by John Edward
They were more nightmares than dreams.
Los Angeles
Special Agent Bobby Anderson’s flight landed in Los Angeles, and he received a special escort from the aircraft to the FBI office downtown, where an office had been arranged for him. Two agents and a secretary also were given to him by order of the FBI director through the Special Agent in Charge. He slumped in the chair and scanned through the text messages on his mobile telephone pad. There were a dozen from Belfast and one from the director. He read his boss’s first:
“Personnel in L.A. office are clean, in my estimation. However, I advise you to suspect everyone and everything you encounter, as discussed between us. Solve this case.”
Not that he needed any further encouragement … Anderson stifled a smile. His old friend was deathly afraid that the solution to the Marcus Jackson kidnapping would damage the agency and lead to further questions about the President’s killing. The entire intelligence community of the United States—and around the world, for that matter—were being publicly challenged to prove they were not involved. Difficult to prove a negative, but a professional proactive investigation by Agent Bobby Anderson would go a long way to winning back some credibility for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
But even with a new and overwhelming challenge, he couldn’t get the serial killing investigation out of his mind. The evidence at the bizarre crime scene in Belfast had pointed to an international scope of conspiracy, and his personal instinct—almost from the very beginning of his involvement—was that it somehow tied back to the United States, as well as other countries. But how? Why? Could there somehow be a link to the abduction of the late President’s son?
He did not want to speak of his questions to anyone. He kept it all in his gut and in his mind. He would follow the evidence, and right now the evidence and his FBI superiors wanted him to follow up persistent rumors that Marcus’s kidnappers were from L.A.—or might have transported the boy to L.A.
The hair on the back of Bobby’s head stood up when Los Angeles had been mentioned in the first briefing on the abduction case. Making connections … this was what Agent Anderson did. But connect what to what? He smiled inwardly at the thought. More would be revealed, as Dawson Rask might say.
Which brought Bobby back to the memory of his days in NYPD. That had been an education and a half. Something he’d never forget. His rookie assignment had been to the homicide squad, and his very first case a suspected serial killer operating in the five boroughs of the city. Those were the days of HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR tabloid headlines and Mob hits seemingly every Thursday and the days before routine DNA testing. But Officer Anderson caught a juicy one they called the Bridge Man, who killed and mutilated prostitutes beneath some of New York’s famous bridges. Nine months of his life were devoted to meticulous follow-up of evidence and interviews with witnesses.
He made himself go to church every Sunday and showered twice a day—and he didn’t have a drop to drink, not even a single beer, during the investigation. He barely kept his sanity. Finally, he and his boss, a thirty-year sergeant, cracked the case together, based largely on a half thumbprint and a drug-addled witness at one of the crime scenes. And since then, during every day of his work in the FBI, he carried with him the lessons learned on the streets of the Big Apple—one of the chief of which was, he would follow his investigative instincts. Always.
* * *
So far, Anderson was drawing a complete blank on the Jackson case, and in frustration, he sat at his desk looking over the Belfast material again. How many times had he struggled with these case notes, and he still was left with more questions than answers.
Five of the first six victims had all been women, which had caused the police to conclude, at that stage of the investigation, that the motivation was, at least in part, sexual. The elaborate tattoos, the removal of the hearts, were perhaps no more than a smoke screen thrown up by the murderer to confuse investigators and throw them off the killer’s trail.
Then, the next victims, men of different backgrounds, diverted from the profile wildly. The only thing that seemed to emerge from the deaths was that in addition to the mutilations, the placement of the bodies seemed to show an ever-widening circle. The damnable thing was that in spite of the twenty-four-hour surveillance of the crime scene, bodies continued to pop up as if by magic.
Instinctively, Bobby Anderson, who was focusing more and more on the cultist dimensions of the crime, believed that the key lay before him—not only to solving these murders but to something else, something of greater dimensions. Once he found that key, it would unlock a door to a new mystery that had not even presented itself yet.
Anderson felt pulled in two directions. Mostly, that was because he was. The Bureau felt he was the most capable man to investigate what was going on in Belfast, and at the same time the chief entrusted him to find the President’s kidnapped son. To say that this was an honor and a curse was to put it mildly.
On top of it all, Anderson had become haunted by dreams of the murders and the victims. Not a night passed when he did not see one or more of them. They attempted to speak to him in the dreams, but he could not hear them. It was if he were deaf or watching a silent movie. Their lips moved indistinctly, and he could not read them. Yet he sensed quite clearly that they were trying to tell him that the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency, arms of the American government for which he worked, were somehow involved in the crime—that he was there for a purpose beyond merely helping to solve the murders. He was there as a representative of some sort, someone who would carry back a message to his superiors that would lead to … what?
* * *
One night he bolted upright after such a dream, fully awake and sweating profusely. He had been given an insight but only for a fleeting moment, and he had not been able to hold on to it, to grasp it in his mind. What was it? What was the message that he—and only he—was supposed to receive? What was the key to these brutal acts?
