by Gina Ardito
His ire scalded the air around them, hotter than a subway platform in August. “Do you suppose dreams of unicorns and rainbows will make Isabelle Fichetti feel better? Especially after the life she’s survived so far?”
“We don’t use unicorns and rainbows for adults.” To gain some distance from his intensity, Xavia pushed her chair away from her desk. The wall behind her limited escape to a few feet at best, but an inch would suffice to break the spell this man cast. “Forgive my candor, but the life she’s survived is of no consequence to us, except as a means to understand how to soothe her fears and keep her living until her time comes naturally.”
Violent energy deepened Sean’s sunny orange aura to blood red, his mood from a mixed bag to pure rage. “Are you for real? All her life she’s been used and taken advantage of. A money-grubbing stage mom, an abusive stepfather, faithless friends—”
“She has Justin Penn,” Xavia reminded him. “He’s loyal.”
Martino snorted. “Big deal. The requisite gay friend all Hollywood actresses pull out of the closet when their toy dogs won’t do. Isabelle has no one who truly loves her. Not her philandering husband, that’s for damned sure. No children. No one. What does she have to live for? Christ, no wonder suicide seemed like a viable option for her. Surely the Board can understand her desperation.”
“Somehow I doubt bounty hunters have the privilege of second-guessing the Board.” Despite the turmoil his nearness created, her reply to Martino held a razor’s edge, keen enough to bite. “Neither does anyone in the Probation Department. We do the job. As a former NYPD detective, you must be familiar with that phrase.”
His neon blue eyes narrowed to serpentine slits, and Xavia felt a sudden kinship with Cleopatra seconds before the asp sank its teeth into her flesh.
On a sigh, Xavia tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Let’s be honest, Martino. You and I both know things are not what they seem on this side of death. Life doesn’t get better because you end your suffering on Earth. Suicide only adds to a soul’s laundry list of problems. It certainly doesn’t end them.”
“Her case is a little different, don’t you think? What kind of time am I buying her? A few months? A year at best? Hell, it’s not like her life’s gonna get rosier if she survives.”
“That’s not our concern. You have your orders, and you will follow them to the letter.” She dropped her gaze level to his again in the hopes he might read the severity of the situation in her eyes. “Bear in mind, also, that you are a trainee in this department. Your actions will be closely monitored by me. So much as bend a rule, and I’ll break you.”
He jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“At the moment, you are my problem. I don’t know what you did to get thrown out of Bounty Retrieval, but I’ll be damned if you’ll disrupt the smooth rhythm we have going in Probation.” She shot a hand toward the door. “The officers out there? They carry a workload of fifteen to twenty offenders at any given time. Right now, you have one. And as you’ve already pointed out, she’s dying anyway. Her peace will come more quickly than for most of our other cases. So don’t screw up.” Please. For my sake, as well as yours…
But of course, he didn’t hear her plea. He probably wouldn’t heed her if he had heard it.
“Are you sure you’re a suicide?” he retorted. “Because as far as I know, people who kill themselves do so since they feel things too deeply. Someone as stone-hearted as you was more likely murdered and left to rot until neighbors reported the stench.”
Her hands gripped the arms of her chair, transferring the insult’s sting through her fingertips then out into the highly charged air. “You have no clue what brought me here.”
“I could say the same thing to you. You don’t know what brought me here. Not from Earth, not from Bounty Retrieval. What exactly did the Board tell you? That I’m some kind of renegade? Did anyone happen to mention that I watched the Elders toy with and destroy two souls I cared about? That afterwards, they carried on, business as usual? Like it didn’t matter to them at all.” On a sigh, he leaned back, then shot forward again until his face was a breath from hers. “Luc and Jodie were real, dammit. They were in love. Real love. The kind of love poets write about. And thanks to one lousy miscommunication, caused by the Elders, they were punished with obliteration.”
Xavia stifled a wince. “None of that is my problem.”
