Last Seen Alive

by Carlene Thompson

  “No. I can just tell you like her and I don’t want you to think I’ll let her down.”

  “She’s a great kid.”

  “I can tell that, too.”

  Five minutes later, Chyna sipped a cappuccino and nibbled a chocolate biscotti. Scott drank espresso and ordered two pieces of cheesecake. “Is the cheesecake good here?” Chyna asked drily.

  Scott flushed. “Well, yeah, and cheesecake is my ultimate weakness.” He leaned across the table and said softly, “It’s good, but not as good as your mother’s.”

  Chyna smiled. “She’d be so pleased to hear you say that.”

  “Maybe she can hear me.”

  “Ah, a believer in the afterlife?”

  “Definitely.” He paused, looking at her intently. “And you?”

  Intellectually, no, she wanted to say. But how could she take that stance when she’d been hearing voices from beyond the grave since she was seven, and particularly the last two days? “I’ll take the Fifth on that issue,” she answered lightly.

  Scott sipped his espresso and looked at her with his depthless dark eyes. “Why were you so shaken at the funeral home? And don’t tell me it’s because death always frightens you. I won’t believe that one coming from a doctor who deals with death every day.”

  “I try to stop death every day.”

  “That’s very noble. It’s also evasive.”

  “How about the time-honored expression ’it was meant to be’?”

  “That won’t work, either.”

  Chyna picked up her cappuccino, saw that her hand was shaking, and immediately put down the cup. “Do I have to tell you what frightened me?”

  “No. You don’t have to tell me anything. But I think confiding in me might make you feel better. I don’t know why I think that—we’re not exactly best friends—but I’ve known you all your life.”

  “You’ve barely known me.”

  “I’ve known you better than you think. Our mothers’ friendship, remember? I’ve heard a lot about you. Besides, I’ve had an interest in you since you were a teenager. If I hadn’t been seven years older than you …” Chyna raised an eyebrow and Scott’s cheeks reddened. “Well, that sure didn’t come out right. I sound like a pedophile. What I meant was that you’ve never been invisible to me. Not even when you were only seven or eight. I always thought you were … different.”

  “Different? Is that because people thought I was a kook?”

  “Different because you were special.” Chyna stared at him. “Oh, forget it,” Scott said. “I can’t explain how I felt. I didn’t understand it myself.”

  “Well, that’s helpful.” Scott looked at her closely, as if he expected her to be offended, but she smiled at him. “I’ll take ’special’ any day over ’a kook.’” Chyna finally felt calm enough to lift her cappuccino cup to her mouth. “Your mother will be angry when she finds out you didn’t attend the funeral.”

  “My mother hasn’t gotten even miffed with me since the plane accident. I’m beginning to feel like a hothouse flower. She even lapses into baby talk over the phone.”

  “She’s grateful you weren’t killed, Scott.”

  “I should have been.” He looked at her with such sudden sadness in his eyes, Chyna felt overwhelmed. His voice was so sincere, his gaze so full of pain, she knew his feeling of guilt ran even deeper than she had imagined.

  “Scott, the crash was in no way your fault,” she said softly, even though no one sat near them. “I read everything I could find about it. I know what the investigation revealed.”

  “The fan on number three engine failed, slicing through the plane’s hydraulic lines,” Scott said, his voice emotionless. “Without hydraulic fluid, the plane was almost totally

  out of control—jerking, shuddering. No elevators to control the pitch. No aileron control.”

  “Aileron?”

  “It’s a movable surface at the edge of the wing that controls maneuvers like banking. We were losing altitude; we couldn’t turn right. We’d lost the steering. Without hydraulics, we had no brakes.”

  Scott’s eyes stared at her without seeing her. They were lost back on that horrible day. She could literally feel his panic, his fight for inner control, his mind scrambling for a way to get the plane down without crashing. He couldn’t know it, but her heart was probably beating as hard as his had during those awful moments as the plane dropped inexorably toward the ground. She knew it had hit, risen again, then nose-dived and split into four pieces.

