In Your Dreams

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In Your Dreams Page 19

by Gina Ardito

A snort of laughter escaped her lips. What a wuss. “I’ll do my very best.”

  “Then so will I.”

  She squeezed their hands, brushed kisses across their knuckles. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

  “No, Belle,” Justin said, leaning to kiss her cheek. “Thank you.”

  ~~~~

  When Sean left the auditorium, he spotted the kid again. Xavia’s son. What’d she call him? Noah. Noah was loitering, leaning against the far wall, arms folded over his chest. Good-looking kid. His skin gleamed the color of maple syrup, his eyes a vivid gold. he had razor-sharp cheekbones, a broad nose, and a dimple in one cheek. Around him, his aura gleamed like a majestic purple robe. As Sean got closer, the kid nodded. “Hey.”

  Sean gave a single nod in reply. “Hey.”

  The kid pushed off the wall and strode forward to walk alongside him. “The old dude said I should talk to you.”

  Sean stopped. “The old dude?” He stared at the kid’s eyes, gauging for mockery or, worse, rage.

  “Yeah. Sherman.”

  Oh. That old dude. Fists tight at his sides, he braced for any possible conflict. “Okay. What about?”

  “Why I keep seeing you here and think I know you. And since you always seem to be staring at me, I’m guessing you know me. So, what’s the deal?”

  Terrific. Thanks a lot, Sherman. He had to tread carefully if he didn’t want a replay of Xavia’s overreaction. “I’m not sure. What’s your name?”

  “Contel. Contel Morgan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Contel. I’m Sean Martino. You’re a bounty hunter now?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “I used to be a hunter.”

  “So. What.” He repeated each syllable, laced with animosity. “Is that supposed to make us friends or something?”

  “No.” Sean shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

  “Fuck conversation and answer the question. How do you know me?”

  “Wow,” he retorted, his lips twisted in a sneer. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

  The kid’s eyes rounded, and Sean wished he could take the words back. Dragging Xavia into this mess was probably not the best idea he’d ever had.

  “You know my mother? How?”

  “Sort of. I mean, I don’t know Contel’s mother. I know Noah’s mother.”

  “Who the fuck is Noah?”

  “You. A few lifetimes back.”

  “Naw, man. That ain’t me. I didn’t see any friggin’ lifetimes where I was someone named Noah.”

  Sean snorted. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. The Elders probably thought this kind of meeting would be so much more beneficial for both of us. Trust me. You were a kid named Noah who grew up in the Bedford-Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn around the late seventies, early eighties.”

  “And you knew my mother back then?”

  “No. I know her here.” Christ, his head was spinning, and he understood what he was trying to say. The kid was probably totally lost. He glanced around at the crowds, seeking a private spot. “Let’s take a walk. You ever play handball?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Come on. I got a game for you. We can talk while we play.”

  Contel displayed his clipboard. “What happens if this thing buzzes again?”

  “Bring it with you. I’m sure your EC told you to never leave it behind.” Sean reached into his pocket and cradled his board in his palm. He snickered, recalling Xavia’s reaction when he first showed up in her department without his board. “Some people go nuts if you don’t carry it with you at all times. But at that size, it’s a pain in the ass. Spend some time with me, and I’ll show you how to get it small enough that you won’t even realize you’re carrying it ‘til it goes off.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Come on.” He led Contel to the storage room and introduced him to the fine art of orb ball by starting with easy lobs, both in the game and in his interrogation. “How’d you wind up here?”

  Contel volleyed back. Thwap! “You first.”

  He would’ve argued, but sensed the kid would shut down at the slightest provocation. That didn’t mean he had to bare his soul right out of the gate, though. “I shot myself.” Ka-thwap! “Your turn.”

  “I went suicide by cop.” Zzzip!

  “Suicide by cop? What’s that?”

  “It’s where you purposely disobey a cop’s orders to show your hands, or get out of the car, or whatever, in the hopes he’ll shoot you and kill you.”

  Too intent on what the kid just revealed, he let the orb fly past him. “Why the hell would you do that?”