“No. I’m your problem. And I don’t give a damn about your smooth rhythm in this department. You may want to blindly follow whatever heartless prick hides behind a bunch of clipboards and the Council of Elders. Go right ahead. You and your guys out there, go ahead. Do the job. My days of loyalty are gone, turned to pink glitter that spilled all over the Chasm.”
She rose slowly, her eyes a steady glare at him. “You have your assignment. I expect you to handle Isabelle Fichetti as an unbiased professional. Just like everyone else, I expect you to do the job.”
“Fuck you.”
After he stalked out of her office, she sank into her chair, drained of energy. Her mind replayed his words about the fate of his friends. “…Pink glitter that spilled all over the Chasm.” Shivers racked her vaporous form, and she wrapped her arms tight around herself, as if she were still solid and together. Please. Don’t let that happen to me.
~~~~
Isabelle collapsed onto the bed in the pretty guest bedroom in Justin’s prissy Santa Monica beach house. Water-hued silk swathed the oversized windows, the canopy over the bed, even the headboard behind her. In keeping with the whole shoreline theme he and Tony had created, delicate conch shells, polished to a high gloss, took up space on the nightstands that would normally be reserved for necessities like a clock radio, a phone, or a lamp. A fishing net filled with colorful starfish draped around the French doors that led to the balcony overlooking the Pacific.
God, how long would she be forced to stay in this Barbie Dream House by the sea? Not that she wasn’t grateful. Like her own personal Superman, Justin had flown into the hospital and freed her from the clutches of the evil Dr. Valentine and Nurse Nancy of the Frozen Face. Only he used nefarious means to get her agreement to come here. He’d threatened to call Carlo. Given the choice, she’d allow a rabid pitbull to nurse her back to health before she’d place herself in Carlo’s hands. Which, of course, was the reason Justin issued the ultimatum.
Outside, seagulls squawked, and she rose from the bed to step onto the balcony that overlooked the wide expanse of private beach. That ten-foot walk sapped her strength, and she had to grip the railing to keep from sinking to the ground. Below where she struggled to stay upright, the rest of the world indulged in life’s pleasures on a perfect southern California day. Joggers passed by, some pushing toddlers in strollers, oblivious to her misery. A few yards down the beach, several of Justin’s neighbors hosted a volleyball game.
The sudden loss of equilibrium swept her into a maelstrom, and she sank to her knees.
“Where’s my girl?” Tony sing-songed from the hall, but followed his greeting up with a, “Sweet Jesus! Justin, get up here!”
Her vision grayed and fuzzed, and she struck out blindly for purchase. Someone grabbed her before she hit the ground.
“Easy, sweetie, I gotcha.”
Tony. His voice seemed to come from some black hole, but she felt his solid bulk beneath her clawing hands. The dizziness whirled her faster, and the urge to retch overwhelmed her.
“I don’t know what possessed you to get out of bed and go for a stroll,” Tony growled, “but if you were planning to hurl yourself off the balcony, it ain’t happening on my watch.”
“Wasn’t…” She struggled to speak over the nausea rising in her throat. “…gonna jump. Just wanted…to…see…the beach.”
“Yeah, right. Because you’ve never seen water before.” Cradling her against his chest, he scooped her up and carried her away from the outdoor vista. He placed her gently on the soft mattress in the middle of th
e Barbie bed.
Rolling onto her side, she curled her knees into her chest to ease her roiling belly. “I fucking hate everything about this room,” she managed through gritted teeth.
“Get better, Belle, and I’ll let you paint the whole house black, if that floats your boat.”
Too bad it would never happen. Oh, sure. She’d survived the overdose and the obligatory stomach pumping that kept an ache in her abdomen and intensified the symptoms in her head. But she would never “get better.” Not with malignant cells eating her brain day after day.
“Just go away, Tony,” she groaned. “Let me sleep.”
“Not until you promise you won’t try to kill yourself again.”
“I promise I won’t try while I’m here. How’s that?”
“Not good enough, but it’s a start.” He bent to kiss her, his breath smelling of wintergreen layered over tobacco.
