 
Fugue:

A Paranormal Mystery Novel

Ashley Michel

Copyright 2014 by Ashley Michel

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Ashley Michel

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First Printing: 2014

ISBN 978-1-311-68786-9

Ashley Michel

11725 Auburn Dr

Baton Rouge, LA 70816

Michel, Ashley

Fugue/by Ashley Michel

p. 208 cm. 1.19

ISBN 978-1-311-68786-9

1. The main category of the book – Mystery . 2. Another subject category – Amnesia. 3. Suspense. I. Michel, Ashley II. Fugue

www.ashleymichel.com
Acknowledgements

This, my first novel, would not be a reality without the help and support from so many people, I could never list them all. To my grandmother, Rita Dardenne, in whose footsteps I followed into the library, not just as a patron, but as a librarian, from which I developed my love of reading. To my mother, Mary Michel, whose expertise as an English teacher taught me the rules of grammar and how to produce readable work. To my high school English teacher, Mrs. Drusilla Balkom, who recognized my writing talent and taught me to hone it. To Shannon, my editor, and Lisa, my volunteer proofreader, who took my mess and made it so much better. To my late father, Edward Michel, from whom I got my storytelling talent and stubborn streak that made me push on through the difficult parts. Finally, to my husband Russell and son Garrett, for without your love and support, this novel would not have been possible.
Chapter One

I COME awake slowly, but I fought it. A ton of lead presses down on me, right on my chest. I feel a little queasy, with the kind of heaviness felt from sleeping much longer than I should. My eyelids aren't cooperating. They flutter open, and then sag again, and my head feels very strange. A strange pressure, not painful, but noticeable, settles between my temples. My head buzzes slightly, like having a hangover. I stretch and turn on to my side. Finally, I force my eyes to open, and I am stunned. I don't know this room.

I struggle with keeping them open. This isn't the room I remembered going to sleep in. It seems to be a motel room, and a dingy one at that. The carpet looks like it had been matted down some time in the 1980's, and the TV was a model that was probably discontinued fifteen years ago. The remote control and an ashtray are attached to the nightstand, and the folding closet door doesn't close all the way. Sunlight leaks in from the holes in the threadbare draperies at the window. I hope the sheets under me are at least clean. I stretch and manage to sit up.

How did I get here? Where am I? I shake my head slightly to clear it. What is the last thing I can recall? I don't remember yesterday, or the day before. I notice my clothes. I don't recognize them either. Worn boxer shorts and a faded, oversized T-Shirt that says "Donate blood today!" with an address for a blood bank in Milwaukee, hang on me. I've never been to Milwaukee. I don't recall receiving or getting these clothes. Oddly, they feel familiar, as if I have worn them many times. Then, I hear a light snoring next to me.

Skin cold and heart racing, I turn to my right. I am not alone in the bed. A small form pushes up the thin sheets. Just a tuft of dark hair is visible on the pillow next to mine. I pull back the sheet and blink when I see a small child, sound asleep. Pulling the sheet back a little more, I notice short hair and Spiderman pajamas. It must be a boy. I don't recognize him. He appears to be around three or four years old, but I can't tell for sure.

I am thunderstruck.

My brain refuses to function. I have awakened in a motel room somewhere, wearing clothes I don't recognize, sleeping next to a small child I don't know, and I have no idea how I came to be here or why.

Think I tell myself. What is the last thing you remember?

Nothing comes. I start a mental inventory. Name. Hillary Coulton. Age. Eighteen. Senior in high school, but I'm not sure where. Parents. Todd and Diane Coulton, my dad dead from a car accident when I was fifteen, but my mom is still alive. Last known memory? Lying down in my bed in my room in my house. I don't know if it's the very last memory I have, but it's what comes to mind. I recall watching the play of shadows on my wall from the tree outside before drifting off. It is the last fully formed memory I have. But what happened after that? There is absolutely nothing. It is as if someone had thrown a switch in my brain and simply turned me off and then switched me back on just now. I shiver at the thought. Goosebumps lift up on my arms.

The child next to me stirs, jostled by my movements, no doubt. He stretches and rolls towards me. His eyelashes flutter and his eyes open slightly. They focus on me, gives me a sleepy smile, his eyes closing contentedly as he whispers, "Mama," and drifts back off to sleep.

I scramble out of the bed and stare at the sleeping boy.

Mama? Mine?

No, no, that can't be. I don't have a kid. I'd certainly remember if I did. He is confused. Yes that's it. He's barely awake. I must look like his mother. I stop and wonder if that is why I am here. Is someone mistaken, and thinks I am this child's mother? That doesn't explain why I have no memory of coming here or why I would have in the first place, though. I lean in closer and examine the child's face.

He looks familiar. I can't quite figure out why. It takes a few moments and then I realize with another chill that his eyes, the shape of his cheekbones, his hair color, are all features that look remarkably similar to pictures of me at that age. This child looks like me.

***

I look out the window through a crack in the curtains. Rain drenches the world from a solid gray sky. I have a red spot on my arm where I repeatedly pinch myself to ensure I am awake. I know I am, but I can't seem to focus. I turn on the television, with the volume turned down, to what seems to be a news channel. It only adds to my confusion. The man on the screen says the date is five years later than my last recollection. This makes me twenty three, not eighteen. My thoughts jump from one thing to the next, and back around again like a frog on a hot plate. Eventually, my thoughts slow and I come to one conclusion.

Amnesia.

Obviously something happened to me and I have forgotten, and by definition, that is amnesia. Maybe I took a crack to the head. I feel for a lump but find nothing. Maybe it is long enough since the hit that I no longer feel any pain. I don't know why I have come out of it now, but I now consider my next move. The child still sleeps but stirs and will probably awake soon. I take the opportunity to search the room for clues to my situation. I find nothing except an odd backpack. It actually looks to be a carrier meant for a child. The backpack part comes off leaving straps for a child to sit in. A small tag on the side shows it can be worn on the front of a person or on the back, sort of piggy back style. Another tag says "Ergo" on it. It looks like it's been used several times.

Inside the backpack I find more mysteries. Two changes of clothes for me and the child. Four cloth diapers for the boy, a pair of socks, but little else, like a jacket. Thankfully he has shoes. Simply put, it doesn't appear as if this bag is packed for a long trip. Perhaps I packed in a hurry? Three granola bars and a packet of dried fruit fill one of the side pockets. In another pocket, I find a small, black billfold type wallet. Inside is four hundred dollars in cash, a small thumb drive, and a California driver's license with my picture on it.

However, the name says "Ellen Seaver." I don't recognize the address. This is now feeling old, and I press my lips tight with frustration. Ellen Seaver? The name is meaningless although it feels as if it should be familiar. I certainly don't remember taking this picture or ever getting a driver's license from California. I can't remember where I am actually from, but I know it isn't California. Or Milwaukee, as my shirt says.

A small, Velcro wristband next to the wallet looks as if it is made for a child. I have seen similar wristbands. They carry information about a child to tell people about him in case he becomes separated from his parents. I pull it open and sure enough I find, in a small inside pocket, a strip of waterproof material with lined spaces for information.

The "name" line says "Cayce" but nothing else. It's an odd spelling of a name and again the tug of familiarity pulls at me. It takes me a half hour to remember to pronounce it as "Casey." It is spelled the way famous psychic Edgar Cayce spelled his name. I find this odd. Mysticism isn't something I am completely familiar with, only enough to recognize this name. If this child truly is mine, why did I name him this? Or did his father name him? Who is his father? The address is blank, as are the lines for information about a pediatrician. Surely I would have put those things down, wouldn't I? The address on the wristband is the same as my driver's license with the same wrong name under the line for parental information. Thankfully, a birth date is also on the band, which, by doing some quick math in my head, prove he is about three and a half years old. I recognize the handwriting as mine. This is not good.

I flip the strip over and the world tips as my head goes light. The list of allergies is long. This kid is allergic to everything a human could react to. Peanuts, wheat, strawberries, bees, dairy, shellfish, pollen, dust, latex and nickel. I at least remember one thing: a friend of mine growing up had so many allergies that her parents worked overtime to make sure she never ate or touched anything lethal to her.

Much to everyone's relief, she seemed to grow out of most of them over time, but this list includes everyday stuff that can kill this child. Some rooting around in the backpack shows that I, or whoever had packed this bag, had thought to include an EpiPen for rescue relief of allergic attacks. I let out a breath and close my fist around the pen. But it was only one.

I tuck the strip back into the wristband and set it aside and dig around more. I find a vinyl bank bag like the kind I used to keep pens and pencils in for school. I unzipped it and freeze. Sweat pools on my upper lip.