  Contel’s expression remained impassive, inscrutable. “Because it’s like playing chicken with God, I guess. You figure, if you die, it was meant to be. If you live, you’ve got someone to blame. Only there is no god to blame, is there?”

  “No. No god. No heaven, no hell. Just the Afterlife and whatever waits for us when our time is done here.”

  “So you actually have no one to blame but yourself,” he summed up. “Don’t that suck?”

  Fury swirled inside Sean. The kid’s confession left his head spinning. Suicide by cop. Was that what had happened in 1982? Had Noah been playing that damn game even then?

  No. Impossible. If he had, he would’ve wound up here that much sooner. Right? Or would the death be “blamed” on the cop who shot him? Sean raked a shaky hand through his hair.

  “You ready?” Contel asked, forming a lime green orb with his hands.

  Sean shoved his suspicions aside to focus on the game and the kid. “Yeah, sure. Go for it.”

  He served the next orb, then added, “Tell me about my ‘mom’ here. Who is she?”

  “My boss.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit,” he repeated and slapped the incoming orb back to the wall.

  “What’s she like?”

  Stubborn, passionate, frustrating, in pain...

  A friend he’d betrayed.

  None of which he could say to this kid.

  He fumbled the orb on the return, watched Contel create a new one—this time in a shiny gold. “She loved you. A lot. So much that when you died, she killed herself because she couldn’t face life without you. That’s how she wound up here.”

  “Too bad. She sounds like a much better mom than I had last time around.”

  The bitterness coloring every word roused Sean’s curiosity.

  “Why? What was Contel’s mother like?”

  “Don’t know.” He slammed the orb with undisguised fury. “She didn’t stick around long enough after I was born for me to find out. Bitch farmed me out to foster care when I was two days old.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck her.”

  Once again, he took out his rage on the poor golden missile, sending it careening into the overhead steel beams where it shattered into a rainbow of sparks. Like mother, like son.

  “How’d I die when I was Noah?”

  Careful. He had to be very careful what he said here. “In a very similar way to how you did as Contel. Shot by a cop.”

  This time, Contel missed, and the fiery ball hissed past to burn out on the floor behind him. “No shit?” Not a hint of malice existed in the question, Sean noted. Just...wonder.

  “No shit.”

  “Were you the cop?”

  Halfway into the creation of a new orb, Sean did a double-take and dropped the ball. “How’d you know that?”

  Contel shrugged. “Makes sense. You seem to know me. You claim you know my mother from when I was this Noah guy. And you’re all cop. You walk like a cop, talk like a cop, look like a cop. Hell, you even smell like a cop. And you keep staring at me like you shot my dog or something and don’t know how to tell me.” Shaking his head, he exclaimed a breathy, “Shiiiit. I must have really screwed you up.”

  Sensible words refused to form inside Sean’s head. How the hell was he expected to reply to that statement?

  “You can tell me what happened, you know,
” Contel added. “It’s not like whatever you say can hurt me. I don’t even remember myself as this Noah dude. So, for me, it’s like a story some stranger’s telling. Means nothin’ to me.” He leaned against the stack of wooden crates, his posture relaxed, competitive edge erased. “Do you know my Elder Counselor showed me eleven of my past lives? Eleven. He said most people only get to view three or four, but ‘cuz mine were all so short, I got almost triple. That’s some fucked-up shit there. And you know what I figured out in all those lives?”

  “What?” Despite his misgivings, Sean realized he was warming to this kid. He was pleasant—in an urban sort of way—interesting, and engaging. Xavia would be proud of him.

  “Apparently, I’ve been an asshole for at least two hundred years. And I’ve pissed off enough people in all those lives that someone’s always killed me before I hit the age of twenty. So I must’ve messed with a lotta heads. I’m bettin’ yours was one of ‘em.”

  The monologue didn’t match the speaker, and Sean found himself asking in disbelief, “How old are you?”

  “You mean, how old was I when I died this time around? Nineteen.”

  Jee-zus. At nineteen, Sean Martino was still navigating disco and bell bottoms while this kid spouted the wisdom of the ages. Times sure had changed.