“You might wanna brush your teeth and gargle,” she remarked dryly. “The Life Savers aren’t masking the cigarette you smoked.”
“It’s your fault,” he bleated. “I haven’t had a cigarette in two weeks. Then Justin called to say he found you on the bathroom floor.”
Great. So it was her fault. Tony had been trying to quit smoking for years, ever since Justin’s mother had wasted away from emphysema. Hypnosis, acupuncture, patches, gum: none of the traditional options could overpower his addiction to nicotine.
Rather than admit his weakness came from his lack of self-control, he blamed external forces every time he faltered. Today, her suicide attempt became his downfall. She wanted to despise his weakness—and his finger-pointing—but couldn’t ignore the hypocrisy. Wasn’t it weakness to see death as the only way to avoid her wretched future?
Instead of resenting him, she found herself empathizing with Tony. And wanting to help him. He and Justin were the only people in the world who loved her—truly loved her. If they could do anything for her, they would. It was only fair she return some of that love to them. While they couldn’t heal her, maybe she could help them. She would eventually leave this earth—sooner than anyone else knew. Whatever waited for her on the other side, she might score big points with whomever was in charge if her best friends faced a happier, healthier future, thanks to her. Even if she didn’t face judgment after her death, she appreciated the idea that when Tony and Justin thought of her in those days after she died, they’d be grateful they’d known her.
Maybe she could succeed where all those other cure-alls had failed.
She sat up slowly and faced a teary-eyed Tony. “I’ll make you a deal. You give up the cancer sticks for good, and I promise not to try to kill myself again.”
He sniffed. “You promise?”
She held up her right hand. “Swear to God. You promise?”
A smile trembled on his lips as he imitated her. “Swear to God.”
“Good.” She slid farther into the crisp pink sheets and closed her eyes. “Now get outta here so I can sleep.”
Heavy footsteps clomped up the stairs, and Justin burst in, fingers curling around the door jamb. “What? What’s wrong?” he huffed and puffed.
Eyes open again, Isabelle clucked her tongue. “You’re out of shape, binky. You should be down there jogging with the other flabs.”
“And you should still be at the hospital with the other clichéd actresses,” he retorted.
She grinned at him. “Touché.” Friends for too many years, they never took offense at the mild insults. “Be a good boy now, Justin. Go away and take your hubby with you. My head hurts, and I want to curl up and feel sorry for myself for a while.”
His face contorted with concern, and all sarcasm fled. “You need anything, sweetie?”
Yeah, a do-over on my life. She bit back the thought and shook her head. “Just some sleep. And Justin?”
He leaned into the room. “Yeah?”
“Thanks. You, too, Tony. I don’t know where I’d be without you guys.”
Brushing his fingers against his lips, he blew her a kiss. “Love you, baby.”
“I love you, too.” She closed her eyes and relaxed against the pillow, in search of oblivion.
Chapter 5
We invade their dreams.
Sean stared at the image on his clipboard. In another time and place, Isabelle slept, dreamless and peaceful, a slight smile on her lips. What the hell was he supposed to do with her?
“For shit’s sake,” Xavia muttered as she sashayed past his desk. “This isn’t rocket science. Just find a way to give her hope. Show her chocolate and coffee waterfalls, rose petal rain, or fireworks that spell her name. Use her love for her friends, if you have to. Whatever it takes to get the job done.” Without giving him a chance to reply, she left the office through a rear door.
“Helpful,” he replied to the closing door. “Thanks.”
Confusion muddled his thinking, and he glanced around the room. Every other probation offer sat engrossed in his own caseload.
Sean took a deep breath. Okay. He could do this. With his gaze focused on the image of the sleeping woman on his board, he projected his thoughts into her mind.
“Hey, Belle,” he said, using the nickname he’d heard both Tony and Justin use.
“Mmm…?” She rolled over, eyes still closed, but expression engaged—as if he sat at her bedside and talked to her while she lingered in that place between sleep and awareness.