The bag is stuffed with cash. This is not just four hundred, but a lot of cash. I pull it out with shaking fingers. All one hundred dollar bills. I lay it out in orderly piles. My breath grows more and more shallow as I count out thirty thousand dollars. Knees going weak, I sit on the edge of the bed. My head spins. Whatever amnesia is keeping from me about my life, I know one thing--this kind of cash never means good things. Why did I have so much money with me and not in a bank? Have I committed a bank robbery? If I didn't earn it myself, it will be missed by whoever did earn it. That means someone is probably looking for me. It means I chose this motel for hiding.

I go through all our belongings again. I can't find any further clues. Although I can remember my name and certain aspects of my life before the age of fifteen, the memories are hazy. I knew I should be a senior in high school, but I remember nothing of the year. When I try to recall more, a sick, panicky feeling settles in my stomach. Before I throw up, I think of something else. My immediate problem is, of course, the child.

He finally wakes. He sits up in the bed, sees me, and grins.

"Mornin', Mama," he says, rubbing his eyes.

"Uh..." I gulp down dryness. "Morning, kiddo. Sleep well?"

"Uh huh." He looks around. "Where're we?"

"A motel. It's just for a little while." I try not to let my voice shake. "Want to watch some TV?"

The boy's eyes grow bigger. "I can?" he asks, disbelief in his thin voice. I don't ever let him watch TV?

"Sure," I say. "We're on vacation. You can do a lot of things on vacation you don't normally get to do."

Using leading questions I get him to tell me his name. It is just the same as on the identity band. Cayce only he pronounces it "Casey," as I expect. I let him watch PBS. He seems happy, and I don't recognize the show. Must be a new one. I head to the bathroom to shower. A good examination of my body reveals stretch marks on my stomach. I have been pregnant. How have I forgotten something like that?

There is a knock on the door.

"Mama, I'm hungry," comes a little voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

"Okay," I say weakly. I want to go back to bed and wake up and find this is a dream. I know it is not. I come out and dressed us both. The child seems comfortable with me, but I am at a loss. He is a total stranger to me, but I cannot let him know that. Not just yet. I have to make sure he has everything he needs, and to not upset him. But I operate on only a minimal amount of babysitting experience. With our belongings secured in the room, and the money hidden, I make sure the door is locked. There is a Denny's across the street and we head that direction.

As we sit in the booth and pore over the menu, I realize I am the parent of a child with food allergies. There is very little on the diner menu he can eat. My own stomach grumbles for some pancakes and eggs, but I settle on a bowl of fruit and orange juice for Cayce, which is the only thing he can eat here without getting sick.

I also ask the waitress for help. It turns out her niece is a food allergen as well. Under normal circumstances, her chattiness might annoy, but secondhand expertise is better than mine.

"Oh, honey, I'm telling you," she says concern in her voice, "that poor girl couldn't eat a damn thing. My sister about pulled her hair out trying to keep that child fed. Anything with wheat, nuts, or strawberries, nope, my niece can't eat it. What you really have to watch out for is the stuff that's cooked in peanut oil. Seems when I was growing up, we didn't have all these kids allergic to peanut butter and we cooked everything in peanut oil. Not now though. Kids die from that. We don't cook anything in peanut oil here and now every place has got to tell you what oil they cook things in."

She goes on, just enough to make me nervous about the whole thing. I can see I will have to be very careful with him. Cayce himself seems a very quiet kid. I don't know much about children, but I know most three-year-olds are chatterboxes. Not this one. He looks around as if he has never seen the inside of a Denny's, or this many other people before.

He turns to me. "These don't seem like bad people, Mama."

I frown and poke at my fruit. "Why would you think they are bad people?"

"Because Randall said so."

Randall? The name sends a small shock through me. It is almost familiar, but I draw a blank for a face or anything else. I almost asked who Randall is before I remembered the kid can't know I don't remember anything, including him. I am going to have to be more subtle.

"I'm sure Randall had his reasons for saying that," I say, choosing my words. "But sometimes people can be wrong about things, even adults."

Cayce looks pensive for a moment. He shrugs and says okay. He goes back to eating his fruit. I want to ask more about this Randall, but I hope instead for answers to come to me on their own.

We finish eating and return to the motel. I take another inventory of our belongings. I need something to be something I know. The wad of cash bothers me the most.

Cayce seems content to watch TV. While he is distracted by Sesame Street, I must decide what to do. I can remember a little bit about my home address, and I figure the best thing is to head home. Mom can get me a head doctor and we can figure out what happens next. I think about calling her but I don't remember my phone number or hers. I also do not have a cell phone with a list of numbers, as I was used to having.

I think about the time as well. It is five years later than it feels to me. What has Mom been through in those years? Did we lose touch? Would she be glad to hear from me, or would she think me back from the dead? I am left wanting to pull my hair out.

Another thing occurs to me. If I am carrying around cash because I don't want to be traced or followed, waltzing into a bus station with the kid will attract attention. If someone is looking for me I need to make certain they don't find me or Cayce. I need transportation. That means getting a car, and doing so without attracting too much attention.

Getting Cayce ready, we hike to the convenience store on the corner and buy a newspaper. The classified section lists automobiles for sale. I take the newspaper back to the room and scan it, circling a few promising contenders. Much of the afternoon is spent on the phone with people who don't sound encouraging. I finally talk one into bringing their vehicle to the motel. A man and a woman show up in two different cars and point me towards the black one.

"Why are you selling it?" I ask, staring at the black car.

"Just don't need it with the truck I have at home," he says. "It's just sitting under the carport, collecting dust. Hardly ever been driven either. Used to be my mom's before she passed away."

I glance at the man and open the car door. I slide into the driver's seat. I remember taking Driver's Ed in high school, but I still am not very comfortable behind the wheel. The car shows about 50,000 miles on it, but seems in good condition.

Suddenly Cayce is at my side. "He's real sad about his mama isn't he?" he asks. I blink at him with surprise.

"I guess he is, kiddo," I say and squirm somewhat uncomfortably against the fabric seats.

The man is staring at us.

Cayce turns to him. "Your mommy loves you, you know. She just wishes you didn't smoke so much."

The man's eyes fly open. "How... how do you know that?" he asks. His voice quivers. "She was always after me to quit smoking."

I stare down at the kid I know is my son, intellectually if nothing else. I am not sure whether to be disarmed or embarrassed.

"Cayce," I say, somewhat hesitantly, "it's not polite to talk about people's personal things like that."

"How does he know that about my mother?" the man asks again.

"I...I don't know," I answer truthfully, hoping this isn't going to cost me the car. "Maybe he just guessed."

Cayce shrugs and goes back to sitting on the curb, watching us. After a few moments of staring at my son, the man continues discussing the car's better points. He lets me take it for a drive around the block and I decide it will do. I pay in cash. His eyes go even wider than before. I can see he wants to ask questions, but he thinks better of it. He and his wife pile into their other car and drive away.

I turn and stare at the little boy who stands next to me. Maybe his comment is just a fluke. He smiles up at me with sweet innocence. I shake my head and decide to let it go. We have a car. We can get out of here. I decide to drive south to Sacramento. I can use a library computer to look up any information I might need, and maybe get my own computer, and a prepaid cell phone. Then we'll head east, back to my home state of South Carolina. Besides, I have an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, vaguely concerning Cayce. I don't know what it is, but I feel a strong urge to take him and run, and I have no idea why. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise, as if I am being watched. I spin around fast, but I see no one. I turn around, grab him, and run into the motel room, bolting the door behind me.
Chapter Two

THE NEXT day is a whirlwind of trying to get things in order to head to Sacramento. It is there I will need to change the title of the car to my name, since it is where my driver's license seems to be from. But that poses a problem. I know my name is Hillary Coulton and not Ellen Seaver. And yet the only form of identification I have is a California driver's license saying I am Ellen. I have absolutely no proof I am Hillary, no birth certificate, not even my high school photo ID. If I am pulled over by the cops somewhere I will need some proof of identity.

The driver's license bothers me quite a bit. I have no idea if it is legit. It is possible I lost my memory around five years ago and didn't know then that my name is Hillary, and so what most likely happened is that I adopted the name of Ellen Seaver, and built a life around that identity. I'm not sure why I chose that name, but it is probably the name I have gone by for the last five years. Unless I stole someone's identity, which is also a possibility. A lot of cash and the drivers license with a different name seem to indicate I have been up to something that is, most likely, illegal. At the very least, I could have unwittingly committed identity fraud. But there is nothing I can do about it now. I have to get home. Until I know more about my past, I need to assume that I am wanted by the authorities somewhere, and my best bet is to avoid attracting attention.

With some reluctance, I decide to go by the name Ellen Seaver until I get back to my hometown and find my mother. There will be enough people there who recognize me as Hillary to vouch for my identity, although, for some reason, the thought of heading home also fills me with a sense of dread. But as long as I am on my own, I have to make use of the tools I have.

