SHATTERED SPIRITS
L.L. Bartlett
Copyright © 2016 by L.L.Bartlett. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For more information on LL.Bartlett’s books, check out her website: http://www.LLBartlett.com
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Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
ISBN: 978-1-940801-31-5
Created with Vellum
Contents
Cast Of Characters
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Other Books by L.L. Bartlett
Cast Of Characters
Jeff Resnick, former insurance investigator, who gained empathic abilities after a brutal mugging.
Richard Alpert, MD, Jeff’s older half-brother
Brenda Stanley, RN, Richard’s wife
Maggie Brennan, Jeff’s girlfriend; Brenda’s best friend.
Betsy Alpert (otherwise known as CP (Cherry Pie)), Richard and Brenda’s daughter
Sam Nielsen: Jeff’s friend from high school, now a reporter for The Buffalo News
Sophie Levin: Jeff’s psychic mentor
Dave Morris: Jeff’s co-worker at The Whole Nine Yards
Tom Link: Jeff’s boss, owner at The Whole Nine Yards
Detective Bonnie Wilder, of the Amherst Police Department
Alice Newcomb, resident of Forest Lawn Cemetery
Maria Spodina, the barmaid who took Jeff’s job
Acknowledgments
My thanks go to Loremil Tan Jensen and Beth Paull for information on fractures. Thanks to Linda Kuzminczuk, Amy Connolley, Pam Priest, Janice Dinse, and Judy Beatty for proofreading the manuscript.
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Cover by Wicked Smart Designs.
Audio Narration by Steven Barnett.
Watch the book trailer.
1
I’d seen the headstone before. Once, when I was about to take a bite of toast on a Sunday morning. Another time it happened when watching a member of the Jazz miss a free throw with only seconds left in the game. And then that sunny Tuesday morning at the corners of Kensington and Fillmore Avenues.
I get these flashes without warning. Insight some might call it. It’s damned aggravating if you ask me. It’s been more than two years since the mugging that nearly killed me—fractured my skull and broke my arm—but I’d pretty much recovered, except for the flashes and the stuff that came with them. Precognition some call it. I call it a pain in the ass.
That day I was sitting on my new-to-me Schwinn Prelude racing bike. It was a recent purchase and I was riding alongside my co-worker, Dave Morris, from The Whole Nine Yards. Back in my high school days, I rode a used ten-speed I’d bought for twenty bucks from a schoolmate. It served me well for more than two years and I’d ridden it to school and my various part-time jobs. I don’t know whatever happened to it. I’d left Buffalo for the army at eighteen and when I’d returned eighteen years later to my brother Richard’s home, it was gone.
Dave was into bicycle racing big time and had tried to get me hooked on the sport ever since I’d come to work at the bar. I’d finally caved just three weeks before. It was, after all, good exercise and there was a kind of freedom associated with riding with the wind—and actually faster than it. I’d joined Dave several times on long rides through most of the cemeteries nearest Richard’s home, as well as a couple of forays to Forest Lawn Cemetery farther along. Dave liked Forest Lawn because it was such a challenge with its hills and valleys, and the beautiful park-like scenery was easy on the eyes, as well.
We were on our way there when I got that same flash of the headstone. This time it was different. More detailed. The stone was granite, and the grass around its base was shaggy. No flowers. Odds were nobody had visited the grave for years.
“Light’s changed,” Dave called as I lagged behind.
I had to scramble to get going and catch up with him. We moved to the side of the road and rode single file.
The rides in the cemeteries were peaceful, although getting there could be nerve wracking. Dave usually rode to my brother Richard’s house, where I lived in the apartment above his three-car garage, and we’d set off to a pre-determined destination. That morning, Forest Lawn was again our target. I preferred to take the back route, especially since this cemetery was farther out and we had to contend with commuter traffic.
Bicycles have to obey the same laws as motorized vehicles and Dave and I drew abreast at the next light. We still had a couple of miles to go before we arrived at the cemetery, which was sure to have little to no traffic—just what I liked.
I adjusted the strap on my helmet while we waited for the light to change, pulled it a little tighter, then gripped the bike’s handholds, getting ready to take off again. Then suddenly there was the roar of a powerful engine to my right. I started to turn my head when the handlebars on my bike were wrenched out of my grasp. I tipped to the right and the bike and I were dragged into the intersection. The big black vehicle sheered away and the bike and I went down, sliding across the sea of asphalt, which was littered with dirt, pebbles, and shards of glass—ripping open my T-shirt and tearing the skin on my face and shoulders until I slammed into the granite curb on the west side of Fillmore Avenue.
That’s when everything went black.
