My shoulder joints ache from my arms being stuck behind my back, but when I try to move, I realize that my wrists are bound together, so tightly that the skin feels raw and irritated. And my ankles are tied together as well.
I want to scream, to cry for help, but I am unable to do anything. All I can do is to lie here and wait. But for what? Why am I here? Why am I here?
I wake up with tears pouring down my cheeks and my heart pounding so hard it feels like I've been running for hours. I get out of my bed and turn on the light and look around. But I'm in my own room, and everything is just as it was before I went to bed.
Nothing is really wrong. It just feels wrong. All wrong.
It was only a dream. Rather, a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare. The worst nightmare I've.ever had So real. So frightening.
I get back in bed and immediately begin to pray. “Dear God, please take away the horror of this nightmare. Replace it with Your perfect peace—the kind of peace that goes beyond my human understanding. Thank You. Amen.”
I take several long, deep breaths. And finally, when I am calmed down, when my heart has returned to a normal pace and I can breathe without panting, I realize that the dream wasn't about me at all. It was about Kayla.
Kayla is in trouble. Very serious trouble.
I consider calling the police right now, but what would I tell them? That I've had a dream? How would that help anything? And so I earnestly pray for Kayla. I beg God to watch oyer her, to protect her, and to send help—quickly.
I get up early the next morning. And although it feels as if I've barely slept, I am wide awake. And I am asking God to show me what to do. I open my Bible to where it's marked from the last time I did my daily devotion. But instead of reading the next passage in John 18, my eyes o are fixed on the verses at the top of the page, ones that I o read yesterday—part of Jesus' prayer in the Garden before He was arrested.
But for some reason I feel that God wants me to take this personally, iread from John 17:15-18. It's as if Jesus is speaking specifically to me!
I feel such a sense of power from these verses—as if God is telling me to go and to take care of what He's shown me in the dream I had last night, in the visions He gave me yesterday. Yet I'm not sure where to go or what to do. So I pray some more and ask for specific guidance. And just as I am finishing up, a name comes to mind. Ebony.
Almost as clearly as if I had heard it spoken audibly, although I'm sure that I only heard it in my head. Ebony.
Now the only person I've ever known by the name of Ebony is the woman who was my dad's partner on the police force, just before he died. And while she seemed like a nice enough person, I never really got to know her well.
In fact, I've never told anyone this, but I've always been slightly suspicious of her. Like how did she manage to escape the bust-gone-bad without getting hurt? And wasn't she supposed to back up my dad? Naturally, these aren't the kinds of questions anyone expects a twelve-year-old to ask. Besides, there was so much else going on at the time…combined with the loss of Dad. I suppose I just sort of forgot about her. I think the last time I saw Ebony was at Dad's funeral, and she did stand up and say some very nice things about him. But then she should've since he was her partner.
Unfortunately, I can't even remember Ebony's last name right now. And I have no idea whether she still works for the police or not. But I get the distinct impression that I'm supposed to look this woman up. Hopefully God will show me just how I'm supposed to do this. Like do I call or e-mail or just walk into the precinct or what?
Six
As Olivia drives us to school, I tell her about my frightening dream, the new Bible verse, and finally my impression to contact Ebony.
“Wow!” she says after I finish.
Once we're at school and getting out of her car, I have to admit that in the light of day, just walking through the parking lot toward school, where everyone is acting the same as any other day, my story sounds pretty weird, even to me. “I know… pretty freaky, huh?”
“So are you going to call Ebony?”
“I thought about it…but I don't even know her last name or if she still works there. Talk about a cold call.”
“Just call up the station and ask to speak to her.” She drops her keys in her purse then fishes out her cell phone and hands it to me. “If she's not there, they'll tell you. And if she is, well, how many Ebonys do you think there could be anyway?”
I'm surprised that I still know the precinct number by heart, and I carefully dial it, praying that I won't sound like a basket case in the off chance that I actually get to speak to Ebony.
“Ebony Hamilton?” a man asks after I've made my inquiry.
“Yes!” I say quickly, and it comes back to me: Ebony Hamilton.
“And this is regarding?”
“Uh, I'm a friend of Kayla Henderson, the girl who's missing.”
“Hold on and I'll see if I can put you through to her.”
“She still works there,” I mouth to Olivia, who nods and smiles.
“This is Detective Hamilton,” says a smooth, official-sounding female voice.
“Uh, this is Sam, I mean, Samantha McGregor. I'm not sure if you remember me or not, but—”
“Samantha McGregor,” she says in a warmer tone. “Cliff's daughter. How are you?”
“Uh, I'm okay. I wasn't sure if you still worked there.”
“I've been here for almost ten years now. I just made detective last year.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I'm sure your dad would've been higher than that by now. He was such a good cop.”
“Yeah…” I take in a breath.
“So, what can I do for you, Samantha? The desk said that you were calling in regard to Kayla Henderson. Js she a friend of yours?”
“Well, yes. I mean, we used to be pretty good friends. But we've been more like casual friends these past couple of years.”
“Uh-huh.” I can hear a shuffling sound, like she's moving papers around, and I wonder if she thinks I'm just going to be wasting her time.