The second order of business, besides getting the car titled in my assumed name, is to make sure that both Cayce and I have what we needed for a cross-country road trip. The manager of the motel informs me a kid Cayce's age needed a car seat. That is actually news to me because I thought kids stopped sitting in car seats when they stop being babies. Apparently children up to the age of six have to sit in special booster seats of some kind. There is a lot I am going to need to learn about being a parent, and in a short amount of time. Given that we both need clothes, and I want a cell phone and computer, to say nothing of needing food Cayce can eat, a trip to Wal-Mart is in order.

I ask for directions from the waitress at Denny's once again and head to the nearest one. During the shopping trip, it occurs to me that whipping out a huge wad of cash to pay for everything might arouse suspicion. I know we are on video camera in the store, so there isn't much I can do if someone investigates us thoroughly. But I decide to break up our shopping trip. I buy the car seat and clothes for Cayce and myself in one trip. The next day I go back to get a small laptop and a prepaid cellular phone. I make sure to go to a different checkout clerk.

During the various trips to the checkout lane, I also purchased several gift cards in five hundred dollar denominations. If I arouse suspicion with that one, nobody gives any indication. But I do not plan to shop at that Wal-Mart again. Any other places I need to shop at I can use the gift cards, which will not raise as many eyebrows as huge amounts of cash will.

By our fourth day at the motel, or the fourth day I remember, we finally have a packed car. We are ready to go. We stop at the Denny's one last time for breakfast to say goodbye to the waitress who has been so friendly. She wishes us luck and sends us off with some gluten-free cheese sandwiches and well wishes. With a quick glance at the road atlas I purchased, we headed south.

Ten miles down the road I wonder if I should have thought to get some things to amuse Cayce. I had thought before he is a quiet child. In the car he turns into the kind of chatterbox I expect from a three-year-old.

"What's that, Mama?" he asks as we pass a water tower.

As soon as I tell him, his head whips in the other direction and he points out something else. He is making me dizzy, and I am trying hard to concentrate on not driving into a ditch.

Finally, I tire and am having difficulty concentrating on the road. I am still a nervous driver. I cannot let my attention wander.

"Kiddo, I'm sorry, but I can't answer your questions and drive right now. Why don't you try to remember what you see and you can draw me pictures later?" I tell him. Ultimately I end up loading several kid games on my new cellular phone and passing it back to him to keep him occupied until he falls asleep.

I do remember a saying, "If you want to truly get to know a person, go on a road trip together." I learn a lot about Cayce on this trip that both astounds and mystifies me. I am no child psychologist or developmental specialist, but I figure there are a lot of things a child knows by the age of three. Like who is Mickey Mouse. Or what an airplane is. Or certain songs like, "The Wheels on the Bus." He does know one song that he hums, but Cayce doesn't seem to know any of these other ordinary things. And yet his vocabulary is astounding. He knows words like "overindulgence," "meditation," and "concentration." Over time, I begin to see his lack of knowledge is mostly in pop culture. It seems he has been sheltered from society where he would have picked up such things. On the other hand, he speaks with almost no lisp or speech problems as many kids his age still struggle with. Obviously, he had been spoken to a lot in his life, and not in kiddie talk. It also means he has probably not been around many other children his age much.

I also learn we can add motion sickness to the list of his physical difficulties. The first time he throws up in the car is my first real test of what it means to be a parent. That is about as stressful and disgusting as you can imagine. After the third time, I learn to not let him read or eat in the car, and to limit the amount of time he spends playing games on small screens. I invest in one of those motion sickness acupressure bracelets for kids at the nearest pharmacy, since I'm not sure what his reaction to motion sickness medication would be. He also likes ginger gum, which they sell for kids with motion sickness.

I am unable to get much out of him about our past without direct questioning. He does not mention Randall again on the trip to Sacramento, although he occasionally mentions other names I don't recognize, but which he clearly thinks I should know. I am going to have to be a bit more direct. But I don't want him to worry about my amnesia, which he still doesn't know about. We pull into Sacramento late that evening and find a motel. The check-in process is a little harrowing. I hand over my fake driver's license. Thankfully, the desk clerk seems content to doze through his shift and barely looks at it. Once we settle in our room, Cayce immediately falls asleep. I take advantage of the time to myself and look up information on Ellen Seaver on the new laptop. I am also itching to open the thumb drive in my wallet to see if it contains any clues. Given the rushed feel of the items I had packed, that I had taken such time to ensure so small a thing as the thumb drive was included means that it must surely hold something important, possible critically important. But I am too exhausted to really do much.

I have driven over eight hours in a strange car I am still getting used to, all the while trying to get over my overall nervousness of having a child in the backseat. Top that off with a fear of being pulled over by the cops, and my adrenal glands are certainly working overtime today. I end up dropping into bed next to Cayce, already fast asleep, and falling into a deep slumber myself. My dreams are a jumble of images, some which feel real, and some which feel imaginary. There are people I feel I should recognize, but don't. I hear people calling my name, some calling me "Ellen," and some calling me "Hillary." I think I see Cayce, but he appears strange, as if he is both transparent and glowing. He is an ethereal figure, both brilliant and mesmerizing, but still the endearing little boy he seems to be. He is reaching out to me, and I reach back for him, but I can't quite reach him. Something is keeping him from me. I see a malevolent shadow figure step between us. It feels female, and it is full of venom and hatred, but also arrogance and conceit. It takes joy in keeping me apart from my son, who is calling for me. I know, somehow, that I have the ability to banish this shadow figure, but I am afraid. I am afraid, because I know that in order to do so, I must remember. I don't want to remember. If I remember, something terrible will happen. I don't know how I know this, or why I think this, but I feel as if the evil presence in front of me is giving me this idea. The shadow figure cackles and calls me "weak." I awake in a cold sweat, and turn over frantically, looking for Cayce. He is sound asleep beside me.

***

Dawn was just breaking over the foggy pastures along the back country road. The fog gave the sunrise a diffused light and softened the edges of the scenery. The girl walking along the road didn't notice a thing. She stared into the distance, not really seeing the road in front of her. She wore only her pajamas and a light, thin jacket thrown over them. She stumbled along on bruised and bleeding feet because she wore no shoes. She shivered in the morning chill, but barely noticed her own discomfort. Miles from any town, she carried nothing with her to show she had planned to walk any distance. She had no bag, or any form of identification.

If asked in that moment, she couldn't tell you why she was walking. She couldn't tell you who she was because she didn't remember. She couldn't tell you where she came from because she didn't remember that either. She only knew she had to keep walking as far as she could manage. Darkness lurked behind her, pain and suffering followed, grabbing at her heels like a rabid dog. The only way to keep it at bay was to keep moving. Occasionally, a tear would slide down her cheeks, leaving a cold wet trail. She couldn't tell you why she was crying. She felt hollow, lonely and empty with no identity, no memory, and no idea of the source of the urge to move forward, despite her aching feet.

The country road saw little to no traffic in this backwater. The girl kept veering on and off the road. Anyone passing would have seen the frightening sight of a bedraggled, disoriented girl shuffling and lurching like a zombie. However, after some time, a vehicle did appear in the distance. The Volkswagen van passed the girl and then screeched to a stop ahead of her. It didn't back up, but waited for the girl to walk past. A woman leaned out of the passenger side window.

"Hey, what are you doing? Are you lost?" the woman asked.

The girl didn't answer. She continued shuffling forward.

"Hey," the woman said, "did you hear me?"

"Come on, let's just go," said the man driving.

"Wait." The woman leaned out again. "Hey, do you need help?"

The girl finally registered she had been spoken to. She turned to face the van "Um, I don't know," she replied, her words a little slurred.

The woman's eyebrows rose. "Well, from where I'm sitting, you're walking around at six-thirty in the morning in the middle of nowhere wearing nothing but your pajamas. You're miles away from the nearest town. What are you doing out here?"

"I don't know," the girl replied dully.

This time the man leaned out. "What's your name, kid?"

She shrugged.

"You don't know your name?" the woman asked.

The girl shook her head.

Both heads disappeared back inside the van. A muted conversation rumbled, one voice insistent and one reluctant. Just as the girl turned to resume her slow shuffle down the road, the woman stuck her head back out again.

"We'll give you a ride, kid," she said. "Come on, hop in."

The girl turned toward the woman. She noticed a black ribbon around the woman's neck with a small raven charm on it. As she stared at it, an image flashed in her mind, almost like a scene from a movie. The woman laughing scornfully, standing over someone who lay on the ground crying. Just as quickly, the image was gone.

The man leaned out again. "Are you coming or not?"

The girl glanced at him and the same thing happened. She saw a brief picture in her mind of the man standing on a platform that put him above a seated crowd. He spoke to them. The people in his audience seemed to be paying rapt attention. As before, the image snapped off.