* * *
“Your résumé is very impressive, Dr. Alpert,” Mark Jordan, Personnel Director of Buffco Diagnostics said, looking over the crisp white piece of vellum on the tidy desk before him.
But. Here comes the but, Richard thought bitterly.
“But we couldn’t possibly pay you what you’re worth.”
“I’m negotiable on salary,” Richard said, keeping his tone level.
Jordan shook his head. They weren’t going to hire him, and salary had nothing to do with it. It was the zero he’d acquired behind his age on his last birthday that was the stumbling block. He was too damned old. Washed up at fifty.
“Besides,” Jordan continued, “I’m sure your volunteer activities must take up a lot of your time.”
That was an excuse. Jordan was less than a decade younger than Richard. Would Buffco Diagnostics decide he was too old in the not-too-distant future?
Richard didn’t bother to offer a smile and stood. “I can see I’ve wasted your time.”
“Not at all. It’s just that we’re looking for someone a little bit—”
“Younger.”
“We don’t discriminate by age, race, or sexual orientation,” Jordan said with conviction.
Yeah, and they probably had a bridge in Brooklyn for sale, too.
“I’ll see myself out,” Richard said, crossed the room, and opened the door to the neatly appointed anteroom where several other men in suits waited their turn for interviews. There wasn’t a gray hair on any of their temples.
Richard passed the security checkpoint at the comp
any’s main entrance, heading for the visitor’s parking lot. Scratch one more possible place of employment. Not that he needed to work. He had more money than he knew what to do with or could ever spend in a lifetime. What he wanted was something meaningful to do to occupy the long hours of the day. He missed the routine that accompanied gainful employment. He loved his wife, Brenda, and their eight-month-old daughter, Betsy, but he wanted more. He just wasn’t sure what “more” should entail.
The temperature was already rising on that morning in early June and Richard peeled off his suit coat, then retrieved his keys as the reached his car. His cell phone gave a jangle as he unlocked the driver’s door. He grabbed it from his slacks pocket and glanced at the unfamiliar number. He opened the car door, tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat, and got in the Mercedes before tapping the talk icon.
“Hello?”
“Richard? It’s Dave—Jeff’s friend from the Whole Nine Yards.”
There was something amiss about the tone of Dave’s voice. Richard’s gut tightened. “What’s wrong?”
“Jeff and me were riding our bikes—heading for Forest Lawn.”
“Cut to the chase,” Richard said firmly.
“An SUV clipped Jeff while we were waiting for a red light.”
“My God. Where is he?”
“Sisters emergency room.”
“And?” Richard asked, dreading the worst.
“He’s pretty bashed up. They won’t tell me how bad.”
“When did this happen?”
“A couple hours ago. I called the bar, but Tom didn’t come in until about ten minutes ago. He called your house, and your wife gave him your number, and he just called and gave it to me.”
“I can be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll see you here.”
Richard tapped the end call icon and sat there, staring at his phone, stunned—his own disappointment already forgotten. Should he call Brenda? Yeah, call her and tell her what? Jeff’s banged up—I don’t know how bad. Go ahead and panic.
He felt panicky enough for both of them. Still, after getting a call from Tom at the bar, she was probably already frantic. He hit the call button, flicked through to his landline’s number, and hit call.
Brenda picked up almost immediately. “What happened?” she asked, sounding panicked.
“Jeff was on his bike and got hit by a car.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
He heard her let out a relieved breath. “Where is he?”
“Sisters.”
“I can be there—”
“No. I’m on my way there now. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”
“Okay,” she said, but she didn’t sound it. “Go!”
They didn’t even say good-bye.
Richard tossed his phone on top of his jacket, started the car, and put it in gear.
The drive across town might well be the longest twenty minutes of his life.
* * *
Richard stormed through the emergency room doors of Sisters of Charity Hospital, waved his hospital ID at the guard on duty, and stopped dead, looking around. His first instinct was to head straight for the receptionist, but he caught sight of Dave seated in one of the ubiquitous plastic chairs in the crowded waiting area, head down and looking pale.
Dave glanced up, his expression grim, and practically leapt to his feet, none too steady. Richard charged forward, then hesitated and turned back to the receptionist’s desk.
“I’m Dr. Richard Alpert. My brother, Jeffrey Resnick, has been admitted. Can you tell me his condition?”
The pretty Latina consulted her computer before answering. “Serious condition. If you’d like to see him, he’s in unit three. Through those doors to the left.”
He knew the way. “Thank you.” But before he left the waiting room, Richard turned back to meet Dave. “What the hell happened?”
Dave placed a hand on Richard’s arm, pulling him aside. “It was an accident. It wasn’t anything Jeff did. It was just an accident,” he said, but it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. “Hit and run, too. The guy behind the wheel never even stopped.”