“Well, I might have some information…” ft
“Information on Kaylal”
“Yes. But it's kind of complicated to explain over the phone. And actually, it's almost time for class right now. Maybe I should make an appointment with you. If o that's okay.”
“Of course it's okay. What are you doing for lunch today?”
“Nothing. I mean, besides eating.”
She laughs. “Can I pick you up at school?”
“In a police car?”
She laughs again. “Don't worry. I drive an unmarked car. It won't look like you're getting hauled off to jail.”
I laugh too. “Actually, it used to be kind of thrilling when Dad would let me ride with him in the patrol car.”
“But not so much now that you're older.”
“Not so much.”
So I tell her what time to pick me up and where, and then I hang up and hand the phone back to Olivia.
“That seemed to go okay,” she says as she turns it off and puts it back in her bag.
“Yeah. Ebony actually sounded really nice.”
“Any reason she shouldn't sound nice?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not really.” We're just going into the building now, and this is a conversation that I'm not ready to start, or maybe even to have.
I don't begin to feel really nervous until fourth period. Fortunately, it's PE, and Mrs. Harper has us running our legs off on the basketball court. I think it's punishment for not going out for the girls' basketball team, which she coaches and which doesn't sound like it'll have much Ti potential this year. But as a result of the many drills she puts us through, I don't have too much time to obsess v over what I'm going to say to Ebony.
© Of course, as we're getting dressed afterward, Olivia feels the need to remind me of my lunch date. “Do you have it sort of worked out?” she asks in a slightly hushedtone since Emma and Bri
ttany are nearby. “I mean, do you have an idea about what you're going to tell her?”
I toss my sweaty PE clothes into my locker, slam it, then start shoving my feet into my boots. “Not really. I'm praying that God will lead me.”
She nods. “I'll be praying too.”
I'm dressed now, and it's time to head out to meet Ebony. I pull on my jacket and run my fingers through my slightly messy hair. “Here I go.”
Olivia holds up crossed fingers. “See ya.”
“Where's Samantha taking off to in such a big rush?” Emma asks as I head for the door.
“She's got a date,” Olivia tells them in a mysterious voice.
“Who with?” asks Brittany.
“I'll bet she's meeting Conrad Stiles,” says Emma. “I've heard he thinks she's hot.”
I consider this comment as I hurry out of the locker room and through the breezeway that leads to the front of the school. Conrad's a nice enough guy, and from what I've heard a strong Christian too, but I had no idea he was into me—if he really is. Emma was probably just pulling my leg, I tell myself as I go past security and exit the main entrance.
Fortunately, we have open campus for lunch, so there's no need to check out. And I'm sure that if I'm late coming back, they would accept an excuse from a police detective. Not that I plan to be late.
I see a charcoal-colored Chevy sedan parked directly o out front, and I'm sure it must be Ebony's, which seems ironic since it's not supposed to draw your attention. But because the vehicle is so plain and frumpy looking, it almost seems to scream unmarked police car. Really, they should be driving Honda Civics.
I squint, trying to see the driver through the passenger side window, but the tinting is so dark that I can't really tell. Then the driver side door opens, and an attractive African-American woman stands up and waves over the roof at me, and I know that it's Ebony. “Hey, Samantha.”
“Hey,” I call back as I go up to the car.
“Hop in.”
I get into the car, which looks even more like a cop car on the inside, and buckle up.
“That tinted glass,” she says as she pulls out, “makes it hard to see who's sitting inside. And considering your missing friend, I'm glad to see that you don't just hop into cars with strangers.”
“Yeah, my dad made sure I had that one down when I was really little.”
“Good for him.” She's driving toward town now. “You mind if we eat at Rosie's?”
“That's fine.” I remember the little deli my dad used to take me to occasionally. It's always been popular with cops. “I haven't been there in ages.”
“It's so great to see you again, Samantha.” She glances over at me and smiles. “You're looking really good. I don't think I've seen you since your dad's funeral.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that same thing earlier today. That day seems like such a long time ago…sometimes anyway.”
“That was a sad day…”
“Yeah. Losing him was pretty hard to take,” I admit.
“For everyone.”
“I never really heard much of the details of what happened that day—I mean, the day he got shot. I guess it was because I was only twelve, just a kid you know. Maybe no one thought I should hear about it.”
“But you're curious now?”
“Yeah, wouldn't you be?”
She nods. “You bet I would.”
“That's not why I called you today. But I guess… just because—”
“Would you like to hear my story about that day, Samantha?”
“I kinda would.”
So she begins to tell me about how it was just a typical day. “It was midmorning, quiet, nothing much going on. We got the call at 10:43. A neighbor was complaining about the house next door and how they'd been making a lot of noise. We went in thinking it would just be a routine investigation— we'd write out a warning and be done with it. But when we got to the house, I got this feeling that something was amiss.”
She glances at me now, almost as if she wants to see if I'm tracking with her. So I nod and she continues. “I told Cliff that I was worried, but he didn't seem too concerned. And to be honest, it wasn't anything I could really put my finger on. Just a feeling, you know?”