She was about to turn away and continue walking. She did not like the chill creeping up her spine. She took a step and her aching, bleeding feet screamed in agony. This prompted her to reconsider her present course of action. Perhaps it would be better to let them give her a ride to the nearest town. She had no plan for herself after that, and she really didn't care. She cared so little, in fact, that the very real danger of getting into a car with strangers, possibly to never see the light of day again, bothered her not one bit. With another shrug, she stepped toward the van and climbed inside.

The man pulled onto the road and resumed driving. The woman looked at the girl who sat in the backseat, staring out the window. "So you don't remember your name or where you're from, huh?" she asked, with an odd look in her eyes. She studied the girl as if she were both an interesting specimen at the zoo, or a bomb about ready to explode.

"No," the girl whispered, shaking her head.

"Well, something must've happened to you, kid," said the man, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "No worries. We'll drop you off at the next hospital and they'll figure out what's wrong with you."

The girl didn't say anything. She just looked out the window. The woman's tone, probably meant to be comforting, really wasn't.

"I'm Randall," said the man. He thrust a thumb in the direction of the woman. "That's Raven."

The girl turned to look at them.

"Hi" she said.
Chapter Three

THE HOTEL in which we stay in Sacramento is much nicer than the one where I woke with no memories. It is fancy enough to have a pool that doesn't look too popular with everyone else, or dirty. I take Cayce for a swim. That's when I learn he doesn't know how to swim. I teach him a few moves, since somehow I consider knowing how to swim a skill as necessary as walking. We are actually there for two days before I dig into the information I need. Mostly I am afraid, because I don't know what I will find. On the other hand, I am equally afraid I won't find anything at all, which given my circumstances, could be worse. I distract myself for the first two days by taking Cayce to a zoo, to Old Town where he can eat homemade candy and ice cream, and to parks. He has a blast and I have to admit I enjoy spending time with him. He's an endearing, intelligent kid, whose wonder at the world both humbled me and made me laugh. Slowly, but steadily, I start to think of him as my son, and not as some kid I was babysitting for the time being.

I feel immensely guilty that I cannot remember a thing before the last week and I feel cheated. I have no idea if I witnessed his first steps or heard his first words. I do recall I never really thought about having kids, back when I was one myself. Actually, I still think of myself as more of a kid presently. In fact, the more I think about it, the larger the lump in my throat becomes. My chest tightens. I should be graduating from college right now along with my friends. I should be looking for a job I can turn into a career. I remember planning in high school the kind of life I would try to live. Now, here I am, five years later with no idea about any kind of life I have been living already. But I really resent not remembering my pregnancy or the birth of my son. Affection for Cayce grows in my heart, and warmth spreads through me as I watch him. It is because I am not Ellen, I am Hillary, and it is good to have something real to hold onto, even as the two names begin to blur in my mind. But so far, Ellen has been his mother, not Hillary. Is there much of a difference between the woman I am and the one he thinks he knows? Will that show up on psychological tests? I start to worry that doctors will find out what is wrong with me and they will take Cayce away, saying I am an unfit parent. But I don't even know if it is standard procedure or not.

These are the thoughts that creep into my mind uninvited at the weirdest times of the day. At the park I watch Cayce giggle and feed some pigeons. I wonder if my amnesia is due to a psychiatric disorder I might have passed down to him. Maybe some doctor will say not only am I a danger to myself and to Cayce, but that Cayce needs treatment that I cannot otherwise give him. Will they take him away to an institution?

I shook these thoughts away and took Cayce to see the Cirque Dreams show about dolphins. I have always felt bad about seeing dolphins in captivity. They struck me as intelligent, beautiful creatures that didn't deserve to be trapped and forced to perform silly tricks for the amusement of humans. I want nothing more than to apologize in ways they can understand for the shortsightedness of my species, or free them "Free Willy" style. But as I watch, Cayce does something remarkable.

After the show, we walk past the tanks that hold the dolphins. Cayce walks up, presses his face to the glass and looks for the dolphins in the murky water. Suddenly, out of nowhere, three dolphins swim right up to the glass and stare at Cayce. They position their bodies in such a way that they can all look him directly in the eye, ignoring everyone else. Cayce cocks his head to the side and clicks his tongue. The dolphins nod as if saying yes to him. They click a few times more, circle, and swims off. With a sigh, he turns away from the glass and takes my hand.

"What's up, buddy?" I ask.

"They aren't happy here," he says, his voice sad. "They want to go back to their family in the sea."

"Yeah, I guess they probably do."

"They told me." Cayce looks up at me. "I want to go home, too. Are we going home soon, Mama?"

I look down at him. "What do you mean the dolphins told you? Dolphins don't talk, you know."

Cayce glances up at me sideways like I am nuts. "Sure they do. You told me so, remember? And I understood them."

"You...you understood them?" I try to keep my tone neutral.

"Yeah. They think we're pretty silly things, people, you know. They like the free fish but they want to go home. Their house here is too little."

I thought about debating the issue further, but three-year-olds can be imaginative. What is the harm in letting him think he can talk to dolphins? Unless he really can? No, that is impossible. One of the things I do remember about my own childhood is having an imaginary playmate at his age. I think I have always had my head in the clouds and it didn't do me any harm. That must be it.

"Well..." I choose my words carefully, "Maybe someday we can earn a lot of money and come buy the dolphins and let them go."

"Yeah. Are we going home now?" Cayce asks.

"I guess I'm kind of tired too. Let's go back to the room." I sling the backpack onto my shoulder, having already gotten in the habit of carrying it around. I don't want to leave anything behind, valuable as it is.

"No, I mean home to Randall and Raven," Cayce says, his voice rising with insistence. "Are we going back to them?"

"I...I don't think we can right now." I stutter the words out and wait for Cayce to say something else about these people I don't remember.

Cayce is quiet for a minute. Then he says, "Good."

***

That night, when Cayce finally drifts to sleep in the bed, I gather my courage and turn on my new laptop. I have a working knowledge of computers that comes from the time I can remember. But as my fingers fly over the keys, it seems I am more familiar with a keyboard than I know. Maybe it is some sort of cognitive disorientation or something that allow me to recall something from my amnesia state, and not other things. A brief Google search for my mother and the last remembered details of my address come up fruitless. I finally plug in the thumb drive.

The drive is set up with several portable applications designed to run directly from it instead of from a specific computer. This it leaves no trace of activity on the computer being used. It will save everything to the drive so the data can be taken anywhere. Interesting. I open a browser, search the history, and tell it to restore the last session. A web search for cars for sale shows up along with access to a website called Silk Road and something called Digicoin. I search for Silk Road and the blood drains from my face. It is used for drug trafficking online, mostly, and other illegal activities. Because it is part of something called the dark web, it doesn't turn up on regular search engine requests. To get to the Silk Road you have to know the exact IP address of the website. The dark web is another Internet that exists beneath the one most people use. The dark web is almost impossible to track, unlike the surface web that most people use. Google was for regular people. The dark web was for tech-savvy people. Including tech-savvy criminals evading detection.

Suddenly I realize this knowledge is something I cannot have known prior to my last clear memories. This must be something I learned during my five blank years. I have retained something from my lost time. I access the Silk Road website. My logon identification name appears. TwinkleGurl321. I cringe. A sissy logon name. Surely no one takes it seriously? Oh well. I cannot remember the password, and the browser seems not to have been told to remember it. Sitting back, I sigh. I explore the thumb drive further and make some other interesting discoveries.

The portable applications on it are for hacking. I find a program to hide browsing history, encryption programs, WiFi network cracking programs and password cracking programs. I start that one and in no time at all, have figured out how it works. I use it to crack my Silk Road password. With a shiver, I open the account. For a second I see spots before my eyes. I tremble. The screen lists previous transactions. There are no descriptions, but numbers show up for various payments of a hundred and fifty Digicoins over the course of several years. When I search for the product codes, they come up expired. I cringed to see the codes are similar to ones used for various drugs. Have I been trafficking drugs to get by? And what is a Digicoin?

I close the Silk Road and search for Digicoins. Biting my lower lip, I find they are a type of secure digital currency. They're used across international boundaries, just like regular currency. They can be bought with actual money, traded for regular goods, or cashed out for any currency. My mouth drops open when I see the value of a single Digicoin in US dollars. They have been worth over eight hundred dollars a Digicoin. On the day someone paid me in one hundred and fifty Digicoins, their value that particular day shows a hundred and twenty dollars each. That's eighteen thousand dollars! I read how they increase in value rapidly, and may top at twelve hundred dollars per Digicoin soon. Now I know where I got that wad of cash. I am not liking this at all. Digicoins are virtually untraceable.