Then he had another dream. Or was it a vision? It was something that had not yet happened, but he could not conceive of how it could happen, or when—or why.
He was standing on a stage of some kind. It was almost like an ancient Greek amphitheater with seats that rose up all around the stage, surrounding him. All the seats were filled, and the people in them were cheering loudly, unceasingly. Anderson was no longer alone, and as he looked around, he saw familiar faces elsewhere on the stage. One face in particular—a young man with whom he was very familiar, was Marcus Jackson, the son of the late President of the United States. In the dream Marcus smiled at Bobby Anderson. It was as if they shared some secret knowledge—but again, the FBI agent had no clue what that knowledge was. Somehow he knew, though, that the boy held the key. How could that be? What in God’s name had the son of the President to do with these murders in Belfast, Ireland?
A small, still voice within seemed to be attempting to communicate with Bobby, to guide him onto the correct path. What was it? Who was it? Was it anything besides his cop’s instinct, which had never failed him, from his first NYPD case till now? He listened … listened hard. But he sensed only the faintest “sound” as a tickling of his consciousness.
Overloaded. Oversensitive. Undersleeping. He could not shut off. His mind was constantly racing with symbolism, and now the facts of both investigations were bleeding together. And he was losing objectivity since he felt connected to the family … more than most.
* * *
During the last presidential campaign, Bobby Anderson had been detached from the FBI for the duration to provide security for Candidate Jackson and his family. It was an interesting assignment, providing him with a close-up look at democracy in action. There was the time the bus broke down outside Ozark, Alabama, and a farmer and his wife fed the thirty-four people who had suddenly become their guests. Before the meal was over, another forty neighbors arrived and Candidate Jackson held an impromptu rally right there.
&nb
sp; Bobby remembered one of the guests who stayed in the background. The man had a sour expression on his face and Bobby was sure his ire was racially motivated. It was, but as it turned out his animosity was less toward Candidate Jackson than for his wife.
“I read she was a Vietnamese. She’s one of them illegals who come over here on a boat. We ought to put her on a boat and send her ass back to where she come from,” the man whispered to his neighbor, who hushed him.
Bobby overheard and kept an eye on him. He was relieved when he saw him climb into an old red pickup truck and drive away.
He also recalled a memorable flight. The chartered 757 that Senator Jackson had used as his campaign plane was named Chien Thang. Win had chosen the name, which was Vietnamese for “Victory.” On this night, the plane was flying through a storm, and as lightning flashed outside, the plane pitched and yawed as the pilot tried, unsuccessfully, to find some smoother air.
A lot of the passengers on board were visibly frightened, and Bobby recalled that young Marcus had gone out of his way to calm the fears of a female journalist from CNN.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” Marcus had told her. “Captain Kirby has more than ten thousand hours. Why, he flies through weather like this all the time. And this airplane? It is a Boeing 757, and it is as strong as a tank.”
“You seem to know a lot about airplanes,” the woman said.
“I’ve read all about them,” Marcus said.
Bobby watched from three rows back, smiling in admiration as the boy continued to ease the young woman’s fears until she was actually laughing.
A few minutes later, Marcus walked back to the lounge and put a pack of popcorn into the microwave. When it started popping, Bobby walked back to join him.
“That’s smelling awfully good,” he said.
“You can share it with me,” Marcus said.
“I saw the way you handled that lady reporter. Your mom and dad would be very proud of you.”
“I remember what it was like when I was a little kid and would sometimes get scared,” Marcus said.
Bobby chuckled.
“I know why you are laughing. You’re still thinking of me as kid now. I’m not.”
“No, I guess you’re not.”
The bell rang and Marcus took out the popcorn. “If we both sit there, we can eat it out of the bag and won’t have to mess anything else up,” he suggested.
“Good idea.”
“Mr. Anderson, you investigated those serial murders in New York, didn’t you?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I read about them. Do you believe that there is evil in the world?”
“Of course. The person who killed all those people was evil.”
“No, I don’t mean evil as in an evil person. I mean evil, just all by itself.”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it that way. Why would you ask a question like that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about evil and reading about it. One of my favorite authors is Dawson Rask, and I really like what he writes about. I mean, I don’t like that stuff, but I wanted to talk to some grown-up about it, but I know that Mom wouldn’t want to think about such a thing, Dad doesn’t have time to think about it, and none of my friends that are my age would understand it. But you have actually come up against it.”
“I know Dawson Rask personally; he is a good friend of mine, as a matter of fact,” Anderson said. “I think he is incredibly smart and knows so much about ancient wisdom teachings and the depiction of good and evil in the world.”
“That is so cool. Can you introduce me to him some time?”
“Sure. How old are you, Marcus?”
“I’m going on fifteen.” He always liked to stretch his age a bit by claiming he was older than he really was.
“You’re lying. You are a thirty-four-year-old man in a fifteen-year-old kid’s body.”