  “Scott, you saved one hundred and four people,” Chyna said gently.

  “And killed seventy-two.”

  “You didn’t kill them. The plane malfunctioned. You’re not omnipotent. You couldn’t control what happened to the engine fan. The newspapers said it was a miracle everyone wasn’t killed and that miracle was due to your skill.”

  “My luck.” Scott looked out the window. “We were over flatlands. If we’d been over a city, mountains, an ocean, there would have been no survivors.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe it was destiny.”

  Scott looked back at her, a bitter smile on his face. “Then destiny was awfully cruel to those seventy-two people who went up in flames when the plane crashed. Ten of them were children, Chyna. Children under twelve. They never really got a chance at life. But here I am. I was thrown clear of that inferno with some lacerations, a pulled ligament in my leg, and first-degree burns.” He hesitated. “I ask myself a hundred times a day if I should go back to being a pilot, and I don’t think I can.”

  Chyna paused, absorbing what he’d said, trying to come up with a comforting line, but she couldn’t and be honest, too. “I wish I had answers, Scott. I wish I knew why those

  people died, but I don’t. I haven’t a clue any more than I know why the innocent children I treat so often die of cancer. I wish I had faith that everything happens for the best-it would make death so much easier to accept—but I don’t have that kind of faith. So I simply do what I can to prevent even more sadness in the world than there is, and that’s exactly what you did, Scott. You saved one hundred and four people. That’s more than I’ve saved. Many more.”

  Scott continued to look at her, but his bitter smile faded. “I’m ashamed of myself for sitting here whining to you. Your job must be incredibly draining. Your mother has just died. You’re still grieving over her and I could see guilt about Zoey in your eyes down at the lake yesterday.” She lowered her gaze. “You can’t hide your sense of responsibility for Zoey or for your mother, Chyna. You don’t have to hide it. I understand.” She glanced up. He looked at her with a softness and compassion in his eyes. “I told you at the lake, I know you better than you think I do.”

  “That’s because you’ve heard so much about me from your mother.”

  “I’m fairly sure it’s something deeper than that.”

  “I don’t know what it could be,” Chyna returned. “Do you know this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had?”

  “I guess it is.” Their conversation had become gloomy, and Chyna sensed Scott wanted a change. Eyes twinkling, he looked at her and said, “It seems strange that we’ve never really talked, considering all the intimate stuff I know about you.”

  Chyna almost choked on her cappuccino. “All the intimate stuff you know about me? Like what?”

  “Well, I can’t go into it here.” Chyna played along, staring at him with wide eyes. For at least thirty seconds he stared back solemnly. Then he laughed. “I’m teasing, Chyna, although that horrified look you just gave me has made me wildly curious.”

  She set down her cup casually. “I’m really very boring.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Do you know you’re the first woman who has ever tried to convince me she’s boring?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything.” Chyna paused. “But I am boring.”

  �
�Whatever you say.”

  Chyna was on the verge of going into details about just how boring she was, suddenly perplexingly bent on proving she wasn’t worth his interest, when she realized Scott’s smile was genuine. She thought of the misery that had been there only minutes ago and decided she’d say just about anything to keep that look from returning. “Well, all right, you’ve found me out, Scott. I stay on the down low here in Black Willow, but I’m an absolute wild woman in Albuquerque.”

  “I’ve always suspected it, no matter how hardworking your mother claimed you were.”

  “Oh, I’m not really a medical resident. Actually, I run a call girl service.”

  “I’m impressed. You’re so young to be a madam.”

  “Well, you said I was smart.”

  “Not to mention enterprising.” Scott grinned, motioning for the waitress. Deirdre had appeared beside them again, this time looking slightly more composed.

  “Would you like something else?”

  Scott nodded. “I’d like another espresso.”

  “And more cheesecake?” Deirdre asked in amusement, looking at his two empty cake plates. Chyna couldn’t stifle a snicker.

  “No, I think I’ve had enough, Deirdre. It was delicious.” He looked at Chyna. “Another cappuccino or biscotti?”