It seems that the concept was originally developed by an anonymous hacker who had figured out an algorithm that allowed virtual currency to be traded without being duplicated by copying a file. The Digicoin community got its start when I had been a junior in high school and went virtually unnoticed for almost three years, before gaining attention after a CNN news story on them. One could earn Digicoins by allowing their personal computer to be linked to an online network of computers calculating Digicoin transactions worldwide, a process called "mining," or you could buy them with real currency. They seemed to be fairly attractive in countries that had weak governments, which, unfortunately, meant a wide variety of crime. At present, Digicoins had many legitimate uses, but the communities that used them the most were underground, and often illegal, operations. I gulped.

I pick apart my browser files and discover a website that seems to be my Digicoin service of choice. I find what looks like portable mining software used to exchange Digicoins. However, I don't know the logon ID or password of the virtual wallet. Frustrated, I search one more time before I realize I am at a dead end with the Digicoins. Leaning back, I have to admit what I have uncovered about the Silk Road isn't promising. I am not sure I want to know more about the time I have lost.

I search once more for my mother around my hometown in a suburb of Charleston. I draw a blank again. I am too tired to dig further. I shut down the computer and crawl into bed with a slightly snoring Cayce. Breathing deep, I try to quiet the turmoil in my mind. Based on the clues I have uncovered, I lost my memory somehow and I must have needed both an identity and a means of survival. Apparently I assumed the name Ellen Seaver and acquired hacking skills. This is probably where I became involved in some type of illegal activities. I must have hooked onto the Digicoin craze and begun trading in them, racking up a fortune in virtual currency that I had exchanged for dollars. Or maybe I hacked someone's virtual wallet and stole them. Somehow, I ended up on the run with Cayce. Is the return of my memory a fluke? Did it come back for a reason? What I really need to remember is just how much trouble am I in. And who is Cayce's father? Perhaps he is looking for me, or perhaps for Cayce, or both of us?

My heart thuds and my breath shifts to short gasps. It takes hours for me to finally sleep.

***

I take Cayce to a museum the next day, hoping to distract myself with some quality time with him. I try to focus on something other than the fact that I am an accomplished hacker, and possibly a criminal, at least according to that thumb drive. I entertain the idea of someone else being responsible for everything. Maybe I took the thumb drive as evidence, maybe to go to the cops? I like that idea. Perhaps Cayce's father, or someone else with whom I had been living, is engaged in illegal activities. Maybe it's their cash I now carry. Maybe I ran away, hoping to escape that life? I know I have to remember, but none of the self-help meditation techniques I research on the Internet seem to be work. My mind is a fog when it comes to my immediate past. Panic tingles in my stomach, settling in with a weight that presses on my chest when I try to remember.

As Cayce and I walk back to the hotel room, I think of what comes next. I have taken care of the car's title, handled little errands I needed to prepare for a road trip, and had the car properly inspected. There really isn't much more I need to do here. I can't put it off any longer. I need to head home.

"You're going to love Rock City," I tell Cayce as we walk up to the hotel room. "I went there once with my mother when I was a kid. They have an underground waterfall and a fairy city. Oh, and there's a deer park where you can feed the deer." I dig out the plastic room key.

"Can I pet the deers?" Cayce asks.

"Um, well you know, I'm not sure. Maybe. We'll find out when we get there." I pushed the key into the slot, and the door swung open, unlocked. The hairs on the back of my neck stood. A vision flashed in my mind. An angry, dark figure stands in the middle of the room, nearly roaring in rage. I step back, pushing Cayce behind me. The vision passed. I could feel no one in the room now. I do not know how I know this, but the knowledge is a certainty. Gripping Cayce's hand, I peek inside.

The room is ransacked!

Clothes litter the room, some torn. The mattress is upside down, bedding is torn off it and lies limp in a corner. Drawers hang out of the cheap dresser. Our two duffel bags hug the floor in a limp pile, our personal items surrounding them like rejected Halloween candy. I grip the backpack strap, grateful I brought the cash and electronics with me. Now I know I will never feel safe enough to leave them behind.

"What happened, Mama?" Cayce asks with a whimper. I draw him close. Sudden anger washes my face with heat that he should be afraid. I know he can feel my fear. It trembles in my stomach and along my skin. I swallow hard and stamp it down.

"I don't know, kiddo." I lift my chin and narrow my eyes, searching the room for something, anything, even another vision. "Someone came in here."

"Someone wants to hurt us," Cayce says in a small, quiet voice. It isn't a question.

"Come on and help me." I step into the room, hating the need to go inside,, hoping he will not disagree with me. "We need to get out of here now."

I close the door firmly behind us and throw our things into the bags. Cayce helps by shoving his own things into his duffel bag. I sweep the bathroom for our toothbrushes and anything else I have missed. I try my best to put the room into order. At least the mattress and pillows have not been cut open. I should call the police, but frankly, I do not want the authorities involved. Not when I am unsure of myself. If my face is on a wanted poster, I'll be hauled in as soon as some cops see me. I do not want to think what will happen to Cayce. We are on our own. As I am checking under the furniture for anything that might have gotten tossed under the bed or night stand, I notice something odd. I pull out several half-hull shells. Pistachio shells. I feel a chill creep up my spine. I don't know why, but the sight of pistachios makes my blood run cold. These seem to be the only evidence of the nuts in the room, but I know I didn't eat them, and Cayce certainly didn't. He's allergic to them. I brush them in the trash and get back to work.

After ensuring we have everything and the mattress is back on the bed, I leave the key on the dresser. We slip out and head to the car. I feel someone watching. I am certain they did not find what they wanted. I assumed they want the money and maybe the thumb drive. I expected an attack. For the first time I wish I had invested in some form of self defense. Maybe I can get a gun at a pawn shop, or at least some pepper spray. We rush to the car. I snap Cayce in his seat. I speed out of the parking lot, tires squealing, going as fast as I can without breaking too many laws.

"Where are we going, Mama?" Cayce asks. He sounds worried.

"To Rock City, like I was telling you," I say, somewhat distracted. I notice a blue car pull out behind us. It seems to make the same turns as my car, but the blue car hangs back, trying not to be obvious. I gulp. My heart rate triples and sweaty fingers slip on the steering wheel. Someone is following us. I don't recognize the car and cannot see the driver's face, but I know I have to lose them. I weave in and out of traffic, trying not to be obvious about it. The blue car stays in range. Railroad caution signs loom ahead. The lights flash a warning. I know it is risky, but I grit my teeth and hope I am not about to kill my son and myself, but I fear whatever was in the car behind us even more. I floor it.

The blue car speeds up somewhat hesitantly, as if the driver cannot believe I am trying to beat a train. Clenching my teeth, I push the pedal to the floor. Cayce screams in terror. We make it across the tracks, the car almost jumping off the road. The train roars past behind us, cutting off the blue car. I pray it is a long, very long freight train. I turn onto the Interstate, intending to get as far away as we can. Reaching back, I rub my son's knee to calm him. He quietly cries. I hope we never have to do that again.

***

They found her some cheap clothes at Goodwill. Although the jeans and cotton shirt fit loosely, they were clean and warm. They also bought her secondhand tennis shoes. Anything was better than bare feet. They had not dropped her off at the nearest town, as they had planned, but instead took her with them to Milwaukee, to Raven's sister's store, the Willow Branch. Older than Raven, Willow seemed as different from her sister as two women could be. Raven was intense, and short tempered, and her smile never quite reached her eyes. She preferred wearing dark colors, and spoke to Randall, and the girl, as if they were simpletons. But Willow was the opposite. Soft spoken and kind, she always had a sunny smile and a compassionate word for everyone. She came out and greeted Raven warmly, although Raven's cool demeanor didn't match the greeting. Randall greeted Willow with nearly as much warmth as Willow showed him, but something about it seemed false as he immediately turned away to unload their things. Willow turned to the girl, leaning against the van forlornly.

"Well, hi there," she said. "Who are you?"

The girl shrugged and looked away. She knew Raven had already told Willow over the phone about her. She had gotten the impression that Willow had repeatedly asked her sister if she was out of her mind for picking up a stranger on the side of the road, one who seemed to have amnesia, and brought her home like a stray puppy instead of to the nearest police station. Raven had only replied that the girl had repeatedly insisted that she wanted nothing to do with the police, didn't care where she went, and was completely fine to get out and keep walking down the nearest road. Now, here was the strange girl in front of her.

