by Nichole Van
“This Jasmine?”
“Cobra?” Were his looks as grizzled as his voice?
“So here’s where we’re at.”
The man just got down to business, didn’t he?
“I got a copy of a birth certificate for one Jasmine Aurelie Fleury—AKA you-but-not-you. Born in Boston, Mass to John and Aurelie Fleury on June 21, 1983—”
“I believe I already told you that, Mr. Cobra—”
“It’s just Cobra, ma’am.”
Got it.
“And with an investigation like this, I start at the beginning. So just to be clear, Jasmine Aurelie Fleury was registered with the state and federal governments under that name from birth. She was never adopted and, her mother, Aurelie Fleury gave birth at home, so no chance this was a hospital mix-up.”
A pause and the sound of papers shuffling. Jasmine stared out the windshield at the flowering shrubs lining the single-track road. When she wasn’t moving, the byway was picturesque. Google Maps said she was still an hour away from Caerleon. How was she going to make the rest of the trip?
“So in chatting with that geneticist boyfriend of yours—”
“Not my boyfriend.”
“Right.” A pause. “Anyway, he says it’s nearly statistically impossible for you to be genetically related to other members of your immediate family. Which means that your mother didn’t muddy the water, so to speak, because you would still be biologically related to her.”
What? Oh! She hadn’t considered that but . . . good to know.
Cobra continued, “So it seems likely that a swapperoo happened at some point.”
Ding, ding, ding. Wasn’t this where they started?
And was swapperoo a word?
“Ding, ding, ding, yes. Swapperoo is most definitely a word. It’s Native American for ‘If you don’t like my methods, you can kiss my—’”
Filter, Jasmine!
“Great, Cobra, I appreciate the info. So the car accident. Florida. January. 1990. That’s the likely place a mix-up happened. When real-Jasmine got replaced with me-Jasmine.”
“That’s just it. The police wouldn’t have released you to your grandma without being completely sure you were Jasmine Fleury.”
Okay . . .
“Which means that no one else was missing a child.”
“Didn’t we already know all of this, Cobra?”
Silence. The kind that was all exasperated and wanted to hurt things. Silences like that happened a lot around her.
Did Cobra get cute when he was testy? Some men were like that—
“Cute? Hardly.” He cleared his throat. “Forty-three cars were involved in the pile-up. Twenty-seven people died. As far as I can tell, none of the seventy-seven survivors match your age and description. I have followed up on all forty-three cars—”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you. As I was saying, I’ve followed up on all the vehicles and none of them had a dark-haired girl between the ages of six and eight. Most certainly no one had the name Minna. Jasmine was the closest derivative name at the scene. None of the victims matched you either, though forensics is spotty on several cars, including the Fleury family. The fire incinerated nearly all the evidence. For example, another burned car belonged to a solicitor, his wife and young daughter on vacation from Gloucestershire. They were only able to identify that car through the spotty remains of the child’s dental records.”
“So . . .”
“I’m at a loss, to be honest. Given the state of the Fleury car, it is entirely possible that the body of real-Jasmine was in the wreckage and just missed. If the police already had a child who matched the age and general description of real-Jasmine, they wouldn’t have continued to hunt for her. We know you were found at the scene of the accident. Your own memories, police photos and accident records place you there. The problem lies in the fact that no one else missed a child.”
Which is what Rita had basically said at the beginning, wasn’t it?
“Okay. So we have confirmed what we already thought to be true.” Jasmine stared out the window. “I was there that night. I remember the fire and fog. The screams. Now what?”
“Well, I’ve run through an awful lot of hypothetical scenarios. I’ll spare you my theories as they all boil down to this—either no one else knew you were in a car that night or, if someone did, they didn’t care enough to ever ask about you.”
Jasmine chewed on her cheek for a moment, trying to force back her stinging emotions.
With little success.
“I don’t know how a little girl could be so unnoticed and forgotten. It’s unusual.” He just had to rub salt in the wound, didn’t he?
Man, Cobra wasn’t going to be taking home the crown for being Miss Tactful.
Jasmine swiped at her wet cheeks. Fortunately, she was extra-gifted at silent crying. When you cried so easily, you became expert at all sorts of crying: quiet, hiccuppy, sniffily, ugly, elegant . . .
Basically . . . she had a repertoire.
“You’re crying, aren’t you?”
Yep. No tiara for him.
She sniffled.
“Why would I want a tiara?” Cobra heaved a very long-suffering sigh. “Do you remember anything at all before that night?”
“No sniff not really sniff. I have vague memories of riding the teacups at Disney World—”
“I hate those things.”
“That’s okay. Not everyone likes a good spinny ride. But my next memory is my sister telling me to run and then being in the dark, trying to find someone to help me. I remember being afraid. Barefoot and cold. Branches scratching me. And then people coming at me through the mist. That’s all.” Sniff.
A pause and then, “Interesting. The police report states you were found within minutes of arriving on scene, fully clothed with minor bruising. No mention of any scratches. This case is just more complicated than I originally thought. I’ll get answers. You had to come from somewhere.”
