The Hunter had shot me in the chest before, but this time it was a few inches higher and went directly into my heart. I didn’t know that, though, and neither did he because my hands kept squeezing his throat relentlessly.
As Kominsky and I slowly weakened, we turned pale together. The thundering tornado in my head began to grow quiet. My straining arms weakened, and the unimaginable pain began to fade. Finally, I collapsed on top of my murderer. Defeated by death, my hands released their grip and Kominsky was able to draw a lungful of life-saving air.
I almost had him.
Almost.
When he pushed my body off of his, the gun clattered to the floor, and Dad kicked it out of his reach. Then he grabbed the Hunter by his injured shoulder and heaved him to his feet with surprising force. Kominski cried out in pain just as Jamie warned, “He’s got a knife!” He twisted away from George as he swung out wildly with his knife, slicing George down one arm. He turned and ran, holding both his right arm and the knife with his left hand. He dashed out the same double doors the others had entered through and was gone. Jamie, Carl, and my parents stood there stunned in the vast expanse of the once-elegant dining room where Vincent had eaten his fill and had possibly had his last bit of happiness, staring in horror at our dead bodies.
◆◆◆
Epilogue
Yes, I really did die that time. I did warn you, didn’t I? I’m sorry if you grew to like—if maybe not love—poor, dumb, 16-year-old Philip. I quite liked him, too. He never really had a chance, though, did he? But he tried. I’ve gotta say that for him: he did try. Thanks to those who were there at the end for filling me in on the bits I didn’t remember.
You’re probably wondering what happened after the bloodbath at the hotel, right? Well, Alfred Kominsky got away. By the time the police made it to his apartment, it was completely cleared out. They did find—and this was quite disturbing—a sort of prison in the basement. He was the superintendent—the maintenance man—of the building so he had the basement all to himself. No one but Kominsky ever lived long enough to tell what happened in that basement, and he never said a word.
The police were able to collect some pretty strong evidence that connected Kominsky to the kidnappings and murders in several of the cases in Mike’s folder. This put Kominsky on the Most Wanted list for a while, but there were no sightings of him reported. It would be several years before the Hunter was heard from again.
Griefstricken, Mom and Dad drove the many miles back home with Jamie. The three of them grew very close over the years and Jamie became the daughter they never really had. In particular, Dad came to love and appreciate Jamie. Having lost his boys yet again after only just reuniting with Mike was especially hard on him, but Mom and Jamie helped him get through to the other side of it.
Jamie kept in touch with Milton and Roger, both of whom eventually graduated from Kansas University. She went to Columbia University and saw ‘the boys’, as they became known, on summer breaks. They always remained friends.
Mike's poor mother, who was already so troubled, never recovered. The loss of her son seemed to be the thing that forever ended her connection to reality. She was moved to a nursing home not long after his death and was diagnosed with early onset dementia. Few people knew the truth of her living in multiple lifetimes as if they were all the present.
That’s about the extent of it. Oh! Except this: Not long after Philip’s tragic death at age 16, I was born into a lovely family of Knowers, and had a delightfully innocent childhood. I was just a boy when I met this other kid who seemed to just get me—you know?
The End
Next: Dead at Seventeen
* * *
dead at seventeen
(Free sneak peak)
chapter one
1998
I have so much to tell you. I had quite a life in seventeen short years. The Nineteen-nineties were cool, I had what I thought was a true nemesis, I met the love of my life, I had real friends, and I fought a man who was determined to kill me. It was quite a ride. The love part was probably the best bit, but it was a long time coming, and I had to fight really hard for it. Oh, and then I died. Again. Dang it.
chapter two
I grew up in a town called New Rochelle. It’s about ten miles from New York City, and a lifetime away from there. We lived in a nice little house, not far from the Long Island Sound. I had my own bedroom, and kids on the block to play with. We went shopping at the local Macy’s for Christmas and swam at the local beach in the summer. Everything was great.
Until it wasn’t.
I realized later that it started long before I was even aware of it. I must have been five or six when the doctor appointments started. The medicine bottles started to fill the bathroom, but I was totally oblivious to the changes until my folks sat me down and told me that my mom was sick. Very sick. She didn’t get better, but she certainly did get worse. I tried to pretend that nothing had changed, and that we were the same happy family we’d always been. Hey, I was a little kid who didn’t understand what was happening. Until my mom went into the hospital and didn’t come out. That’s not right, she did come home again, it’s just that she was so changed it was almost like she was a different person. She was really thin, and hardly ever left her bedroom. When she did come out to the living room, we would make a big deal about how great she looked, until Dad would have to help her back to bed.
