Beloved Lives

by Evans, Marilyn

  “You know,” Mitch said, looking into her eyes, “It's not just because you laugh at my jokes that I like you. You're smart and strong and funny. And really beautiful.”

  April ducked her head in embarrassment. “I was afraid all this craziness would scare you off.”

  Mitch laughed. “Are you kidding? I've been fascinated by all things paranormal most of my life. Your experiences make you one of the most interesting people I've ever met. And that I've been able to help you in some small way has meant a lot to me.” He kissed her gently.

  “I guess we've determined the answer to making my dreams go away is to be passionate,” April said.

  “Sounds like,” Mitch replied.

  “Would you like to be passionate?” she whispered, kissing Mitch on the ear.

  “Are you sure you’re not just using me to get rid of your dreams?” Mitch said, that cute grin on his face.

  “Oh, I’m planning on using you.” She stood up and took his hand, pulling him after her.

  “Well, okay. As long as we both know the score.”

  When they got to the bedroom, Mitch stopped and pulled her around to him. “Are you sure?” he said.

  She laid her cheek against his chest. “Yes. I am.” She raised her head and looked into his chocolate-brown eyes. “I’m not just using you, you know. Even if it weren’t for the dreams, I still…”

  She didn’t quite know how to finish that sentence. Mitch kissed her, and the finish became moot.

  Slowly, they peeled shirts off each other interrupting kisses as each garment went over their heads. When it came to getting shoes off, they did some laughing and hopping from foot to foot. They took turns sitting on the bed to pull off jeans, having found that one-footedness lacked dignity.

  April knew Mitch was all about safety, so she wasn’t surprised when he produced a small packet of condoms. She had a similar, recently purchased packet in her dresser drawer but decided to keep those in reserve. Just in case.

  Finally, with all their clothes removed and protection near at hand, they slid between the clean sheets and started exploring each other’s terrain. April discovered Mitch’s tattoo. Mitch discovered April’s birthmark. By the time they finally came together, they were both panting. Slow as Kansas City blues, they moved in rhythm, finding the melody, rising in a crescendo until the final measure and a full stop.

  After a brief intermission, there was an encore.

  Chapter 36. Starting Over

  Mitch was dozing as April made little circles on his chest with her finger and watched him breathe. Making a soft, snoring wheeze with each breath in and out, Winston slept soundly at the foot of the bed.

  Without preamble or warning, an explosive sound of shattering wood and glass made April flinch and brought Mitch bolt upright. Winston scrambled from the foot of the bed and vanished.

  April jumped to her feet and grabbed her housecoat from the back of the bedroom door. She ran into the living room, followed closely by Mitch, who was pulling on his jeans.

  “What the—?” April said, flipping on the living room light.

  She froze at the sight of Weston standing amid the broken remains of her front door. Obviously, kicked in, the door’s shattered, glass panels were strewn across the carpet.

  Weston appeared to have shaved and bathed, looking much more like himself, except he had added a new accessory. In his hand he held a large, shiny pistol.

  She knew she shouldn’t. She saw how dangerous he looked, how mad his eyes were, but she couldn’t stop herself. “It wasn’t locked,” she said, looking him in the eye. She couldn't quite believe how cold and steady her voice sounded.

  Weston snorted. He even had the decency to look embarrassed, but he didn't look as if he were likely to be sidetracked. “You’re coming with me,” he said not taking his eyes off April, holding the pistol away and slightly to the left of her.

  Mitch tried to move in front of April, but she shook her head.

  “No,” she said to him, taking his hand and holding him back.

  Weston looked back and forth from her to Mitch. April could see by the look on Weston's face he knew he was too late. She could feel a hot blush coming over her face and was angry at herself for it. She owed Weston nothing. Still, he seemed to think she did because, in a mounting rage, he aimed the gun at Mitch.

  “This is all your fault,” he said softly, murderous intent in every word.