* * *
Bobby got to know the Jackson family very well during that campaign, and he had grown especially close to young Marcus. Bobby had never been married, because he would have felt guilty subjecting his wife to the life he lived. But if he had gotten married, and had a boy, he would have wanted him to be exactly like Marcus. Marcus was intelligent, had a very good sense of humor, and beyond that, had an unerring sense of right and wrong.
Considering all that, it was not that unusual that the person who did show up in his dream, the person who was trying to help him deal with the concepts of good and evil, was Marcus Jackson Jr. But he cautioned himself to remain logical and professional. Stick to the data. Stick to the facts.
CHAPTER
72
As he awoke to the new reality, the President had one clear thought: He wanted to see his son. How long had it been? Was Marcus okay? In his gut—well, what had been his gut—POTUS knew the boy was alive, but he desired above all things to see him, to communicate with him somehow, and to bring him back to family and safety in the best way possible.
Likewise, he felt the need to see his own father, who had always remained a presence in his life, long after his death, when POTUS had been much younger … a time he had nearly forgotten, which now seemed as if it had been just a moment earlier, like every other event in his life. He existed now in a historical continuum and could access any time period of his earthly existence by mere thought, a sort of mental snapping of fingers to put him exactly where and when he wanted to be. Yet it was not all smashed together; each memory, each moment remained distinct and whole, though connected irrevocably to every other moment.
A light beam enveloped POTUS as he stood in the still-strange new plane of his existence. He did not and could not yet know it was Caleb, his would-be guardian and guide who caused the phenomenon. He felt it as a cool warmth, a light that blinded and illuminated simultaneously, completely cleared his mental vision and the channel that his soul had become.
“Dad!” His father was there, his face and figure before him as if he had always been there and would always be … Dad. Every conversation they had ever had ran through the President’s memory, every word and gesture of the man who had brought him into the world and held his hand when he was a little boy and shaped his decisions as a youngster, providing guidance by example. “Dad!” POTUS repeated, breathless.
“Son,” the man said, speaking the single syllable with a world of emotion.
The two embraced, though neither now existed in a corporeal dimension, in a very hard and very human hug.
“Have you seen young Marcus?” the newcomer asked his father. “I was informed by the Council that he was kidnapped. I need to know more. Is he still alive? Where is he?”
“He is alive. Still alive on Earth.”
POTUS had known it in his heart, but this confirmation from the one he trusted above all others gave him a great feeling of relief and comfort. He may be in danger but he is still alive. There could be no better news he would ever hear than that.
“I will find him and speak to him, somehow,” he vowed.
His father said, in the same voice POTUS so clearly remembered, “What you will do, now that you have crossed over to the side of the light, is what you are meant to do. What you were born for. Yes, you are called to guide Marcus in his time of difficulty and lead him to his own right choices, just as I have tried to do with you.”
“You were always saying that to me, Dad. I remember so clearly. When I was little, you always shared the best of yourself with me, teaching and guiding me. And I felt your influence even when you were gone.”
The entity who stood before him now, tall and strong, emanated nothing but pure love, unalloyed and without reservation or qualification.
Why did I never fully understand how Dad felt about me when I was young? Even as I matured and could look back and see all that he did for me … I never truly appreciated what it all meant and how he shaped me in every way imaginable. Did I make the right choices that he was always talking about—
even now? Well, I tried my damnedest to live up to those standards he set for me, mostly by his example.
“Son,” his father said, clearly reading the unspoken thoughts, “you were elected President of the United States, for goodness sake. You saved lives when you were in the service. You fell in love and married and had a family of your own. It is not possible to count the number of lives you affected for the good. Nor is it possible for me to express the great respect I have for you and all you’ve accomplished. But here’s the good news: We have all of eternity to have the conversation, and I can try to convey to you how much I love you every minute of those hours and eons. Time is now irrelevant to anything we do—or even who we are. We exist outside the bounds of time and physical space.”
Marcus is still alive. My father is here with me to help teach and guide me. I have entered a new place and a new, unending phase of existence … As much as I want to know what it all means—right now—I guess I’ll have to just absorb what I can, when I can. It’s, well, it’s very different than what I imagined it would be. Not that I spent a lot of time thinking about this stuff during my so-called lifetime.
“So true, son,” his father said. “None of us truly understood fully the implications of our actions and the energy we projected during our time on Earth. More will be revealed to you—and to me. More will be revealed.”
Suddenly, with the same swiftness with which it had arrived, the brilliant, otherworldly light vanished and a chill enveloped POTUS. He stood alone. Though he knew he was not alone and never would be again, he noted the absence of his father, a source of positive, life-giving energy. He looked around and saw the outline of his new environment retaking definition and shape and dimension. And he saw IRA, standing beside him with an odd smile on his otherwise bland visage.
An insight into the true nature of the guide nearly came to him, but POTUS could not hold on to the thought that flitted across his mind then exited. There’s too much going on right now, he said to himself.