  “Another cappuccino,” Chyna said.

  After Deirdre left, Scott looked at the white silk rose on the table for moment, then raised his dark eyes to Chyna. “I’ve poured out my heart to you for the last twenty minutes. Why don’t you tell me why you looked like you were going to faint outside the mortuary?”

  Chyna immediately stiffened. “I don’t like mortuaries.”

  “Here we go again. You’re trying to evade my questions, but you’re not getting off that easily, Chyna.” He leaned across the table and spoke softly. “There was definitely something wrong when I came up to you, and as disagreeable as arranging your mother’s funeral must have been, I don’t think it would have left you looking near death yourself.”

  “I was just tired, nervous..” Deirdre brought the cappuccino and left with a whiff of vanilla-scented cologne— the same scent Zoey had worn twelve years ago. Chyna felt the color drain from her face.

  Scott reached out and took her hand with a firm grip. “You’re like ice and it’s not cold in here.” He frowned. “Chyna, what’s wrong?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Let go of my hand, she thought. Let me go home and be alone. I don’t want to talk about my feelings. “I’m just sad and I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. …”

  “You’re not the helpless type,” Scott said sternly. “And no, I’m not turning loose of your hand so you can run away.” She looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t read your mind. You’re trying to pull your hand out of mine and you’re looking desperately at the door.”

  “Oh. The master detective.”

  “Just observant.” He seemed to scrutinize her face, his hand still firmly holding hers. “I can’t let you leave and drive home when you’re so obviously upset. Come on, Chyna; humor me. I’ve just been through a terrible experience, remember? Humor me and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Chyna glanced down at his hand holding hers, a hand much larger than her own, with a light dusting of black hair on the back, and two Band-Aids. The stitches have been removed, she thought absently, but the wounds still need protection.

  “Chyna?”

  When she was thirteen, Chyna had vowed she would never discuss her ESP with anyone except Zoey, a vow she’d

  kept. She realized she still harbored her old attraction to Scott, but that didn’t explain why she now had the urge to tell him the thing about herself she’d kept secret for years. Abruptly Chyna made up her mind. She felt as if she needed to open that secret part of herself, to tell her secret, and she wanted the recipient of that secret to be Scott.

  “All right.” Still looking down, she began to talk. “Scott, have you ever thought you heard voices?”

  She lifted her gaze. His face had become expressionless and she thought she saw wariness creeping into his eyes. “You mean those voices that say, ’This isn’t a good idea,’ or, ’Maybe I should check this lock, just to be sure’? That kind of voice?”

  “Well, yes,” Chyna said carefully, not wanting to immediately lose Scott’s attention by describing the kind of voices she did mean. “I guess you’d call them thoughts, only loud thoughts.”

  “Warning thoughts.”

  “Yes,” Chyna nearly pounced. “Not just the usual stream-of-consciousness sort of thing, but thoughts that seem to leap out from the rest to get your attention.”

  “I have those,” Scott said slowly.

  “Do you think everyone has them?”

  “Yes.” Chyna noticed he was rubbing the Band-Aids on his hand again. “I don’t think they’re unusual, Chyna. I believe some of them are the subconscious repeating warnings you’ve been given in the past. I think the rest of the voices are really instinctive thoughts for self-preservation that all normal people have.”

  “That makes sense,” Chyna said. “I believe that, too. But what if the thoughts are … stronger?”

  “Stronger?”

  “What if they manifest themselves as voices?”

  Scott waited an instant before answering. “I’m not an expert or anything, Chyna, but it seems to me a particularly strong thought could seem like an actual voice coming from someone besides yourself.”

  “Even if it isn’t warning you about something?”

  Scott stopped scratching his hand and leaned closer to her, frowning. “Why don’t you just say what you’re talking about instead of circling it like a plane circling the runway? Because you are talking about a particular experience, Chyna. I can tell. And I think it happened to you in the mortuary.”

  Chyna looked up at the Renoir print, tucked her long hair behind her ears, and finally said softly, “Nancy Tierney spoke to me.”