  April moved to fully block Mitch from Weston’s gun.

  “Khaemnun,” she said, her voice deep and strong, a voice she barely recognized as her own, fueled by her anger.

  Weston’s eyes blinked once and then focused on her.

  “If you harm him, I’ll make you regret it for a thousand lifetimes.”

  Weston stared at her then roared in frustration. Twice, he fired the gun at the ceiling. Bits of plaster and dust showered them. The room smelled of gunfire.

  “Then come with me now,” Weston demanded. “I won’t kill him if you come. We can start again.”

  A low, alien growl coming from the dining room rose into a shriek, announcing the other Winston. Puffed to nearly twice his huge size, he charged into the living room, launching himself into the air. Weston had just enough time to swing his gun in a wide arch that caught the cat in midflight and smashed him into the wall. Winston groaned as he slid to the floor and lay still.

  “Are you insane?” April yelled. “You hit my cat!”

  She crossed the room and kneeled on the floor beside him, quickly seeing that Winston was breathing but unconscious. She stood up, her housecoat falling open to reveal her naked body. Staring at Weston, April shook with rage. She turned to Mitch. “Call Trish. She knows where the emergency cat clinic is. His carrying box is in the guestroom.”

  Mitch nodded and, only looking at Weston once, slipped off to the bedroom to get his phone.

  April turned to Weston, saying, “Let’s go,” and with bare feet stepped through the broken glass and out her front door, wrapping her robe around her and tying it with the sash as she went.

  Weston hurried to catch up as she headed straight for his car leaving bloody footprints on the walk behind her.

  April went to the Mercedes then paused to calm her shaking rage. She breathed in the night air that smelled of the murderous honeysuckle and dirt, a sign rain would come at any minute. Weston was there, opening the door and pointing the gun at her.

  Climbing into the car, waiting for Weston to close the door and walk around to the driver’s side, she saw that he was holding his gun in plain view. She also observed that Mrs. Milliflor was both on her porch and on the phone, watching every move by the light of the street lamps. April could see her mouthing, probably shouting, what looked like the license plate number of the Mercedes. April’s neighbor might be hard of hearing, but apparently, she wasn’t so deaf that she didn’t know gunfire when she heard it.

  A streak of lightning flashed across the sky for the briefest moment, turning night to day, then was followed closely by a deafening clap of thunder. Finally, April thought, a cold front to ease the heat, rain to revive the plants. She felt calm and detached, watching fat drops of rain begin to spot the windshield, unconcerned about what Weston planned to do. Her mind was crystal clear. She had chosen Mitch and had no regrets. He and Trish would see that Winston was safe.

  The rain began to come down in sheets, as the car moved through the streets of April’s neighborhood.

  The lab would be short-handed for a while, she thought, until they could get someone to replace her. Her parents would miss her. She was an only child, and they would take it hard. But her life had been good. And she had loved people and had not made too many mistakes. And now the rain was falling, and the flowers would bloom again, the grass and trees would be green. That’s all right, then, she thought.

  When Weston turned another corner, she realized he was headed toward the hospital instead of his apartment as she had expected. If he tried to take her through the emergency room, su
rely, one of the security people could be alerted. They had training in dealing with armed assailants. There might be a chance yet. But that hope was silenced when he pulled into the reserved parking lot and led her to the doctors’ private entrance. He swiped a card, taking her through the door and up the back stairs in the office tower attached by breezeways to the main working wings of the hospital.

  We’re going to his office, she thought. Then she thought it again, like the good-night wishes she sent out before she went to sleep. Please, be psychic, Mitch, Trish. Please know he’s taking me to his office.

  Weston was trying to pull her up the stairs, but April was climbing slowly because of the cuts on her feet. She thought her injuries might work to her advantage, but Weston effortlessly lifted her into his arms and carried her up the last flights.