Cobra hung up a minute later, promising to call if he had a breakthrough.
Jasmine rested her head against the driver’s side window. Letting all the stress and worry and frustration and . . . hopelessness of the last two weeks rush over her.
. . . how could a little girl be so unnoticed and forgotten . . .
And knowing that bare fact, did she even want to learn the rest of her history?
She fought to pull out memories of the accident. Digging. Searching.
Looking out the window. Fog rolling in. An enormous sense of unease.
A burst of revelation . . . there was an inferno up the road. Death.
But the fog . . . no one could see . . .
Golden tendrils swirling around her, tugging, urging. Escape!
She had to get out. Now. She had to be saved.
Fumbling for the door handle. Hands reaching for her.
“No, love. Don’t open the door. You have to stay here.”
But she had to get away. The tendrils pushed her forward, toward the door.
A child screamed. “Mummy, she opened the door!”
And then she was falling. Rolling. Safe from the danger ahead.
Jasmine jerked her head upright, eyebrows drawn down.
How could that be? Why were her memories so contradictory?
She had always remembered her sister telling her to run.
Except maybe . . .
She hadn’t.
Chapter 14
Duir Cottage
A few hours later
April 4, 2015
The bleeding appeared to have stopped.
Though his left eye was only beginning the process of swelling shut.
Timothy dabbed at his cut knuckles and then wrapped his hand in a towel from the kitchen.
Next time, he would put on the boxing gloves. And not tire himself to the point that his reflexes seized. That punching bag had an unexpected right hook.
Though the aching tiredness of his muscles was a welcome reprieve. He could also write a tr
eatise on the therapeutic effects of hot showers. And he had experienced only three of those soul-crushing panic attacks in the last hour, so he was making progress.
Perhaps.
His stomach growled. Forcibly reminding him that he had yet to eat today. He had seen Miss Fleury with packages of what appeared to be crackers or biscuits . . .
Opening a few cupboards, he found a can of something called Pringles and a bag labeled Haribo Extreme-Sour Gummies.
He opened the refrigerator, staring for a moment.
Surely, that wasn’t—
His brows drew together. He carefully lifted the bottle with the words Pepsi scrawled across the side.
He stared at it far longer than was seemly.
Yes. He definitely owed James Knight a set-down next he saw him.
Though, shaking the bottle, the contents looked drinkable. With any luck at all, it would be alcoholic in some way.
He twisted the lid in the direction labeled ‘Open’ and then yelped and jumped back as the contents fizzed out.
Damn—
He leapt for the sink while twisting the cap back on. For all this century’s love of labeling, you would think someone could have mentioned something about the contents being under pressure.
Tentatively, he loosened the cap again. This time the fizzling settled enough for him to screw off the lid entirely. Giving a tentative whiff of the bottle and not getting much, he took a sip.
Pondered for a moment.
Took another sip.
It was not . . . unacceptable.
Though definitely not alcoholic.
He recapped the bottle, wiped it down and set it on the counter next to the Pringles and Haribo.
A further perusal of the fridge found two unnaturally-shiny apples, a container labeled ‘yogurt’ and a can of something called Cheez Whiz. Bacon-flavored.
It would do.
His eye throbbed. The pounding in his head had increased. He paused. Swallowed past the tight clenching of his chest.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Make that four attacks in the last hour.
Controlling the spasming of his lungs, he strolled over to the large fireplace, situated his . . . feast . . . on the small table beside the sofa and contemplated the black panel sitting on a table next to the fireplace. It was the size of a large painting. He knew it to be a television, as Miss Fleury turned it on occasionally.
After two weeks of reading the newspaper and brooding over his inability to return home, he was tired of fighting. He just wanted to pass an hour without panicking.
He reached for the rectangular thing Miss Fleury had called a remote. By now, he knew that any button labeled ‘Power’ turned on an apparatus.
A moment later, Timothy was listening to two men and a woman discuss a terrible tragedy that involved an airbus colliding with a mountain peak in the Alps.
Interesting.
Tragic. But interesting nonetheless.
If this ‘black box’ would survive the crash, why not manufacture the entire airplane of the substance? Surely some twenty-first century engineer should have thought of that.
The Pringles weren’t too vile. Salty and crisp. They went nicely with the Pepsi.
Pressing a few buttons on the remote taught him that the ‘channel’ buttons would change the scene.
Again. Interesting.
Working his way through the Pringles, he spent nearly half an hour listening to a disembodied female voice talk about a crisis within the fostering system.
If nothing else, the television helped take his mind off the body aches. And kept the anger and anxiety at bay . . .
He changed the channel when he hit the end of the Pringles and Pepsi.
Two men fighting. Click. A woman singing in front of a large audience. Click. A man and a woman embracing and— Click!
That image would be burned into his memory for a while.
Shaking his head, Timothy realized he was now watching moving . . . drawings. They most certainly weren’t actual people.
Two little girls dressed like girls should be dressed. In, well, proper dresses.
But one was able to make it snow inside.