Well, she died when I was eight. That was almost nine years ago. From then on, it was just my dad and me in the house near the shore. Then Dad met Charlotte. More on that later.
Before my mom got too sick, she took me to Hudson Park for swimming lessons. I met this other boy there, and we were instant best friends. Mathew and I spent the entire summer together, either at the beach or at each other’s houses. On the first day of swim class, Mathew took off his shirt and I saw the scars on his chest. He told me he’d had heart surgery when he was a baby, and would probably need it again at some point. Even though I’d just met him this news made me so sad I almost cried. I learned later that he had a specific kind of genetic heart malformation that was almost always eventually fatal. He didn’t seem to pay the scars any attention so I tried to ignore them as well. After swim class, I saw our moms hanging out together talking. My mom’s straight brown hair and straight up and down figure contrasting with Mathew’s mom's curly blonde hair and curvy shape. They were deep in conversation and didn’t see us until we got right next to them.
This is when a weird thing happened. My mom called Mathew over. She bent over and looked at him. She didn’t say anything, just looked into his eyes. It was slightly uncomfortable and seemed to go on for a while. Mathew suddenly lost his balance and began to stumble, but my mom caught his arm and kept him from falling. We all laughed and that was it. But Mathew’s mom looked at my mom sorta funny as they walked away.
The next day Mathew’s short and stocky dad brought him to the swimming lesson instead. It was the only time I ever saw him that summer and I noticed that he stayed talking with my mom the whole time Mathew and I were in the water. They were still standing together and talking after we’d gotten dressed and walked up to them.
“Come on over, young man,” Mathew’s dad said to me, as he crouched down to be closer to my height. “I’ve got a few questions for you.” I stood next to him and he started asking me all kinds of questions: about school and swimming and my parents. My answers didn’t seem to be very important to him, but he was gazing into my eyes the whole time as if he was trying to read a very small print that he could just barely make out. Once I’d answered his questions to his satisfaction, he stood and turned to my mother. “You’re right,” he told her. “About everything. Try not to worry, I’ll be there.” Then he took Mathew’s hand and they walked away. Although I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, years later it all became so much more meaningful.
Once school started, we didn’t hang out as much, we were in different schools and other things seemed
more important. After the pills started appearing, Mom began to push me to go over to Mathew’s house, but I didn’t want to go anymore. It just didn’t seem right, somehow.
Anyway, months passed, my mom died, and the next year I saw Mathew in the park, by the beach. He came running over laughing and wanted to go swim and then come over to my house when I just flipped out on him. I told him that he didn’t understand anything, and I couldn’t just go with him as if nothing had happened, and that he was an idiot if he thought that he was coming over to my house. Of course, I topped it off by saying that I hated him, I wasn’t his friend, and I never wanted to talk to him again. When I saw him start to cry, I started to yell, calling him a jerk and a moron and every bad word a nine-year-old knows. I wanted him to cry as much as I’d cried over the last year, but there was no way I could make him cry that much, so I spat at the ground by his feet and marched away, kicking the ground and muttering all the things I’d just said to him to myself.
I mostly stayed around our home after that. I would either play by myself in the back yard, or I’d be in the living room, playing video games. My dad didn’t seem to notice that I was always home, or if he did, he didn’t mind it. Sometimes he would talk to me as though I was one of his grown-up friends, discussing things I didn’t even begin to understand. Other times, he would talk to me like a toddler, sometimes holding me or rocking me. It was a little weird but comforting.
Five years later, when I was thirteen, my father called me over and we had the strangest conversation yet.
“Jason, come sit down. We need to talk,” he said sitting at the antique farm table he and Mom had bought when I was five. I slid onto the long bench across from him. “When your mother realized she may not be around much longer, she told me that I had to have this talk with you if she couldn’t.” His eyes got all glassy like they did whenever he talked about Mom, and he looked down at the table for a moment. I thought he was going to start a “Birds and Bees” talk, and I began to panic. What he said next came as a total surprise. “You and your mother belong to a group of people known as the Knowers. You are about to start something called the Awakening. I can only help you a little bit with this.” He stammered a bit, looked up at me, then down at the table again.
“Your mother was a Knower, I’m not, but we talked about it a lot, and I think I understand most of what’s going to happen with you. You are going to start seeing things and feeling things that might not make sense. Just know that you’re not going crazy. Has any of that happened to you? Have you seen something that doesn’t make sense?”