  The floor with the cardiology staff offices was dark on this late Saturday night, or perhaps by now, it was early Sunday morning. But the hospital and office buildings were not abandoned. Cleaning crews and workers on the nightshift occupied the corridors of hospitals and office buildings at all hours. Surely, someone would come, would see them and stop this. She held her breath, waiting for a night worker to pass them in the halls, speculating whether or not crying out would make any difference.

  They met no one on the way to Weston’s office. He put her gently on her feet and held her arm firmly as he unlocked his office door and pulled her into the room. He picked her up again and placed her on a settee along one wall, then went back and locked the door from the inside.

  His office was as elegant as his apartment, modern with clean lines, expensive furniture, and art on the walls. A statue of the Egyptian hawk-headed god had a place of honor by his desk, and near it, orchids bloomed, much the same as in his apartment. There were no patient files or papers on his desk. He was one of those tidy sorts, April guessed, who cleared his desk every night.

  “Neat freak,” she muttered to herself. Yet another reason they weren’t compatible, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Weston walked to the statue. “Horus, I have served you for four thousand years. Why have you abandoned me?” His voice caught in a sob.

  A bolt of lightning lit the dim room, followed by thunder that rattled the windows. Weston pulled the blinds all the way open and stared into the night.

  “Meriankhu,” he said, turning to April. “I have always been faithful. I have always found you or come to you when you found me. What has happened? And why? Why in the last life? Why in this one?”

  “I don’t know,” April said, honestly and not without sympathy. “Maybe the time has come to let go. When it’s no longer good, perhaps it’s time to move on.”

  Weston sneered. “Did you read that in some women’s magazine?”

  April was quiet, thinking. Finally, she asked, “Why are you so often older than I am?”

  Weston slowly shook his head. “Not since I gave myself over to Horus, not since I…” He paused. “Not since I brought you back to life, have I truly died. My body ceases to function, but my Ka never goes to the land of the dead. Anubis has no hold over me. Horus carries me back to be reborn each time.

  “But you died. Before you were reborn as my Meri, you died. Your spirit knows its way to the land of the dead. I can’t stop that, but I can find you when you return. And now, we will start again. And I will find you again. All will be as it should be.”

  He’s stark-raving mad, April thought.

  Chapter 37. Last Rites

  April didn’t know what they had been waiting for, but she was grateful for the time to send more thoughts of love and farewell to Mitch, Trish, her parents, and Winston. Every time she thought of Winston and his poor, crumpled body, she got angry all over again.

  “It’s almost time,” Weston said at last, crossing the room to stand in front of April, where she sat on the little sofa.

  The wind and rain had stopped beating at the window. April could hear the whisper of the air-conditioning. She could smell the faintest scent of incense on Weston’s clothes. She stood up from the settee and looked up into his eyes.

  “Dawn and dusk,” he said, softly, lovingly, as her stroked her cheek. “When Ra arrives and departs.”

  He put his hand on her arm and led her to the window, facing toward the east. They couldn’t actually see the sunrise because storm clouds and the medical office building across the street were in the way, but they faced that direction anyway.

  Weston raised the gun to April’s head.

  “Now we can start again and live as we should,” Weston said, “as we are destined to, as Fate dictates we should.”

  Now it ends, thought April, but does it?

  “Winston?”

  He looked surprised, maybe because she had finally called him by his name. “Yes?”

  “What happens if this happens all over again? What if I don’t love you again?” If he was going to kill her, she at least wanted to know that.

  He lowered the gun, looking troubled, and would not meet her eyes.

  “Will you keep killing me, over and over? Will it never end?”

  “This was just a mistake,” he answered. “The next life will be as it should be. I’m sure of this.” He was resolved, and nothing was going to stop him. “The Gods have deemed this to be our destiny, our fate.”

  As he raised the gun again, April nodded then braced her runner’s legs against the edge of the desk. On Weston’s chest, she placed the hands that held her up when she did push-ups with a thirty-pound cat on her back. She raised her eyes to look into his muddy green ones and stood painfully on tiptoe, so she was as close to his ear as possible. He bent slightly toward her, a little off his center of balance.

