy feat because it teemed with vegetation just like in my vision. I began to wish my imaginary sickle to be not so imagin
ary. In that instant, a branch cracked, sending me straight into the air. Peering down at the disturbance, I searched for an animal, hoping a harmless jackrabbit or raccoon might be to blame. I didn’t see anything and that frightened me more. I recalled my theory, or more succinctly my feeling Mollini could somehow hide in broad daylight. I tiptoed back towards my car. Before I reached the door, my cell rang, making my heart feel as if it had just dropped into my stomach. I hesitated to answer, keeping my eyes glued to the riverbanks. Once sure there were no predators about, I cursed my fear. I should be welcoming the call. Glancing at the cell’s faceplate, I recognized the number at once. It wasn’t Sweeney calling.
“Hello, Stanford,” I answered, my voice shaky.
“Caitlin. Are you okay? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Uh, sure. Why?”
“The agent with you on the plane, it wasn’t Grant. Someone knocked him over the head before he reached the taxi.”
“He’s okay? Isn’t he?” I heard my voice echo in the cell’s bad reception, girlish and faint. No question, I had fallen hard for Grant-or the person who did a damn fine job impersonating him.
“Yes, he’s okay. Well, except for his pride. He’s mostly concerned for you. I’m so sorry, Caitlin. I let you take a plane ride with an imposter. By the way, where are you? The reception’s terrible.”
“In the boondocks, somewhere in the vicinity of the Jersey shore, I believe. I’m heading back to Boston. Why?”
“Just asking, that’s all.”
I knew Carter. He suspected something. I tried to redirect.
“You know, I could have sworn the face matched the photo ID. Grant has piercing green eyes, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. He does.”