Willow smiled softly, her natural compassion coming out as she sensed the girl's inner turmoil. "No worries. I'm sure you're tired. Come on in and sit down." She reached out a hand to the girl. At first, the girl shied away, but Willow's soft smile encouraged her. She took the older woman's hand and followed her into the store. It was the strangest store the girl could fathom. Candles and incense spiced the air along with the musty smell of old books, as soft, ethereal music played. The girl looked around in wonder at the crowd of colors, soft silk scarves and outfits, to sun catchers in the windows, to brightly colored stones arranged in baskets along shelves. Various types of handmade jewelry lined glass cases along one wall, and shelves of books groaned under the weight of volumes on everything from meditation to Native American sweat lodge rituals. Bright wind chimes dangled overhead. The entire space was infused with a feeling of peace. The girl reached for the nearest book.
Chapter Four

THE ROAD trip from Sacramento to Chattanooga, Tennessee is nothing like our first long drive trip from northeast Washington state to Sacramento. As much as I don't want to believe it, there is no denying that someone is after us. My hands shake at the thought. The fear is made worse by not knowing who wants us or why. I only have suspicions. Obviously, I am mixed up with some pretty bad people, if they have no qualms about trashing a hotel room in broad daylight. I am not certain how they found me. But my ethereal knowledge of computers that I seem to have developed during my amnesia episode thankfully stays with me. It isn't hard to guess an answer.

Most likely someone traced my IP address when I logged onto some of the websites under Ellen Seaver's credentials. Actually, I kicked myself for being so stupid. I must have learned my hacking skills from someone. That someone could be who was following me now. I must assume from here on out that I am being watched and any attempts to use Ellen's information is going to be tracked. Paranoia is the safest course under the circumstances, especially with Cayce to consider. I worry now that I have compromised my new laptop. Whoever tracked the IP address will look for my laptop ID whenever I log on again.

The next time we stop at a motel with free Wi-Fi, it is after a day of backtracking to make it look as if I am driving south instead of the east. I log on with my laptop and fire up the thumb drive to look for programs I can use. In an hour, I have scrambled my laptop's IP address and hidden my computer behind three different Chinese firewalls. I partition my hard drive to boot up in Linux, and create a new, false identity on the Linux partition, setting up a new email on Tormail, an anonymous email system. I set up a new, clean version of my Tor web browser and vow never to look for information as either Ellen or Hillary in this new, hidden area of my computer. I'll have to be careful not to contaminate my new identity. I have to admit, I am rather proud of myself. I double check my technique on a couple of search engine results, and it looks good. I still plan to be careful anytime I used a computer anywhere, but I believe I have successfully masked my digital scent.

The hardest part of this entire fiasco is explaining everything to Cayce. The poor kid is already disoriented and confused, maybe as much as I am. Conversations with him always feel like I am climbing a set of slanting stairs, and I never knew what he is going to understand and what I will have to spend an hour explaining. As his mother, it is my job to keep him safe. That includes not scaring him about things he cannot control. He has already awakened one night, screaming in terror and crying. I hold and rock him for nearly an hour, with him mumbling something like, "They're all gone, they're all gone!" He cannot explain what he means, and so I chalk it up to a nightmare. Hearing him scream frightens me badly and fills me with a sense of foreboding. I do not sleep much that night. Overwhelming sadness and loss keeps me restless. I cannot explain the feelings. Thankfully they dissipate somewhat with the morning light. I blame myself for the situation.

Cayce trusts me completely at the moment, and I do not want to do anything to compromise that. I need his cooperation, and I want him to feel safe with me. I am already hauling him all over Creation without much of a choice on his part. I just have to be careful about how I talk to him and how much I divulge. I try to keep it seeming like we are on a fun vacation. Because I do not completely trust my laptop to keep me anonymous, I end up doing a lot of basic searches on my little smart phone or in libraries. I search child psychology for children Cayce's age, as well as some psychological discussions on my own state. I manage to compile a good idea of what I can say to Cayce that will not make the situation worse for him. I also become something of an armchair expert in amnesia. Apparently, I suffer from something called a "fugue state."

It is a dissociative state usually brought on by severe emotional trauma. In some ways, this news scares me more than the idea that I might have been dealing in drugs over the Internet, or taking part in illegal hacking. The fugue state started before all that. Something bad happened to me long before I stepped into anything illegal. This explains why, when I think of my past, I cannot remember anything

after the age of seventeen and panic tightens my stomach. It makes me wonder what I might face when I make it back to my hometown.

The lack of information on my mother has me wondering if she might be dead. I find I am not looking forward to going home. However, I cannot say anything to Cayce. I force a smile and push excitement about our destination into my voice to keep up his spirits. But he looks at me sometimes, with a sad, but knowing smile.

***

"What is this thing, Mama?" Cayce asks.

I follow his glance up along the overwhelming construction in front of us.

"Um...I think it's a giant ball of string," I say. You really can find the weirdest roadside attractions in America.

"Why did somebody make that?" he asks. He sounds as puzzled as I feel.

"I guess some people are inspired to make something they think is art. Kind of like when you finger paint."

He frowns and looks at me. "What's finger painting?"

I look down at him in surprise. "You never finger painted?" I ask. He shakes his head. Taking a breath, I tell him, "It's where you use your fingers to spread paint on a piece of paper instead of a brush."

My answer does not smooth away the lines on his forehead. He is adorable when he frowns. "Why?"

"Because it's fun," I answer.

His eyes cloud with confusion for a minute. "Randall says fun is for drones. Drones do silly things with extra time. We're not alive long enough to do silly things. We're the special ones. We have to spend our time working to get closer to the Source."

I glance down at him in surprise. Cayce says some weird things, and occasionally does weird things, like the time I found him in our hotel room having torn the newspaper into strips and laid them out into some odd design, then sat in the middle of it for an hour with his eyes closed, humming tonelessly to himself. But this has to be the oddest yet. Just who the hell is this Randall and why does he say such things that have had obviously made an impression on my son? Even worse, is Randall who follows us?

I bite my lower lip. It is difficult for me, not just hearing Cayce say these things, but surely I must have heard them before myself? I cannot remember. But Cayce talks as if I should understand this. I know I have to get information from him because my son's memory is perfectly intact, but he's a child, and he observes things differently than an adult would. He may have crucial information, but I need a way to get it that will not leave him traumatized.

I think about my next words carefully and then say, "Tell me what do you know about the Source?"

His face relaxes as do his small shoulders. He seems almost relieved. The words come out like something told to him many, many times. "The Source is what we all come from. It makes up everything we see and surrounds us even when we can't see it. It is energy like heat is energy. The person who connects to it can learn to use it. It tells us things when we need to know them, and makes us better than a simple person. Drones are simple people. They are distracted by the world. We're not. Only special people like us learn to use the Source's energy. It created people so it could feel what it's like to be a person. The Source knows everything, but it has to actually do things to experience them. It has to become complete, like a puzzle being put together. That's why it created people. We live the people lives and it experiences everything it knows through us."

He takes a deep breath and smiles, obviously proud of himself for remembering all of that. I shake my head slightly. There is no way that kid can possibly comprehend the metaphysical stuff he just repeated, obviously by rote. But I have the oddest sensation he just might actually understand. That doesn't make it any less weird to hear those words come from the mouth of a small child. It seemed too much like he was coached to say such things, and I wasn't at all sure he actually understood such deep concepts. Suddenly I remember that my father and I had once passed by some street preacher issuing a fiery, damning sermon on a street corner who had, at one point, handed the Bible to a small child who then got up to do his own bit of preaching. However, when my father stopped and gently quizzed the child with questions meant to elicit his own responses, not responses he had been trained to answer, the child had been visibly confused. Children might feel pride at that age, my father explained, memorizing what parents expected them to, but true understanding would come years later.

I can hear in Cayce's voice that he has been coached. I cannot believe it was by me. My family has never been particularly religious or spiritual, at least that I can recall. We attended church at Christmas and Easter, and a few other occasions. I also do not recall either of my parents having any kind of interest in spiritual matters of this kind of deep metaphysical nature. For the most part, they didn't really speak to me about realms beyond the physical one. What this kid was saying was positively New Age. Who taught him all of this? The mysterious Randall?

I squat down so I can look him straight in the eye. "Son, do you understand what all of that means?"

"Sure!" Cayce smiles, all bright confidence. "It's kind of like the Source is a big ocean and our souls are like little drops of water from the ocean. If the ocean were alive and wanted to know what dry land was like, it would take that drop and throw it on the land so it would know what being dry is like, because the ocean is wet and you can't know dry in a wet place. But the whole ocean can't go on land or it wouldn't be land anymore. So only a few drops can go to find out."

I rock back on my heels. I am impressed and a little afraid. That is no memorized response. I already think it interesting that this three-year-old is so articulate. But to be able to explain such an abstract concept? A lot of kids that age can't even tell time. I am about to ask him more when he turns and runs toward a snowball stand. Apparently, snowballs are another thing I have not allowed him to have. I buy him his first, and he is in utter heaven.

***

A beeline for Tennessee would get us there in four days. It takes closer to eleven days as we go a roundabout way, and backtracked several times. Any time I access the Internet, I take a roundabout way through my secret setup. I don't plan to be caught unaware again by someone looking for me.

