by J. R. Rain
Let’s call it a frequency, Samantha. You are in a higher frequency.
I don’t understand.
You will, someday.
The boat dipped deeply, no doubt plunging into a trough, but I effortlessly kept my footing, my balance. Even in a deeply meditative state, my uncanny reflexes were working overtime.
In my mind’s eye, I saw myself standing before something big. No, not just something big. The biggest. The biggest of all. The Universe, perhaps. There was movement, too. Planets were rotating. No, not just planets. Whole solar systems, galaxies and universes were rotating. I saw stars being born and destroyed. I saw whole universes collapsing and birthing. The Universe was alive to my eyes, as surely as if I was watching a hive of bees at work.
I was certain that I was watching the Universe from the perspective of something much greater than me.
You are seeing it through yourself, Samantha.
No, I thought, and felt myself shaking my head back on the boat. I am seeing it through God. The eyes of God.
Correct, Samantha.
How I saw this, I didn’t know, where I was, I didn’t know. I seemed outside of space and time, all while standing here on the boat’s prow, cutting through the fog and mist and now a light drizzle upon the Puget Sound.
But you said I was seeing it through my eyes, I asked the voice in my head. The voice that I was beginning to think was God.
Correct again.
I don’t understand.
Yes, you do, Samantha.
Perhaps I did know. I’d heard the voice all my life but had never really understood it. Until now.
It’s because I’m a part of you, too, I thought.
Very good, Samantha.
I was next given a glimpse of something that had never occurred to me before, not until now. I’m not just a part of you, I thought, but you are me.
Very good, Sam.
I am you, experiencing life.
Very true, Samantha. As are all people, all things.
But, why? I asked. You are God, why experience life through me? I am nothing. I am a blip in the universe. All of us are blips.
And what if you had access to the sum total of all blips, Samantha? Billions and billions of blips?
I would have access to, well everything.
Indeed, Samantha Moon.
Why are you talking to me now? I asked.
Because you are much more than a blip, Samantha.
And now I saw, through another glimpse—or perhaps this was an epiphany—that I was no greater or smaller than others in our world. But because of who I am, or what I was, I had an open channel to God. To the universe. To the spirit world in general.
You’re talking to me now because I can hear you, I said.
No, Sam. I’m talking to you now because you are listening.
Footsteps slapped behind me, and I snapped back into my body and gasped when I saw the captain swing down below deck. He saw me and nodded and, although I tried to smile back, all I could see were worlds being destroyed.
And worlds being born.
Chapter Ten
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Allison. “And, for you, that’s saying something.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
But the truth was, I had seen a ghost.
Not a ghost, I thought. God.
I shook my head again. The boat had docked along a floating pier. The three crew members were busy securing the vessel, using a system of ropes and, apparently, rubber tires that acted as buffers between the hull and the wooden pier. All of it seemed more complex than I could comprehend. Especially considering my mind—or soul—had been far elsewhere.
To the far edges of the universe, in fact.
Lordy, my life is weird.
Allison wasn’t looking too swell herself. In fact, she looked, I suspected, as pale as myself. Why I still looked pale these days, I didn’t know. After all, thanks to the medallion that seemed to be permanently embedded just beneath my skin, I’d been able to head out into the sun for the past few months now. Glorious months.
You’re pale, I thought, as I reluctantly accepted the hand of one of the shipmates who helped me across the gangplank, because you’re dead.
I didn’t feel dead, of course. I felt alive. And, when the sun went down, more alive than I’d ever felt in my life. Ever.
Once on the pier, as we followed Tara and a few other passengers—passengers that Tara knew and who were, I suspected, relatives—Allison caught up to me.
“Seriously, Sam, what’s wrong?” she whispered in my ear. I couldn’t help but notice her breath smelled of vomit. Blech. “You look...out of it.”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said over my shoulder.
She was about to fall back behind me when her eyes suddenly widened. “God?” she said, obviously reading my thoughts—thoughts that I had left open to her. “You talked to God? Seriously?”
“If not, then a heck of an imposter.”
“So weird.”
“Tell me about it.”
And with that, Allison turned her head and just made it to the edge of the pier before she heaved what little remained in her stomach.
* * *
“As you can see, this is a private island,” explained Tara Thurman.
She was driving behind a motorcade of Range Rovers. There were three in total, including our own. The road wasn’t paved, but it was the next best thing—smooth. Allison seemed to appreciate the smooth part, although she was still looking a little green.
“I feel green,” she whispered to me, reading my thoughts.
Our strong connection was surprising even me. I suspected that, coupled with her own psychic intuition, our telepathic link was particularly sensitive, thanks to the exchange in blood.
“You bet your britches,” she said.
“Will you quit doing that?” I whispered to her.
“Excuse me?” said Tara from behind the wheel.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, mentally pushing Allison out of my thoughts. “You were saying about the island?”