  “Don’t look so shocked, man. The way I was on Earth ain’t nothing like who I am now. I grew up a lot since I got here.”

  “You did? How? Why?” Even to his own ears, he sounded like a petulant child. He hastened to clarify before the kid took offense. “What I mean is, what changed you?”

  “The ghosts, of course. The bounties, I mean. If you’d have asked me when I was alive what I thought would happen to me when I died, I’d never have come close to dreaming up what I’ve gone through here. It’s a total bombshell, you know? You get to this place, and you’re so pissed off and hurtin’ that all you want to do is piss off and hurt everybody else. Then, all of a sudden, you’re talking to these ghosts who can’t let go of their own hurts. And these dudes have spent centuries, wallowing in their pain, pissing off the living, looking for a peace they’ll probably never find.” He glanced at the floor, shuffling one foot, then the other. “You wanna know why all my lives were so short?”

  “Because you were an asshole?” Sean joked.

  Contel’s shorn head bobbed as he laughed with ebullience. “No offense, though, right? Yeah, I was an asshole. But that’s only part of it. The reason my lives were so short was because I kept fucking up. I blamed everybody else for what went wrong in my lives, but the truth was always staring me right in the face. I had to grow up, take responsibility, and quit thinking the world owed me something because I had it rough. I ain’t the only guy who ever had it rough. Shit, I coulda been born in some place like Somalia. Those poor bastards really have it rough. Worst thing I had to deal with was absent parents. But that didn’t stop me from thinking someone else always let me down.”

  “Like the bitch of a mother who turned you over to the system when you were two days old?” he reminded the kid.

  “I never said I was perfect.” Contel’s cocky grin, filled with sparkling white teeth, lit up the dim interior. “I still get angry about some things. But I’m working on it. This might sound crazy, but, coming here—working here—was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s giving me a chance to break those patterns. So, next time, when they find me a new life, I won’t make the same mistakes.”

  From some long-forgotten memory, words rose up inside Sean and flowed from his lips. “There’s hell on Earth, and then there’s hell in death. Given the choice, I’d opt for the Earth one every time. At least, there’s hope for a better day tomorrow. But in death, you’ve got nothing but your pain. If those souls can survive their hardships in death and release their hold when called to do so, I know I can stand tall against my own failures. Next time I’m challenged, I’ll take a different path. And when the Board calls me to move on to my next life, I’ll be ready. Smarter and braver than this last time around.”

  “Yeah,” Contel agreed with a solemn nod and eyes gone flat. “That’s right. Who told you that?”

  “I told someone else that. A long time ago.” He’d said those words to Luc, when the poor bastard was ranting about working with Jodie. “I just completely forgot. Until now.”

  What had happened to that Sean? The Sean who thought he had this place all figured out and assumed he’d made peace with his past? Had the loss of his dearest friends blinded him to his own responsibilities, to his own failings? Here, he kept blaming the Elders when, in fact, all the mistakes he’d ever made were his. No one else’s.

  So what if the Elders wanted to test him? He should have been willing to rise to the challenge, rather than fighting against them. How the hell else would he ever prove he was ready to try again? To move forward—wherever forward took him.

  Yes, Luc and Jodie had been tested. Obviously, they’d failed. And while he might not have agreed with the way the Elders handled that failure, he had to focus on his own existence. All the fist-shaking and sarcasm wouldn’t change their fates. Only one fate should matter to him now: his own.

  Did he intend to fail, as well, just because they did? Winding up as glitter in the Chasm because he was too proud to realize he wasn’t perfect? That he still had so much to learn?

  He looked at this kid—this child who’d just schooled him—with newfound respect. “Would you like to meet your mother? I mean, Noah’s mother?”

  “Depends.” He pushed off the wall of crates and stood up straight. “Why you askin’?”

  “Because I think you can help her come to terms with her son’s loss in a way no one else can.”

  Chapter 19

  Xavia sat in her office, door locked against any possible intrusions. Correction: against one possible intrusion. Sean Martino, the murderer cop. The bastard.

  Why didn’t she realize who he was the minute he walked through her door? When he first told her he was a cop, why hadn’t she put the pieces together? How could she have been so stupid? To not see what the Elders had planted in front of her?