. . . wanna build a snow-man . . .
The music wasn’t horrid. He continued watching.
The Pringles and Pepsi must have helped. The throbbing in his head had lessened a little. He felt a little more energetic. Timothy shrugged and reached for the bag labeled Haribo.
He coughed as the sour taste hit his tongue. Who would voluntarily eat something like this? Though . . . wait. It turned sweet after a moment. Too sweet. He set the bag aside.
Picking the candy out of his teeth, he moved on to the Cheez Whiz. It was a little more complex to dispense, but the can fortunately had helpful instructions. Tilt and press. He could do that.
He tilted and pressed until a stream of something orange and brown-flecked ended up on his finger.
Mmmmm. It didn’t taste too bad. He studied the can. Quite good actually. With a nod, he sat back and reached for one of the apples.
Ah, how tragic. The girls’ parents had died.
But the Cheez Whiz with the apple was amazing.
Squeeze a nice dollop on. Take a bite. Crunchy, salty, sweet, creamy. The bacon added a nice tang.
It wasn’t bad at all.
And Miss Fleury accused him of being unable to feed himself.
Hah.
He settled further into the sofa, propping his feet up on an ottoman as he had seen Miss Fleury do. Highly unorthodox, but as she had said . . . when in Rome . . .
Besides, doing so allowed him to rest his head against the sofa back, further easing the pounding pain. And he could still see the television clearly out of his un-swollen eye.
This story was strangely compelling. The older sister, Elsa was her name, had magical powers. She was the heir to the throne but had to be isolated, kept away from everyone else for their own good.
Clearly a metaphor for the heavy responsibilities which fell on anyone who had to govern . . . one did have to sacrifice personal happiness for the greater good.
Excellent moral there.
. . . You know the rules. Conceal. Don’t feel . . .
He would have to consider adding that to his list.
Rule #314: A gentleman conceals all and never feels . . .
Absently, he finished both apples and the entire can of Cheez Whiz. Delicious. He would have to ask Miss Fleury to procure more of it.
And then it happened.
Elsa began to sing that song. The one he had heard playing on Miss Fleury’s phone to alert her someone was calling.
. . . Let it go. Let it go . . . I don’t care what they’re going to say . . .
Timothy stilled. The pulsing pain in his head and body receding. Everything focusing on the moving figure in the screen in front of him.
Elsa was . . . turning her back on her past. Accepting who she was and refusing to follow everything she had been told to do.
He shook his head. So selfish.
Look what happened when she ‘let it go.’ The entire kingdom fell into a frozen winter. Yes, she was happier in her ice castle but at a terrible cost to everyone else. She needed to return, tuck her gifts back away and accept the responsibility to which she had been born.
It was the only way.
He swallowed and, without taking his eyes off the screen, reached for the container of yogurt.
What a fascinating story. The figures moving and singing. The snowman decidedly humorous. Intellectually engaging.
He had no memory of eating the yogurt. He stared into the empty container for a moment before shrugging and reaching for the bag of Haribo.
After the fifth one, they really weren’t too bad. The sour and then sweet worked together . . .
Elsa had been captured. Anna was dying.
Ah, see. Elsa was being punished for her selfishness. By embracing that part of her which should remain hidden, she had doomed her sister and her
entire kingdom.
Such a powerful lesson in that. One needed to curb personal tendencies which would be deleterious to the better good. That’s why there were rules which governed behavior.
A lesson he had, fortunately, learned early.
This was clearly going to end in tragedy. Anna would die, killed by Elsa’s selfish behavior . . .
An excellent cautionary tale but a pity the ending was so obvious.
And then . . .
Anna sacrificed herself for her sister and . . .
. . . . an act of true love will thaw a frozen heart . . .
Well . . .
That was a surprise.
He had not seen that coming . . .
Elsa opened her heart. Instead of being punished for her audacity—for daring to allow her inner desires to override her duty—she was . . . rewarded.
She embraced her full self and merged the two together to rule, loving everyone.
His breathing sped up. But instead of that familiar lung-crushing vise, his chest felt lighter. Expanding.
As if this idea had . . . merit.
The story ended and names scrolled across the screen. He sat still, unable to move. Numbly, he reached over and pressed the ‘power’ button. Instant silence hung in the room.
No. He refused to accept it. The idea was wrong.
Love changed everything? Just . . . be yourself and love others and everything will be all right?
Surely that was not the proper moral here. The lesson to be learned.
What kind of a rule was that?!
His heart continued to pound in his chest. He found himself swallowing over and over.
What a crock of nonsense. The world did not function like that.
Order. Control. Unyielding command. A sacrifice of personal desires for the greater good.
And, even then, everything could come to naught. You might find that a generation or two later, everything you had sacrificed and eschewed and forfeited and let go had been for nothing . . .
Ah, yes. There was his friend panic . . . becoming quite good mates, weren’t they?
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Why? Why, why, WHY was he here?!
Jasmine was utterly defeated.
She had made it as far as Abbey Dore. Which was still like thirteen thousand miles from Caerleon . . . or something like that.