Tara, who was focused on the dirt road and the caravan in front of us, hardly seemed to notice this particular conversation between Allison and me. Instead, she nodded, clearly proud of the island.
“Like I said, the island has been in my family for nearly one hundred years. It was first purchased by my great-grandfather, who built the home. My grandfather inherited it, and spent the last thirty years of his life here. The rest of us have used the island on and off for vacations and getaways and reunions.”
I nodded. We were surrounded by massive evergreens, each rising high above the car windows, effectively blocking out the sun, which I was always thankful for. Yes, although I existed somewhat comfortably in the light of day, I always appreciated deep shade.
Must be the ghoul in me.
The island itself seemed to be primarily surrounded by cliffs and bluffs. So far, the only sandy beach had been where the boat had docked, where the row of Range Rovers had been waiting.
“Are there any bears on the island?” asked Allison from the back, poking her head between the front seats.
Tara laughed. “No bears or predators of any kind on the island. We have deer and raccoons and squirrels and a few resident seals that prefer the rocks along the north part of the island.”
The road shifted inland, cutting through a narrow road that seemed to barely have enough room for the bigger vehicles. Tara drove comfortably, clearly used to this scenic drive. Branches occasionally slapped the fender and roof.
“We have food and supplies shipped daily from the mainland. There’s a courier service we use. Not to mention any of us who come over from the mainland bring additional supplies.”
“Sounds kinda...fun,” said Allison.
“Heaven, if you ask me. My grandfather was always so open to all of us. What he had, we had. He held nothing back and always made everyone feel so welcome.” As she spoke these words, her lip
s curled up into that curious smile again.
So weird, I thought.
I also couldn’t help but to notice the sadness in her voice. Her grandfather had been found, of course, face-down in a swimming pool. Allison seemed to detect Tara’s tone as well and sat back in her seat. We were somber and quiet for the rest of the drive.
And what a drive it was. Winding roads, beautiful greenery, squirrels and rabbits...and then, finally, the road opened into a massive estate.
Where there had once been forest was now, perhaps, the most beautiful home I had ever seen.
“Sweet mama,” said Allison.
Chapter Eleven
We pulled around a curved, brick, herringbone driveway.
The house, I think, was even bigger than Kingsley’s monster of a house—Beast Manor, as I’d come to think of his home, complete with its safe-room.
This house was epic and rambling on a whole other level, and I was fairly certain there was even more of it in the back, too. Tara explained that the design was a Mediterranean-style Spanish Revival. Having minored in architecture in college—with a major in criminal justice—I knew the design well. But seeing it up close, and in such grandeur, was awe-inspiring.
I could be very comfortable here, I thought. A home fit for a king. Even a vampire queen.
Allison was still oh-ing and ah-ing as we stepped out of the Range Rover. I might have oh-ed, but I certainly hadn’t ah-ed. The house itself was situated on lushly manicured grounds, complete with sumptuous gardens filled, in part, with fresh herbs. I saw everything from sage to rosemary, to mint and thyme. The home’s courtyard had a distinctively European flair, with intricate brick and plasterwork. Trees were the overall theme of the home and sprouted from ornate planters situated everywhere. A five-car garage was off to one side. The garage and much of the home’s façade was covered in thick ivy.
“I’m in heaven, Sammie,” said Allison. “Remind me to thank you again for inviting me to join you.”
“I didn’t invite you. You insisted.”
“And I’m so glad I did.”
I shook my head as we each fetched our suitcases from the rear of the vehicle. As we headed up the wide flagstone stairs, I noticed Tara, our host, looking at me. Or, rather, at my suitcase.
“You don’t roll your bag?” she asked.
Oops. My bag, I saw, was bigger than both Tara’s and Allison’s. And both of them were struggling a bit up the steps, rolling and lifting. I had mine in my hand, hefting it without thought or effort. “I like the exercise,” I lied. “My trainer would be proud.”
Tara smiled as if I had made some sense. Allison snickered behind me. And once we were inside the cavernous home, I acted normal and used my suitcase’s own rollers.
The home opened onto two curving staircases with ornate, wrought-iron railings. Polished wood floors stretched seemingly everywhere. A beautiful, round marble table with fresh-cut flowers in a crystal vase greeted us immediately, along with the sound of laughter and voices and kids playing.
“Grandpa George—that’s what everyone called him, even his wife—never made any of us feel unwelcome. The entire house was on-limits, as he would always say.”
“On-limits?” asked Allison. She was scurrying to keep up behind us. Turned out my new friend had rather short legs.
I heard that, she thought, her words reaching me easily.
I giggled.
I heard that, too. And yes, I have issues with my legs.
I stopped giggling, or tried to.
“Well,” said Tara, speaking over her shoulder as we headed into a gorgeous living room. “Grandpa George always told us the entire house was available to all of us kids. There was never a room we were not allowed in, except—”
She paused.
“Except what?” I asked.
“Well, the family mausoleum, of course.”