I tell Cayce we are taking a sort of vacation so he can see more of the world. He seems to accept this explanation. I try to make it as educational as possible by stopping at National Parks and museums. But my immediate destination is Rock City in Chattanooga. I have been there several times with my parents and I hope a familiar place might spark some memories.

We arrive in Chattanooga and book into a small motel on the outskirts of town. An inventory of the money I had left show that while we are still in good shape, I have spent a lot. We might need to live on this cash for a long time until I find something I can do to earn more. I need to be more careful, and if it means buying stuff for sandwiches instead of eating out all the time, so be it. With Cayce's food allergies, that is our best bet anyway.

We visit Rock City the next day. An uneasy sense of déjà vu haunts me the entire time. I recognize the entrance. A rush of amazement floods me to think I can visit Ruby Falls underground once more. I remember a particular rock formation where I had taken pictures with my parents. The park now sports a few recent new attractions. However, it is at the deer park where I shiver with an odd sensation as I watch Cayce feed the baby deer with delight.

There is a small gumball machine nearby with food inside. I pull out quarters and hand them to Cayce, telling him about how, when I had been his age, my parents brought me here. I thought the deer food was gum and popped it in my mouth.

Cayce giggles. "Did you eat it?" he asks.

"Probably some of it," I admit with a smile.

Cayce giggles again. He walks out into the open area with the deer. I watch him anxiously, staying close. Several deer walk up to him without fear, and eat the food from his tiny hand. That surprises me. Even though the deer are tame, they do not seem to be eating out of the hands of the other people feeding them. Most people are throwing the food on the ground or putting it on rock outcroppings. Gradually, all of the deer turn away from the others and wander over to Cayce.

He makes an odd trilling sound with his tongue and smiles at the creatures. Even when he runs out of food, they still come to him. He pats them affectionately on the head. As I approach, though, they back off a little.

"Cayce," I say softly, "it looks like you've made some new friends. They like you."

"Yeah. They're family like you and me. They're brothers and sisters and they live here. How come I don't have brothers and sisters?"

Honestly, I cannot answer that question, because I have no idea why I have him. A nasty thought hits me. What if I have other children and do not remember them?

I ask Cayce, "Do you remember having any brothers or sisters around? Other kids maybe?"

He shakes his head. "No. I was the only kid, remember? I was the only one allowed because I was special. Tammy and Tony left because Tammy was going to have the baby and didn't want to give it away. Randall made them leave."

Randall again.

"Well, that's why we left," I say. "I didn't want to have to give you away. I'd rather keep you."

I am surprised even as I say the words. I have no idea if this is true or not, but I suspected this is not far from the case.

Cayce grins and run over to hug my leg. "I want to keep you too! You're my favorite even though Randall said it's bad to have favorites."

I grit my teeth. The picture of this Randall that Cayce is painting seems to be one of a very odd jerk.

"Well," I say, "it doesn't matter if family are your favorites. Come on, let's go and let the deer eat their dinner."

***

"I'm telling you, that girl needs medical help, Randall." Willow's voice rose with irritation.

The girl looked up from the computer in the back room of Willow's store, where she was busy designing a website for the business. She had registered for one of the free online classes offered by the local library. She used Willow's library card, and she had to admit it, she was enjoying learning about computers. As part of the final project in the HTML programming class, she had to design a website for a business. Willow allowed her to sleep in the back room and work at her store to earn some money for herself, plus use her library card and computer. She was eager to do something for Willow in return, and the website would be a surprise.

"Ellen is perfectly fine," Randall replied.

"That's not her real name," Willow said. She dropped her voice low. "We don't know anything of the sort about her. She can't remember anything, and that's something that needs a doctor. Who knows what she might have that we would never know about without blood tests?"

"Oh, Willow, you're overreacting," said Randall with a smile. "Besides, she picked that name because she likes the Ellen talk show. It's who she is now. She may never remember who she was. What's the point of letting some doctors poke and prod her with nothing to show for it?"

"Because they might be able to help her," Willow said. "You don't know that they can't. You aren't a doctor. And she might have family looking for her."

"We would have seen something on the news by now, or an Amber alert or something."

"Not if she's over eighteen!" Willow huffed out a breath. "Why don't you tell me the real reason you want to keep her around?"

"What do you think my real reason is?" Randall said, his voice going too smooth and too even.

"I don't know." Willow said, the words dragged out and slow. "Why do I get the suspicion that your motives aren't altruistic?"

"You're thinking I'd do something to her?" he asked, irritation sharp in his tone. "In case you haven't remembered, I'm married to your sister."

Willow gave a snort. "We already know Raven doesn't take her vows seriously. I never wanted to know if you guys had an open relationship. It's not my business, anyway."

"You're right. It isn't. But you can relax. I'm not into little girls. She's half my age. As you like to point out, we know nothing about her. She may not be legal anyway. No, I am more worried about what will happen to her when the Feds find out what she can do. Once the Architects find out about her abilities, she will disappear and no one will ever see her again."

For a minute silence held. Then Willow said, her words slow, "If you're worried about her hacking the website of that tent revival church that pickets out on the sidewalk, calling us witches and Devil worshipers, you probably don't need to. Most people who pull that kind of prank only get off with a fine. Besides, they deserved it. She had their website down for a month."

"I'm not talking about her computer skills," Randall said, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "I'm talking about her psychic skills. She has a natural connection with the Source, maybe brought up by whatever crack to the head she took. Just look at the readings she did for Tarot day when Raven got sick. She's a natural. More than one person said she was the most accurate reader they ever had."

Willow gave a laugh. "Yeah, well, they don't know she had no idea what she was doing. She bullshitted her way through the whole thing and we all knew Raven wasn't sick that morning. She was high and couldn't even get out of bed. Ellen was just covering her butt. Not that Raven has much talent anyway."

Randall thumped a fist down. "Which makes it even more legit. She wasn't using the cards, she was pulling from the Source. And she does stuff like that all the time. Remember how she knew that woman was shoplifting? She just knew. And the dreams? She's attuned to the Source energy, I just know it."

"So that's why you want to keep her around? You think she might be a guidepost for whatever it is you're seeking?"

"I think she might end up being more than that," said Randall, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned and walked out.

The girl known as Ellen sat shaking at the computer, the website forgotten. She hadn't meant to listen to all of that. Now she didn't just wonder who she was. Now she wondered what she was.
Chapter Five

"...AND THE new research is expected to change the market for mobile devices sometime in the next year."

I look up from my laptop to the television. A man sits at a news desk. I have missed the story about some new technology, having been engrossed in my laptop. The irony of that sinks in hard. After Rock City, Cayce and I return to our small hotel room. It has a kitchenette and I make microwave macaroni and cheese with vegetable noodles. It isn't great, but it could've been worse, and it is gluten-free and dairy free. I am becoming something of an expert in food allergy cooking, especially after picking up some allergen cookbooks and parenting guides at a bookstore. Cayce is worn out from the day and falls asleep early on the bed, clutching the new plush Mickey Mouse I got for him at Wal-Mart. It gives me a chance to test my computer skills. I am taking a chance, but I activated all the programs that allow me to hide while browsing the Internet and logged into my secure section on my laptop.

Now I do a thorough examination of everything I can find on the thumb drive, which includes trying to crack the Digicoin wallet. I recognize immediately this is nearly out of my league. A hacker designed Digicoin. It is made to be unbreakable by a semi-expert like me. It's one thing to be able to mask myself online and crack a few email passwords, and quite another to break professional encryption. To access that wallet, I need the logon information, and it doesn't seem to be anywhere that I can find.

I give up and turn my attention back to the portable web browser. It looks like I was not the only one accessing the Silk Road website from this browser, according to the history stored in the browser cache. I instruct some of the hacking programs to identify the username and password of anyone who has used this browser. But why would someone else have logged on with the browser on this thumb drive? Typically, the only reason to use a portable web browser is so no one else knows you are doing anything wrong.

Unless I have set it up so I can steal another person's logon? That's the kind of thing the hacker would do. If I had this device running unbeknownst on someone else's computer, and he was none the wiser, he could have logged on to his accounts thinking this was his secure browser on his computer, never knowing it was my browser on my thumb drive, plugged in and hidden in the back. It was tiny enough to go unnoticed unless someone knew to look for it. The programs began to crunch away.

"Officials estimate the group has been dead for around a week," the man on television is saying. I look up.

"The exact belief system of this particular cult is not yet known. Authorities are currently conducting an investigation with the hopes of identifying members and locating next of kin. Why this cult committed mass suicide is also not yet known."

The image on the television switches to a somewhat unsteady and obviously homemade video showing what look like bodies under gold colored sheets. The bodies are arranged in a circle on the ground in a starburst pattern within what looks like some kind of large hall.

I quickly change the channel. There is enough unpleasantness in my life. I don't need more. I find a nice mindless sitcom to watch and go back to my work. The hacking programs have identified a logon ID and password.