  2

  Scott stared at her in obvious shock for a moment before blurting out, “What?”

  Chyna drew back, offended. “I knew you’d react that way!”

  “And other people wouldn’t?” Disbelief, chariness, and an urge to flee crossed Scott’s face all in the space of less than a minute. Then he seemed to use all his strength to compose himself mentally, gave Chyna a tolerant, if not understanding, look, and said quietly, ’Tell me exactly what happened.”

  She hesitated, furious with herself. She was certain he didn’t believe her, but she’d blundered by telling him about Nancy instead of keeping her mouth shut as she should have. Now she’d backed herself into a corner and couldn’t just leave things hanging without explaining the incident.

  Chyna began slowly, being careful to keep her voice calm and her manner composed. “After we’d discussed the arrangements for Mom, Owen Burtram was walking me to the mortuary door when someone came saying they needed him immediately. Owen told me not to go into the ’slumber room’ where a funeral was to be held in about half an hour. I was leaving when I passed that ’slumber room.’

  “I didn’t know anything about Nancy Tierney or her death. I was just drawn in, almost against my will,” Chyna plowed on, not quite meeting Scott’s eyes for fear of what

  she might see. “There was a mountain of flowers, classical music playing, and lighting that threw everything into a soft glow. I looked in the casket and there was Nancy, beautiful and looking as if she were asleep. And then I heard a voice. She said,” Chynna’s own voice changed slightly as she imitated the singsong quality of the voice that had seemed to come from Nancy, “ ’Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight …’ Nancy’s mouth wasn’t moving, of course, but the voice sounded like Zoey’s down at the lake—”

  “Down at the lake?” Scott interrupted.

  “I’ll get to that later.” Chyna’s gaze finally met Scott’s, challenging the guarded expression in his eyes. “Anyway, as soon as Nancy had finished speaking, Rusty came in.”

  “Bu
t he didn’t hear her.”

  “I told you she’d already finished speaking. No. Rusty didn’t hear her. By then, the only sound was music. I asked Rusty about the girl in the coffin. He told me she was Nancy Tierney, his niece, and how she’d died.”

  “I see.”

  Chyna looked at Scott in disappointment. “You don’t believe me.”

  He fidgeted with a Band-Aid, then said carefully, “Well, I won’t say that I believe Nancy spoke to you.”

  “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, Scott. Just say what you mean.”

  “You’ve been through a lot, Chyna, and after all, Nancy is dead. But I do think you heard something or thought you heard something.” Chyna stared at him, frustration rushing through her. “It might have been a hallucination. Wasn’t Nancy the same age and coloring as Zoey Simms?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Couldn’t you have been projecting your sadness about Zoey onto Nancy?”

  “I could have, but I wasn’t.” For the first time, Chyna thought of the incident with absolute assurance. She had heard the rhyme coming from Nancy. “I told you it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard that rhyme,” Chyna said, wishing she could stop talking but unable to stem her flow of words.

  “The day we were at Lake Manicora, I heard the same thing. You’d already gone to your rehab session. I was still standing by the pond and I heard: ’Star light, star bright…’.”

  “Was that a favorite rhyme of yours when you were young?”

  “No. I’ve heard it, of course, but I never went around saying it or even thinking of it. And there was more.” Scott gazed at her steadily and kept scratching his bandaged hand. “The voice at the lake—Zoey’s voice; I’d know it anywhere even now—said, ’Chyna, I’m lost in the dark.’ I looked all around. No one was near me. Hardly anyone was at the lake that day, if you remember, Scott. When I heard the voice, I’m ashamed to admit my impulse was to take off like a coward, but I was too scared to move.”

  Chyna took a sip of her cold cappuccino before going on. “The voice asked if I was listening; then it said, ’You’re the only one who can help me.’ Then I did try to leave, but Michelle wouldn’t budge. Usually one little tug on the leash and along she comes, but not that day. The voice went on. ’You have to find me, because there were other girls like me. There will be more girls like me if you don’t do something.’ ”