And we’re off. Now what? How should he play this? Concerned friend? She already had Justin and Tony in those roles. Disappointed parental figure? He supposed he could let her take the lead. See how she reacted to his intrusion. In the meantime, he might as well go straight to the heart of the matter. “I want you to listen to me, okay?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Closing his eyes, he focused on Isabelle in her bed in the beach house. “You can’t kill yourself. Trust me when I tell you, suicide isn’t the answer.”
The sound of gulls squawking forced his eyes open. Don’t ask him how it happened, but he found himself, dressed in a short-sleeved Hawaiian style shirt in blue and white, with lightweight khaki pants, sitting on a park bench near a sugar sand beach. Sea air danced on his tongue, the sun warmed his face, and the whoosh of the waves whispered in his ears. His senses went into overload. Even when he was a bounty hunter, he’d never experienced such realism.
Her dream. He’d landed in Isabelle’s dream.
She sat beside him in a jungle print maxi dress with vivid green fronds and red bougainvillea splashed across the fabric. A wide-brimmed straw hat with dark green ribbon around the crown shielded her delicate skin from the brutal sun. The scent of her skin—warm, powdery, with an undercurrent of coconut—tickled his nostrils.
She sighed and leaned closer to him, and he would’ve sworn he was made of flesh and bone when she snuggled against him. “You have no idea what I’m facing.”
“Yeah, I do.” He ran a finger over the inside of her wrist and felt her pulse jump beneath his touch. How was this possible? He’d gone from a vaporous form at a desk in the Afterlife to solid human in Malibu, simply by closing his eyes. “And I promise to stay with you ‘til the end. Anytime you need me, call me, and I’ll come to you.”
“Can you take the tumor away?”
Regret stung him, and he hesitated, scrambling to say something appropriate. Nothing came to mind.
She smirked. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”
“The truth is, I don’t know. I’m new at this. But if there’s any way I can, I promise I will.”
“Great.” Sarcasm dripped from her pink glossy lips. “Figures I get the rookie. I’ve been getting the shitty end of the stick since I was born. I suppose I should be used to it by now.” She tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. “Life sucks.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But death sucks more.”
“Ya think?”
“I know.”
“How’d you die, Sean?”
Her use of his name startled him, but no more so
than the fact she knew he was dead. Why didn’t the idea freak her out? What kind of dreams did she normally have that discussing suicide with a dead man garnered so little reaction?
“Well?” she prompted. “What is it, some big international secret? How’d you die?”
He mimed the gun in his mouth and made an explosion sound.
Her honey brown eyes widened. “Wow.”
“Don’t be impressed. It wasn’t my best moment.”
“I am impressed. It took a lot of guts to do that.”
“It takes more guts to stay alive and ride out the bad times.” He squeezed her fingers. “That’s why I don’t want to see you make my mistake.”
She shrugged. “My situation is probably a lot different than yours. I mean, it’s not like if I hang in there, things are going to get better for me.”
“You don’t know that. Anything can happen. They might find a way to stop the malignancy from spreading any farther.”
“Yeah, right.” Her doubts sharpened the soft sea breeze. “And Joss Whedon’s gonna call me to star in his new movie.”
He cocked his head. “Joss who?”
“How long have you been dead?” She quirked an eyebrow at him, a look of speculation on her face.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted with a frown. “Time doesn’t exist on the other side. But I committed suicide in the Earth year, 1982.”
“I was in preschool back then.”
And didn’t that make him feel ancient?
Pushing up the brim of her hat, she tilted her head to scrutinize him from a new angle. “How come I can’t see where you…?” Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks as she hesitated. “…you know.” She mimed the pistol in her mouth and even made the same explosion sound he had.
“Ah.” Despite the shame, he smiled. “It’s umm…complicated.”
“So…what? I’m an idiot? I think I’m handling everything pretty good so far, don’t you? I mean, I’m sitting here talking to a dead guy. A guy who’s been dead for decades. I bet you never even saw an iPod, did you? Or a cell phone?”