“Er, of course,” I said. “Grandpa George sounds like he was an amazing man.”
Tara nodded and tensed her shoulders. “Yeah, the best.”
We next passed through the kitchen, where three or four people were leaning against counters, drinking and talking. Tara said hi and introduced us as her friends. They all smiled and raised their drinks, but watched us closely. Very closely. It was the same for the other rooms and other people. Introductions, polite smiles, suspicious stares.
As we swept through the house and out through a pair of wide French doors, Allison caught up to me on her stubby legs and whispered in my ear, “What was that all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“The stares. Creepy.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“At least not yet,” said Allison.
“Right,” I said, as we now followed Tara along a curved, stone path that led through even more succulent gardens. There was a volleyball net set up out here, along with kayaks lined along an arbor with what was, perhaps, the biggest brick barbeque I’d ever seen. The home, I was beginning to realize, was designed for one thing and one thing only: pleasure, and lots of it. At least of the family kind. A sort of funhouse for adults and kids and everyone in between.
“But we’re going to find out,” said Allison.
“I’m going to find out,” I corrected.
“Hey, I’m your assistant.”
“Fictional assistant,” I added.
And there it was, just around another turn in the path: the swimming pool where Tara’s grandpa had been found last summer, face down and quite dead. I noticed Tara kept her eyes averted. I didn’t blame her.
Next, was a row of guest homes in the back, which is where Allison and I would be staying. Bungalows, actually. Each was as big or bigger than my home in Fullerton. Tara showed us to one such structure, which proved to be a two-bedroom suite, with bedrooms on either end and a kitchen and living room in the middle. A fireplace was there, too. Firewood and kindling was stacked neatly nearby.
I made arrangements with Tara to come back and debrief us once we were unpacked and settled in. I also requested that she bring family photos. I needed to know everyone who was here. Intimately. She understood.
“Debrief?” asked Allison when Tara had left.
“That’s detective talk,” I said.
“You mean detective mumbo-jumbo.”
“Remember why we’re here,” I said. “To catch a killer.”
“Well, I’m here to keep you alive.”
I snorted.
“Don’t scoff,” said Allison. “I saw it clearly.”
“You saw what clearly?”
“Me saving your life.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Convenient.”
“Don’t scoff at us mystics, Sammie. We work in mysterious ways.”
I snorted again and picked the room on the left.
“Hey,” said Allison. “Why do you get that room?”
“Because you work for me, remember?”
“Oh, damn,” said Allison, plopping down on her own bed and then stretching out. “I forgot about that part.”
But she was asleep before I could respond.
Chapter Twelve
Yes, I wanted to sleep, too.
And, yes, the medallion made it possible for me to withstand the sun, but the golden disk didn’t take away the burning desire to lay down, close my eyes, and die all over again. Because that’s how sleep often felt to me: a mini-death.
I am so very, very weird.
But I was also here only for the weekend. It was Friday afternoon, and coming on evening. I had tonight, tomorrow and all of Sunday to solve this crime. Our flight back to civilization was Monday morning.
Lots to do, I thought. Too much to be laying around and snoozing.
I pulled out the one thing every good investigator needs: my clipboard with my case notes. Yes, I’d already been making notes on this one. Lots of them. Knowing I had only a few days to prep for this case meant that I needed names and pictures. I looked at my list
now of the many names, some of which had thumbnail pictures next to them. I had drawn lines attaching the names to various family members.
For now, they were just names and pictures and slightly squiggly lines. The deceased in question was George Thurman, or Grandpa George. The name had a certain ring to it. Yes, he sounded important but—but from what I was gathering, he didn’t act it. He was a recluse at heart who loved his family. Although he was known for his generosity to charities, he rarely, if ever, opened up his home to outsiders.
His home was his safe haven, his escape.
And now, his tomb.
George Thurman had had two sons and a daughter, all of whom now ran the family hotel empire. An empire that was very much kept in the family. Much like his home, where only family members were invited, the business was the same: only family members were appointed to important roles. For now, it was the eldest son, Junior Thurman, who was the president. The youngest son, August, was the vice-president. Other important roles went to brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces. George’s wife, Ellery, had long since passed.
By all accounts, the family was über-rich. The two sons’ own daughters were often found in tabloid magazines. One of them had even made a sex tape. I’d refused to watch the sex tape. For now. Yes, I knew I needed to be thorough...but eww.
From the next room, I heard Allison mumble something in her sleep. The mumbling then turned into loud snoring. I got up and shut her bedroom door, just as she let out a short, sharp snort.
Nice.
Back in the living room, I looked some more at my notes. The deceased in question, George Thurman, had long since retired, handing the corporate over to his oldest son. That had been, according to my research, nearly ten years ago. So, power couldn’t have been a factor.
Money, maybe.
Undoubtedly, George had left untold millions behind, bequeathing them to who knows who. The potential to inherit millions of dollars might be a motivating factor.