  Simple. She didn’t want to see.

  Maybe she’d chosen Uriah, the Egyptian, as her Elder Counselor because she was so much like Cleopatra, Queen of Denial. But, shit, she’d totally screwed up and had no one to blame but herself. She shook her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Bad enough to find out the truth while the entire Council of Elders watched like the rapt audience at a Broadway show. But then to have Uriah insist she and Sean would continue to work together? No matter how plaintively she begged for a transfer, he claimed it was imperative she learn to put the past aside and cooperate with her greatest enemy. As if she could simply shelve his sin and go on like he hadn’t ripped out her heart and stomped on it.

  Too ratcheted up to sit still, she pushed away from the desk and paced. Still, her thoughts refused to be silent. Sean killed Noah. She killed herself. Sean killed himself. Noah killed himself. A perfect circle of tragedy. Round and round we go, a continual cycle of suicide and death.

  Work, she told herself. If she buried her thoughts in someone else’s misery, she’d have no time to indulge her own. Picking up her clipboard, she scanned her current list of cases for any who needed immediate intercession. Or a good, old-fashioned, talking-to. Anything to distract her.

  One name blared out at her from the list.

  Isabelle Fichetti.

  Sean’s Isabelle?

  Impossible. She was fine. Uriah had said she’d been removed from Sean’s care because she was no longer a threat to herself. Xavia perched one butt cheek on the edge of her desk. So why had Isabella shown up on her roster? If she really was in trouble, why didn’t they allow Sean to handle it? Had someone made a mistake?

  No way. The Elders didn’t make mistakes. Every incident that played out here occurred at their whim, with their knowledge, while they watched. They planned and plotted and waited to see how their puppets would r
eact. As if we’re all circus animals for their entertainment.

  A fuzzy caterpillar of suspicion tickled across her, and she brushed a hand across her nape to soothe the prickles. “Bring up Isabelle Fichetti,” she ordered her board.

  The white screen lit up, transforming from blank to a close-up of Isabelle’s placid expression, all fluttery lashes and ingénue wide eyes. From somewhere off-screen, a voice admonished, “It’s not too late, Isabelle.”

  “Zoom out,” Xavia ordered. When the surrounding scene enhanced, she noted bland green walls, a beige curtain hanging from a circular track, a blood pressure monitor near a bed with upraised rails, a Formica counter complete with mini-sink, and one of those plastic dispensaries for needles mounted nearby. “A hospital room,” she concluded aloud. “Shit. She’s sick again.”

  “It’s not a question of ‘too late,’” Isabelle said to the faceless voice. “I’m not going to change my mind, no matter what the consequences to me. I’m keeping this baby.”

  Baby? Xavia nearly fell off the desk and had to grab the edge with one hand to stay upright. Isabelle was pregnant?

  Okay, so who was the father? That Justin guy? Or her ex-husband?

  Sean’s voice thundered in her head. Would you believe me if I said I think Isabelle and I just made love?

  Oh, no frickin’ way. He couldn’t have...

  Sean was dead. Only energy. Oh, sure, he’d said he and Isabelle had made love...but...he couldn’t have...

  Could he?

  Onscreen, a doctor popped into view, sighing as he checked the fluid levels in Isabelle’s I.V. bag. “You’re running a tremendous risk. We can’t even begin to address the tumor with any additional treatments for fear of affecting the fetus.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” Her Madonna-like expression remained in place.

  “And you’re also aware that if you terminate the pregnancy, we can more aggressively go after the tumor—”

  “To what end?” Her expression turned fierce. “I am not terminating this pregnancy.” She shifted in the bed, folding her arms over the folded sheet draping her chest. “Look, Doctor. We both know I’m a lost cause. The gamma knife thingy was my best option, and it didn’t work. You’d advised me before I went through with it that the odds were against me. No big surprise it didn’t stop the tumor. So no matter what voodoo you come up with now, I’m dying.” Her hand cradled her swelling abdomen. “But this baby is fine and has a chance. The chance I don’t have. So stop mentioning terminating the pregnancy. It ain’t gonna happen.”

 

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