“No, Dad. Not that I can think of. I really don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sorry. I know this sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. Okay, here’s the whole story, it’s a long one. Knowers are born over and over with perfect recall of their memories from each previous life. You should get your memories sometime in the next few years because Awakening happens during puberty. The knowledge of all these lifetimes is used by Knowers to solve difficult problems, avoid terrible outcomes, and even predict when bad things might happen. Amy was a master at that last one. Your mother once had me pull the car over two minutes before a drunk driver came barrelling down the wrong side of the road at a hundred miles an hour.” A little grin snuck onto his face. “One of a kind, your mother.” He sniffed, closed his eyes for just a moment, and continued.
“Anyway. She made me promise to have this talk with you when you were thirteen. And to give you this letter after.” He’d had the letter sitting on his lap the whole time before he brought it up and slid it across the table to me. My mother’s handwriting on the front said, “For Jason, age 13.”
“Being a teenager is weird anyway, and for you, it’s going to be a lot weirder than it ever was for me. But we’re in this together, buddy. Just like it’s always been. You and me. Remember that no matter what happens, you can talk to me. I’m here for you, Jason. Now, go read your mom’s letter, and we’ll talk after if you want to.” He slid the letter, almost reluctantly, across the table to me. I took the letter into my room, closed the door, and carefully cut the letter open. I didn’t want to tear through my mom’s handwriting on the envelope.
Dear Jason,
You probably feel confused by what your dad just told you. But all of it is true. You and I are Knowers. We remember our histories and everything we learned in each of our many, many lives. If you haven’t come to Awakening yet, you will soon, and you will be amazed at how you just know things, and what to do, and what’s going to happen. How I wish I could be there to share this with you and help you through the rough patches.
Some Knowers live big lives helping to solve the problems of the world. Some live smaller lives helping their family and community. Some learn to ignore their Knowledge and turn away from who they are. I should also tell you that some Knowers can’t handle all that comes with this life and go crazy. But don’t worry, that won’t be you.
I looked into your eyes when you were a baby and saw that you were going to grow into a Knower. When a Knower sees deeply into the eyes of another Knower, it's called the Look, and it can unlock any memories that the two share. It’s how we recognize each other. I’ve only met a few Knowers in my life (we tend to avoid large gatherings for safety reasons). But when I gave you the Look, I could see shadows of our many lives around each other turn to vivid recall. I’ve been your aunt many times, as well as sister, brother, cousin, and grandmother once. This was the first time I’ve been your mother, and it’s been an honor.
What can I tell you about Awakening that would help? If you’re around people you’ve known in other lifetimes, it helps. If you’re around locations where your Others have lived, that helps too. If someone asks you, “Do you know me?” that’s our way of finding other Knowers without looking ridiculous if we’re wrong. I remember that for months during my Awakening I felt like I had just gotten off of a rollercoaster—all the time. It wasn’t pleasant, but it doesn’t last. Once you leave your teen years behind, your stomach settles down.
One more thing I need to tell you. There should be another Knower to join you as your life’s companion. In my memories of our lives together, you always had the same soul by your side. Keep an eye out for that one, won’t you? You may have already met. I can’t tell you everything!
Your father is a good man, but he’s not a Knower. I’ve tried to teach him as much as I can about what to expect with you, but please be patient with him. I’ve got a feeling you will discover the teacher you need and they should help you get through what your dad can’t help you with.
Let me leave you with this. With great knowledge comes great power. Use it well. Use it to help others. Use it to make the world a better place.
I can’t tell you how sorry I am that our time together was so short. The one comfort I have is that we will be together again. Maybe next time we can be a brother/sister crime-fighting duo that takes on the bad guys. Wouldn’t that be great?
I’ll see you around,
Love, Amy, your Mom
The Knowers
Dead at Sixteen
Dead at Seventeen
Dead at Eighteen
About The Author
D. A. E. Jackson
D.A.E. Jackson has always been passionate about self-expression. As a younger person on this planet, dancing, singing, and acting were the preferred modes, now it's writing. Jackson was raised in Kansas, spent many years in New York City and suburbs, and is now happily back in Kansas again. Living with a very understanding husband and 2 not so understanding dogs fills the days. When there's a break in the writing Jackson enjoys a weekend dance class and the occasional 5k.
https://daejacksonauthor.wixsite.com/authorsite
Acknowledgement
I would like to most especially thank my ever-lovin' husband, Paul, for his patience and understanding, and for his first read of the material, and subsequent encouragement to keep on with it. Also, Debra Thimmesch, editor extraodinaire who whipped me and this
book into shape and Steven Shipman for a beautiful cover. I would also like to thank my family and friends who not only put up with me talking about my new project, but also were kind enough to read it and proofread it for me. Any editing or any other kind of mistake included is certainly mine and mine alone.
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