“I’m glad you were with him, Dave.”
“It could have been me,” Dave said sounding shell-shocked. “I’ve been riding for twenty years and … it could have been me.”
Yeah, but it wasn’t.
“You don’t have to stay. If you want to leave—”
Dave shook his head. “Tom is okay with me being here until we know….” He let the sentence trail off.
“I’ll see what’s what and come back to let you know how he’s doing,” Richard promised.
“Thanks,” Dave said, but his expression was still shadowed by guilt.
The ER was bustling and Richard headed straight for unit three, but instead of entering the cubicle, he paused to grab Jeff’s chart, giving it a quick read through. He let out a long breath. Things weren’t great, but they weren’t horrible, either.
“Excuse me,” said a twenty-something nurse in pink scrubs, “but you shouldn’t be looking at a patient’s chart.”
“Sorry. I’m Dr. Richard Albert. I’m affiliated with the hospital. Mr. Resnick is my brother.”
“Sorry, sir. It’s just that—”
“Has he been scheduled for surgery?”
“Not yet. It’s been a hectic morning.”
Richard nodded and replaced the chart. “I’d like to speak to the resident on duty.”
“I’ll let her know, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse nodded, and stepped away.
Richard turned back to the draped cubicle before him, steeled his courage, pulled the privacy curtain aside, and entered.
Jeff lay on the ER gurney, his face a swollen mass of raw pink flesh, swathed in a sea of blue: blankets and hospital gown, and surrounded by white—sheets and gauze. Richard had seen plenty of fractures during his internship at this very same hospital, and was thankful because despite the damage to Jeff’s femur and ankle, it could have been much worse. An IV bag hung over the bed, dripping into the back of his hand. Eyes glazed, Jeff lay semi-inclined, staring into space.
“Jeff?” Richard called, stepping close to the bed.
It seemed an eternity before Jeff swung his gaze in Richard’s direction. He seemed to have a hard time focusing. “What are you all dressed up for?” he asked, his words slurring.
“I—I had to be somewhere this morning. How do you feel?”
Jeff’s laugh was half-hearted. “I can’t feel a goddamned thing. I don’t give a shit about nothing … ’cept….” He frowned. “Now I’ve fucked up your day. Your week. Prolly your year, too.”
“You haven’t fucked up my year. The day, maybe the week, but not the year,” Richard said, pulling up another one of those horribly uncomfortable plastic chairs. He sat down, practically shoulder-to-shoulder with his younger brother. “Do you remember what happened?”
Jeff’s eyes closed and he shook his head ever so slightly. Then his brow furrowed, and he seemed to struggle to concentrate. “A tombstone. I saw a tombstone.”
Richard’s heart froze. “Was there a name on it?” he asked, dreading the answer.
Again, Jeff barely shook his head. “No. Jus’ from the back. Been seein’ it for a week or two. Seems like somebody—or thing—wants my attention.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not the first time I seen it….” He reiterated, closed his eyes, and was asleep.
Richard bowed his head and rubbed his eyes with both hands. He should ask to see the x-rays. He should call Brenda. He should walk back into the ER waiting room and give poor Dave an update, but he didn’t. He sat for long minutes, not thinking, just listening to the cardiac monitor behind the bed, knowing it was going to be one hell of a long day.
2
“Welcome home, Jeffy!” Brenda squealed as she approached Richard’s Mercedes with little Betsy
Ruth attached to her left hip. She circled around to the passenger side of the car and pulled open the back door. My crutches were on the floor, and I wasn’t sure how the hell I was going to extricate myself from the car without a hell of a lot of help thanks to the calf-to-toe cast on my right leg, and the hinged brace on my knee. I hurt just about everywhere. I wished I had a date with a deep soaker tub, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
“Ja-Ja!” Betsy called. She knew Ma-Ma and Da-Da for her mom and pop, and that I was her Ja-Ja. I’m surprised she wasn’t freaked by the road rash wounds on my face, but she held out her little arms for me. Unfortunately, there was no way I could hold her.
“I’m gonna need some help,” I admitted.
Richard got out of the car and circled around to join Brenda. “Can you scooch forward?”
It was a painful trek across the seat, and it took more than a minute. The effort and discomfort to wiggle forward enough to get my ass poised on the edge of the seat and my legs out of the car left me panting and sweating.
“My life is in the toilet,” I muttered.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Brenda said.
Betsy reached for me yet again. “Ja-Ja!”
“No, no!” Brenda said and moved behind Richard.
He grabbed my crutches and leaned them against the car before helping me to stand.
I’d thought a broken arm was inconvenient after I’d been mugged a little more than two years before—but four days into it, I could see a broken ankle and fractured femur was going to be much, much worse.
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