“I know…” 3
“Anyway, we knocked on the front door, and no one answered. But we heard a grinding noise that seemed to o be coming frorm beneath the house. So we walked around and discovered a side entrance with a steep, narrow staircase that went down into what we figured must be a basement. The noise was coming from down there. I started to go down first, but Cliff said that he would lead the way. And since he was the senior officer, I didn't argue. But still I was worried. And although Cliff didn't remove his gun, I decided to have mine ready, just in case.”
She takes a deep breath as she turns into the deli parking lot, then parks the car and shuts off the engine. She turns to me and removes her sunglasses. I can see tears in her eyes.
“It gets a little blurry here, Samantha. It all happened so fast. But Cliff knocked and no one answered. Then he tried the door and found it unlocked. He barely had it open when the shots went off. I shot and wounded the man with the gun. The other man just put his hands up, and then I called for backup. I did what I was trained to do, but I've never been so scared in my life. And the hardest thing I've ever seen was your dad just lying there, not moving.”
She reaches over and puts her hand on my arm. “If I could've done anything differently…if I could've changed the outcome…! would've. I've pfeyed this scene over and over in my head, and my only one regret is that I didn't listen to that feeling—that sense that something was wrong.”
“Why didn't you?” I ask in a quiet voice.
“Because I'm a cop, Samantha. And I was a rookie cop at that. We weren't trained to listen to our feelings. We were trained to act and to react. To remain in control and to follow the book. But now things are starting to change.” A faint smile lights up her dark brown eyes. “And in my line of work, I've learned to rely on intuition even more.”
She opens the car door. “You hungry?”
As we walk toward Rosie's, I mentally replay what she's just told me. Although I'm relieved to hear some of this, it's also really hard. I wasn't prepared for this. As we go inside the deli, I'm surprised at how familiar it feels. I'm sure I haven't been here since Dad was alive. It almost feels like I'm going to start'cryihg. I hope I don't. “Dad really liked this place,” I say in a slightly gruff voice as we step up to the counter.
“Yeah, I know.”
We place our order. I get the pastrami and Swiss on rye, just like Dad used to. And then we go and sit down.
Ebony sighs and pushes a strand of auburn-tinted hair away from her face. “Man, when I got up this morning I sure hadn't planned on any of this. I can't believe I just told you that whole story. I hope you don't mind that—”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, it's not easy to hear, but I do appreciate knowing what happened. I had wondered…”
“I would've if I were you.” ft
I take a sip of my soda and try to decide where to begin.
“I'm surprised that you even knew I was handling Kayla's case. It was transferred to me from Detective Ramsay only late yesterday. He leaves on Friday for two weeks' vacation. How did you hear I had it?”
“I didn't.”
She nods as she squeezes a wedge of lemon into her iced tea. “I remember your dad saying that you were gifted, Samantha. He told me that you and your grandmother had some things in common.”
“Grandma McGregor?”
Ebony nods.
“She died a couple years ago.”
“I'm sorry.”
“She lived in Boston, and I didn't really know her very well. But I do remember Dad saying that I was like her. Of course, I thought that was pretty weird at the time. I mean, when you're just a kid and your dad tells you that you're like this old lady who's like seventysome-thing…well, you don't know how to respond.�
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Ebony chuckles. “Don't worry; he meant it as a compliment. His mother was a strong Christian woman with a gift for…you know, for seeing things. Your dad seemed to think that maybe you had it too.”
I blink in surprise. “I didn't know that—I mean, about Grandma McGregor.”
She nods. That's what he told me. He had hoped you'd get to spend some time with her.”
“I wish I'd gotten the chance.” I shake my head. “I just never knew.”
There's a quiet lull in our conversation now. So much to process, so much to take in. I study Ebony for a moment. It's weird, but in some ways she seems like a long-lost friend or a relative, and I'm so thankful that I'm getting to spend some time with her. But then just as our sandwiches are delivered, I remember the real reason I'm here.
“Mind if I ask a blessing?” she says.
“Not at all.” I smile and bow my head as she says a quick but sincere-sounding prayer. Then I echo, “Amen.”
“So what about Kayla?” She picks up her pickle spear, holding it like a torch. “What do you know, Samantha?”
“I was worried that what I have to say will sound really bizarre. But based on what you know about me, what you heard from my dad, well, maybe you'll understand.”
“Go ahead,” she says.
And so I do. But even as I tell her these strange things, and even as I go back to the notebook where I've been jotting them down—as if I might forget them, which seems absurd—I think it must sound pretty incredible. And my guess is that the other detective, the one who is going on vacation tomorrow, might've laughed or dismissed me as a lunatic. Finally I think I've pretty much said it all. “Pretty freaky, huh?”
She presses her lips together and slowly nods. “You've barely touched your sandwich, Samantha. Why don't you eat while I make some notes and write down questions about some of the things you just told me?”
So I take a break and begin eating my sandwich. I try not to stare as she jots stuff down. Finally I'm done, and I'm dying to hear her reaction. I mean, I doubt that she thinks I'm seriously crazy, but she might have some concerns.
“What do you think?” I ask her as I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I should warn you that my mom sent me to a shrink last year. And I'd be worried about telling her any of this…for fear she'd send me back again.”
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