by Sean Platt
As I lean against the window of the bus, watching fields of greenery pass in a gentle flow, I see a smile creep across Hector’s face.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve actually made a difference.
Epilogue
DAY 368
Los Orillas, California
Today I’m in the body of fitness instructor Steph Wimberly. She’s twenty-six and beautiful, the daughter of an entertainment mogul, living like most people can only dream of.
Life inside her body feels like a vacation.
But the best part is that she lives in Los Orillas, California, and I have a chance to go back and see the psychic, maybe get some answers.
My memories of Lara, Allie, and the others are surprisingly still with me, which is good because I’ve been able to track what’s happening in Bay Cove on the news.
After I left, the Associated Press printed a story with Yvonne and the other reporter detailing the city’s deeply entrenched system of corruption.
The story went national, with the feds stepping in to arrest and replace the sheriff, along with three of the five council members. Bova Holdings was in a tailspin, and Peter Bova has fled the country following allegations of his involvement, and revelations of what his son had been up to.
Vinnie Fortunato was found dead in his house, in bed with two women — his girlfriend and an exotic dancer. Foul play is suspected.
While several stories have also surfaced regarding Mr. Bruno, none have identified the man or found a photo. He has since vanished, with the prevailing wisdom that he was living under a false identity and is now doing the same somewhere else. Perhaps he is starting a new criminal organization.
I pull up in Madam Monique’s parking lot.
I leave the car and head inside.
Staci greets me with a smile, the kind reserved for people like Steph Wimberly.
“Hi, and welcome to Madam Monique’s, do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I say, “I’m very sorry, but this is a last-minute emergency.”
I pull out my purse, fumble through wads of cash and credit cards, including her black AmEx, which will turn any merchant into her best friend. I raise my nose, just a bit, to adopt the I’m-better-than-you vibe that always gets Steph what she wants.
“Listen, I’ll pay whatever it takes. I just need a few minutes.”
“Hold on a second.”
Staci heads through the door into Madam’s back room, then returns a moment later.
“Madam will see you now.”
I hand her my AmEx then pass through the door.
When I enter the room, the old woman has her eyes closed, just like last time when I was here as Charles. The names might change; the show stays the same.
Madam invites me to sit across from her.
I do.
I wait for her to open her eyes.
She asks for my hands.
I reach across the table to take her hands, expecting some sort of spark.
Nothing.
Hmm …
She mumbles her prayer or whatever it is, then opens her eyes.
I meet her gaze, hoping she’ll see me inside this blonde heiress. But then something occurs to me.
There’s something different in her eyes.
I decide to speak. “I just want to thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“You’re welcome, dear,” she says.
“You come so highly recommended. Two of my friends come to you and couldn’t speak higher praises of you.”
“Oh, really? Who?”
“Danny Shar and Charles Tompkins.”
I wait for a reaction.
But her expression never changes, nor is there any recognition of the me inside this blonde shell.
Madam Monique is smiling. “Oh, they’re such sweet gentlemen. How do you know them?”
“We go to the same gym,” I lie.
“Oh. So, what would you like today? Your fortune told? A palm reading? Perhaps a seance with a dearly departed?”
“My palm read,” I say, and offer my hand.
“Certainly.”
She does her little prayer whispering routine before she gets on with the show. I listen, trying to pick up on any recognizable words, or language. I don’t think she’s speaking in tongues, but it sounds like gibberish to me.
She finally takes my hand.
She is feeling my skin, talking nonsense about refinement, energy, and the flexibility of my mind. Then she starts on some silly stuff about archetypes, and a sudden realization washes over me.
I’m not sure how I know it, but I feel an unshakeable certainty.
She isn’t the same woman who read my palm!
“You aren’t her, are you?” I ask, surprised as the words leave my mouth.
“Aren’t who?”
A part of me wants to recant, explain it away as something else. But I feel so close to discovery — of what I don’t yet know — that I push forward instead.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
She looks up at me with a vague, confused smile, as if I’m asking a trick question to ferret out the truth, to expose her ruse. She says, “I’m sorry, what?” likely not wanting to give a yes or no response which would back her into a corner.
“I came in here before, except I wasn’t me. I was in someone else’s body.” I feel a tremendous relief, finally speaking the truth, and danger, knowing I could harm my host if things get out of hand. What if Madam calls the police, says this crazy woman came in talking about being in another body? I need to be cautious, but it’s hard when I feel so close to something.
Madam takes her hand from mine, eyeing me nervously as if she’s considering calling for Staci.
“It’s okay,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not crazy. But please, hear me out, will you? You might be the only person who can help me.”