  “Screw Fate,” she whispered and shoved as hard as she could.

  She didn’t really have a plan, but she figured better to be a moving target than give up without a fight. She dove for the floor and began to scramble away. Weston didn’t fall, and he didn’t drop the gun, but his arms pinwheeled as he tried to regain his balance. He would be drawing a bead on her as soon as he righted himself. She knew that.

  April closed her eyes and one last time wished farewell to her loved ones. She heard a “thwick” and a muffled thump, like a fist hitting someone in the chest. She felt a warm, wet splatter and wondered why she felt no pain. Opening her eyes, she saw Weston crumpling beside her. Blood blossomed on his chest, ruining his expensive shirt.

  Slowly, she rose from the floor and looked at the window, seeing that it was starred around a small hole. On the roof of the building across the street, in the gathering light of dawn, she could just make out the silhouette of a man with a rifle.

  The door to Weston’s office burst inward. Two men in SWAT uniforms were shouting as they hurried to Weston and removed the gun from his hand. A paramedic, close on their heels, tried to pull April away, but she fought him.

  “Wait,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, trying not to scream.

  Then she drew upon her history, upon the queen she had once been, upon the warrior and the healer and all the women she had ever been who had commanded and been obeyed. “This has to end. This has to end now.”

  The police officers and the medics—people used to following orders spoken with authority—stepped back, looking at one another.

  April kneeled down next to Khaemnun, who was not alive but never dead. Where the words came from, she could not say, but they were there, and she knew they were what was needed.

  “Isis, Great Goddess, once I was your priestess. Hear me now. Take the spirit of this man who has served the Gods, and guide him on his way. Anubis, weigh his heart, and find it as light as Maat’s feather. Receive him, and make him welcome. Give him peace. Please, finally, give him peace.”

  April heard a buzzing, like bees in a garden, and smelled the scent of flowers, a caressing warmth wrapping around her. A golden light blinded her but only for a moment. The warmth and light were gone as quickly as they had come, leaving her cold, wearing nothin
g but her ragged housecoat. Her bare feet were bleeding, and she was surrounded by police. But miraculously, Mitch also was there.

  One of the members of the SWAT team turned to another and scratched his head, asking, “What was that about?”

  Mitch, who was holding April in his arms, looked over her shoulder, and said to them, “Last rites.”

  He wrapped a blanket around April then lifted her into his arms and off her wounded feet. He carried her through the office door and to a wheelchair that was waiting in the hallway. Once he had her settled, he draped another of the paramedic’s blankets over her knees. He took her hands andkneeled beside her.

  “Trish is supposed to call as soon as she knows something about Winston.”

  “Thank you,” she said and held his hands tightly, leaning her head toward his, resting it there. When the medics wheeled her toward the elevator, Mitch stayed close beside her, explaining how, just as April had hoped, Mrs. Milliflor had called the police and described in exhausting detail Weston, his car, and his gun, as well as the times and dates when he had been watching the little bungalow over the past few weeks. April was going to have to find some way to thank her wonderfully nosy neighbor.

  April was taken to the emergency room, where her feet were treated, and she could answer the police detective’s questions. Her explanations, along with Mrs. Millifor’s information, seemed to convince the police that it was a classic case of stalking, and when April had rejected the physician's advances, the man had become unbalanced. They told her that her quick thinking had helped the sharpshooter get a clear shot. Everyone seemed thankful they weren’t dealing with a murder-suicide, as they had feared.

  April felt it was wrong to write off Weston as a crazy stalker. He had been true to his beloved and to his god. But she didn’t have the strength to try to set the record straight. And she didn’t think anyone would believe her, anyway.

  While she and Mitch waited for the police to decide whether Mitch could take her home, Trish called. Mitch handed April his phone.