I don’t believe in psychics or fortune tellers, but I can’t believe they’re all corrupt scammers looking to separate you from your money. Some must truly think they have powers. Maybe those people are tapping into something we can’t understand, even if it’s not what they believe it to be. And if that’s the case, maybe I can appeal to the part of her that wants to help. Maybe she’ll remember someone else being in her body, or meeting me when I came in as Charles.
Maybe.
Her eyes are wary, but she seems receptive to hearing me out.
“Madam Monique, do you remember anything weird happening last Wednesday? Like maybe you weren’t quite yourself?”
I don’t want to say too much or lead the witness.
Her eyes suddenly lock onto mine. Confusion has turned to something between fear and recognition.
She does remember — something.
“H-How do you know?”
“What is it?”
“How do you know?” she repeats. Her chair scrapes back against the floor, but she’s not yet standing or bolting from the room.
I lean back in my chair to give her some space.
“I’ll tell you, but first you have to tell me what you remember, just to make sure I’m on the right path.”
“I … I’ve always had a strong memory. I may be old, but I can remember what I had for breakfast every day back to 1951. You name a date and I can tell you the weekday it fell upon. I can remember the weather, too. A very strong memory. But Wednesday is a blur. I don’t remember much. I remember meeting a few of my clients, but the oddest thing is, I can’t remember what I was thinking when I met them. And I can’t remember other details, like what I had for breakfast, or what show I watched before bed.”
My heart races as she confirms my suspicion. Someone else was in her. There is at least one other person like me, one other Jumper.
I ask if she remembers being upset during any of her readings.
“Yes, though I can’t remember why. It’s the weirdest thing. And I’ve since called the client to apologize, and ya wanna hear something even weirder?
”
I nod.
“He doesn’t remember, either. He remembers some of it, just like me, but not the finer details.”
I confess: “It’s because I was in him.”
She looks at me like I admitted to being the devil.
“Well, not me, in this body you see here.”
I explain, as best and succinctly as I can, what is happening to me.
Suddenly, she stands.
I’m afraid she’s going to run out of the room, and the conversation is over.
But she doesn’t leave.
Instead, she goes to a shelf behind her, removes a small black wooden box painted with ornate vines and flowers and eyes. She opens the box and pulls out an envelope.
“I think this is for you.” Her hand shakes with the offer. “I woke up, and this was on my bedside table. It’s in my writing, but again, I don’t remember writing it. I didn’t know what it meant, and thought I might be losing my mind.”
I take the envelope, which is tucked closed, rather than sealed.
I pull out a letter with tiny handwriting:
Ella,
Stop searching.
You won’t like what you find.
Better to forget and let go.
Only then can you live again.
— Another Traveler.
I stare at the letter, a million emotions tearing through me at once.
Tears roll down my cheeks.
I’m not alone.
Yet this other traveler is telling me to forget. To stop searching.
Why?
What does this man or woman know?
What are they warning me away from?
I don’t know. It’s all so overwhelming.
But now I have somewhere to start.
If the letter was meant to scare me, it’s done the opposite.
For the first time in a year, I feel validation. That this isn’t something I’m stuck in forever. There are answers out there, and I can find them.
I may be lost and adrift, but now I have an anchor to moor into the randomness of my wanderer’s life. I have an identity to hold close.
And a name: Ella.
Suddenly, the number of days doesn’t matter as much as this: I am not alone.
Karma Police
Chapter One
Something is wrong.
I can feel it in the air, on my skin, and in my brain: static disrupting a radio signal. But it’s not the hissing of meaningless noise; it’s a message — one I might decipher if I could only suss out the words. But they’re barely audible, lost in the real-world clamor.
Today, I’m in the body of Renaldo Vasquez. I’m twenty-five, a former drug runner turned mall security guard when I got my girlfriend, Vera, pregnant. Now I’m living the straight and narrow, or trying my best.
I began hearing the voices, like barely audible whispers, just after lunch. I was walking the food court, and at first thought some of the punk dropouts hanging around were messing with me. I moved away, far enough away that I wouldn’t be able to hear them, but the sounds were still there. Then I thought maybe someone had left the public address system on and I was hearing some interference or conversation happening near the microphone. I asked one of the other guards, a big black dude named James Jones, if he could hear anything. He shook his head and asked if I’d share whatever drugs I was obviously doing. I laughed, said I wish I was on something, and went about my rounds.
The signal died for the rest of the day, until about fifteen minutes ago when I started patrolling the parking lot. The sounds are a bit louder but still indecipherable.
Now it’s 4:25 p.m., about an hour and a half before I get off.
There’s an electricity in the air.
Something is about to happen.
I wish I had a gun. Unfortunately, all we get on this job are pepper spray, a baton, and a Taser. Hopefully, whatever’s going to happen involves someone who isn’t packing heat.
I cup my hands over my ears in an attempt to hear better. But that only increases the din of a cool breeze, gathering into the threat of a storm.
On a whim, and I’m not even sure why, I decide to cover my ears.
Now I hear it — an almost robotic voice. “Four forty-five. Red Hyundai. In front of the Nordstrom.” Then the voice gives me a license plate number.
I can’t believe my ears. What is this? My first thought is that I’m picking up on someone, maybe another guard’s signal, but the voice doesn’t sound like the ones on my radio. Maybe Renaldo has fillings and is picking up something from police dispatch? No, that doesn’t feel right, either.
This is something else, and I can’t help but feel it’s tied to the mystery of whatever I am — jumping from body to body for the past year. I already know there are others like me. Maybe this is how they communicate?
I continue to cover my ears, listening to the voice, like a recording, repeating the message.
I look around. Nordstrom is on the other side of the mall. I glance at my watch: 4:30 p.m. I can make it if I hustle.
I run as fast as Renaldo’s legs will take me. Fortunately, he’s in good shape. He played soccer as a kid and ran from the police more than a few times as a teenager.
I haul ass, dodging people and cars, earning honks, the Nordstrom sign a tease in the distance.
I’m at the road dividing the lots. Forced to wait as vehicles snake in and out of the shopping mall.
Come on, come on!
I look at his watch: 4:39. Not much time to find the Hyundai.
Traffic halts in the far lane as the lights turn red.
I run for it.
“Yo, Renaldo!” I hear behind me.
I hope it’s not another one of the other guards. The last thing I need is to be followed. Whatever I’m supposed to see, it needs to be alone. This isn’t some shoplifter; this is big.
I turn and see three dudes getting out of a car. The tallest is looking at me, expecting a response. I get a flash of memory, but not enough to tell me who it is, or whether he’s friend or foe.
I point at Nordstrom and say the first excuse that comes to mind. “Can’t stop. Gotta shit!”
Guy laughs, along with the other two. “Catchya later,” he says.
I turn to see the cars still stopped in the lane, waiting for the green.
Watch says 4:40.
Shit. Only five minutes to find the car.
The light turns green, and the cars are about to move.
I can’t wait.
I launch forward, running in a space between two cars.
I make it through the first lane.
As I run into the next lane, a loud horn, squeal of tires.
I look up in time to see a black car stop. Angry dude behind the wheel looks up, yelling something I can’t hear because his windows are closed and his music is screaming.
I throw up an apologetic hand, then race away.
I bolt through the bushes along the edge of the Nordstrom parking lot. I’m here. Now where the hell is that red Hyundai?
The parking lot is a sea of cars, at least twenty rows deep. And I don’t know models well enough to distinguish between a Hyundai and a Toyota or any other similar looking vehicle, even if I were close enough to see them all better, so I focus on red cars.
Too many and not enough time.
I look at the watch.
4:44 p.m.
Instead of cars, I look for people. I assume whatever’s going to happen will be initiated by a person.
What if the person is in the car? Maybe they’re headed straight toward the front of Nordstrom right now?
I stop, scanning the lot for any fast-moving vehicles.
Nothing.
Shit.
Where are you?
I run straight, cutting a line through the rows, hoping something will jump out, and that in my haste I’m not heading in the wrong direction.
Suddenly, the whispers, transmission, whatever it was, stops.
In the silence, I
fear I’ve lost whatever I was supposed to see.
Shit. I’m too late.
Panic swells in my throat as I frantically spin around, searching for something, anything.
Come on!
Then I see something, two aisles ahead.
A person in a dark hoodie standing beside a red car — it might be a Hyundai — looking around suspiciously as if they’re about to break the window.
I drop behind a blue pickup before the person turns toward me.
I pause, catching my breath as I wait to peek around the van’s corner.
Is this why I’m here? To stop someone from stealing a car? Doesn’t feel like that big of a thing. I feel almost cheated. Rather than tapping into some cosmic force guiding me toward something big, I’ve turned into a police scanner.
Slowly, I stand, then peer around the van.
The car’s still there, but the person is gone.
I look around but don’t see him.
Did he get in the car?
I step forward, eyes glued to the vehicle as I make my way toward it.
Cold wind is picking up, thunder rolling in the distance.
My heart is racing. Goosebumps running up my arms, hairs standing on the back of my neck.
I hear the voices again.
I stop next to a white van, raise my hands to block the sounds of the outside world.
But the voice isn’t the same.
Now it’s a woman: “White van. Security guard.”
My heart freezes. My throat has claws.
Footsteps behind me.
I spin around, hand on the Taser.
Too late.
Dark Hoodie is standing in front of me. But it’s not a he. It’s a she, a young Asian holding a gun.
Our eyes lock.
And in her eyes I see the slightest tremor of azure light. She’s a Jumper! And judging from her expression, she recognizes that I am, too.