I type them into the Silk Road website and log on. The name on the account is Lester Cook. The name doesn't bring to mind any images or memories, but like so many other things lately, including the name Randall, it feels familiar. And oddly cold.

Suddenly, a warning pops up on the screen. Someone is trying to access my computer by pinging my IP address. Someone is trying to locate me. I pull the computer power plug from the wall. Obviously was waiting for me try that ID. Did they trace me? I have to assume they did.

I sit back. My shoulders ache. Grit rubs my eyes every time I blink. It is late and I am incredibly tired. I don't want to have to pack up Cayce and depart in the middle of the night. I manage to convince myself I have enough hiding programs running to keep me safe, at least for tonight. All the same, I gather up everything to grab in a moment's notice if I have to. We'll leave first thing in the morning.

***

"What's wrong with the car, Mama?" Cayce asks.

"Nothing serious, I hope," I grumble, jiggling the key.

We are both strapped into our seats and the car is packed, but the ignition will not catch. I try several times to start the car, but with no luck. With a sigh, I get out and unstrap Cayce. We walk back into the motel office to ask for help. The motel owner tries jump starting the car with some cables, but no luck. The car is completely dead. Finally, he gives us the number to a local auto repair shop. He is also good enough to have us avoid a towing charge by having his son come with a pickup truck. The kid loops some chains around the bumper of the truck and my car, and carefully drags it the two miles to the shop.

Cayce passes the time in the waiting room by playing some games I have installed on a child-friendly tablet I picked up for him along with the Mickey Mouse. The games are supposed to help preschoolers with fundamental skills. Interestingly enough, he seems to know half of it already and is beginning to show signs of being able to read. I try to read one of the discarded paperbacks in the waiting room, but I am too keyed up. Instead, I spend most of the time pacing.

The car gave me a sense of security I had not realized until it was gone, from being able to jump in it and go anywhere I need to at a moment's notice, to the ability to securely lock up our belongings, or if need be, ourselves. Knowing I am being followed and not having a working vehicle is making me extremely anxious. I have just enough money in cash to purchase another car, but without any other source of income, I really don't want to do that.

I need to find some way of earning money. Given the circumstances, we might be on the run for quite some time to come.

Why couldn't I have just stuck to something legitimate, like web design or something? Maybe I can work from home with skills like that, assuming I can find where "home" is. I have managed to locate what I believe is my mother's number under her maiden name in the same area around the Charleston area. Three times I have called, and there is no response, and no answering machine. An idea hits. Perhaps I can start working on computer jobs now? My troubles seem to come when I visit sites like Silk Road. I can stay away from them and scramble my IP address even deeper. I can even create an entirely new identity online, if I purge the old one I had been using to try and hide myself on my hidden section of my computer. I can do my legitimate work from my regular computer operating system.

Excited now, I dig out my laptop and sit next to Cayce, ready to get to work. Sure enough, there are several sites offering freelance positions for web developers. I find websites that list jobs available that workers can bid for. I do some research into the sites. I need examples of my work in order to sell my skills. But I can qualify for jobs by passing some online exams offered by the site. I pass an easy test for HTML while sitting in the auto repair waiting room.

I could plan to develop websites for businesses on my own, and even develop some mobile applications for people who needed one custom made for their businesses, but needed it done cheaply. As a matter of fact, browsing some of the job listings, I recognized that there were many I could probably do right now. As I draft a plan of action, the owner walks in, rubbing his hands on a rag.

"Well," he says, "The good news is it's not an expensive fix. It's your starter and some wiring, looks like a squirrel got in somewhere and chewed it up. The bad news is we don't have the part we need for this model. We'll have to order it and since it's the weekend, it probably won't be in until Monday."

My skin goes cold. "Monday? Is there any way at all to get it sooner?"

"Nope. Sorry, hon," he says, somewhat apologetically.

I grit my teeth. I need to be away from here soon. Whoever is looking for me could be on their way here right now. But I don't have much of a choice. I mumble thanks and tell him to go ahead with the repairs. I need to find somewhere for me and Cayce to hide out. A motel is probably the first place someone will look for us. After sifting through listings on my phone, I discover a women and children's homeless shelter nearby. It is within walking distance. The very last thing I want to do is stay in a homeless shelter, but I am hoping that whoever is following us won't think to look for us there. Combine that with the fact that it is a crowded place, and hopefully our shadowy pursuers will think twice about attacking us there. Gathering up Cayce and our stuff, we headed out.

***

The check-in process for the homeless shelter is more involved than I expect. Turns out you can't just show up and walk in. It is nearly seven o'clock in the evening before Cayce and I join the general population. I have to answer a slew of questions and fill out several forms. I honestly cannot answer the question as to whether or not I have been in an area in the last year where malaria is a problem. Have I been exposed to tuberculosis? No idea. What's worse is that I cannot answer simple questions about my child's health other than what food allergies he has. We have to stay in this place at least two days, maybe even three, and for that length of time we have to undergo several medical tests to make sure we aren't contagious with anything. To be perfectly honest, I don't mind that at all. Free medical tests that might answer some questions? By all means!

I do not mention my having amnesia to the nurse, but I had to admit, Cayce's presence meant I had engaged in some unprotected sex at some point in my life, and who knows what that might have left me with, besides a child? This is the sort of place protective services frequently visited, and the very last thing I need is for the authorities to come and take Cayce away. I make up a story that sounds plausible. Most of the women and children in the shelter are running from abusive partners or other equally dangerous situations. It isn't difficult to come up with a similar story for myself and my son.

I tell them I ran away from home as a teenager and was taken in by a man who is abusive. When he abused my son, I packed and left. I have a car but it is broken and is being fixed. I discover the shelter operates a gated parking lot, and some stay in their cars overnight. They get dinner from the kitchen, and a security guard keeps order during the night. I file that info away for potentially useful knowledge. When she asks where I got the money to afford a car or repairs, I tell her I have self-taught computer skills. I design websites. I pull out my laptop and show her the website I have signed up for. I am pleased to see I already have a job offer.

"That seems pretty lucrative," she says, somewhat impressed. "But I have to tell you, having expensive electronics here isn't a good idea. I can almost promise you this thing will disappear at some point tonight, along with your phone and the kid's tablet. You can rent a locker, but not until you've been fully processed into the general population."

"Can I leave it here in your office?" I ask. "Honestly, this thing is my livelihood. I can't afford to lose it. And it looks like I have a job to work on that I need to get busy with."

She nods. "I'll lock the door when I leave tonight. I'm sorry, but I don't think that you'll have much time to work on your project today. You'll still have to sit through our orientation video and go for a TB test. Plus, we still need to give your son a complete physical."

I grit my teeth. I have endured my own physical and blood tests with as much aplomb as I can muster, but Cayce does not take well to me being out of his sight, nor does he take kindly to the sight of needles and blood, even though I tell him not to look. He was not really as cooperative as I had hoped he would be. I am going to watch everything they do to him, but he still freaks out like the little kid he is. My tests couldn't end fast enough. I leave my knapsack with the counselor. She locks it into a filing cabinet. I follow her out to the playroom where Cayce seems to be holding court with several other children. They sit in a circle with a child care specialist, who leads them in a song. It seems to me the children are all trying to crowd around Cayce, like he is a security blanket or something. He has a warm smile for each of them. Even as I watch, he easily breaks up a dispute over a toy between two boys.

Several of them look disappointed when I tell Cayce he has to come with me.

His physical goes about the way I expect, with a good deal of anxiety, fear and finally tears. I put on a brave face as they draw blood and give him shots. I don't know if he has ever been vaccinated for anything, so the pediatric doctor recommends we start following an extended schedule of vaccinations. When I tell her we will only be here for a few days, she promises to print out everything for me to give to Cayce's eventual permanent doctor. We both test healthy for some quick tests, and don't show signs of communicable diseases. I am sent for a rushed HIV test and other STDs, which come back negative. Thankfully, the process ends just in time for the evening meal.

Dinner in the cafeteria isn't bad, actually. The spaghetti is limp, but the garlic bread and salad are crisp. Cayce could only eat meatballs, salad and fruit, though, due to his allergies. We are guided into dormitories where adults sleep on narrow, thin beds with the children next to them on foldable cots. I slide our bags under my bed, grateful my electronics and money are locked in an office. Cayce is restless and has trouble falling asleep. So do I. I am afraid to close my eyes in a room full of strangers, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual. When I finally manage to drift off, my dreams once again leave me twisting in the damp sheets. I am being chased by two shadowy figures in a wooded area with several cabins. Lost and disoriented, I feel as if someone is calling my name. I can't see who it is. And I can't tell which name I am being called by. I wake with a start and covered in sweat.

Cayce isn't in his cot.

Heart thudding, breath tight in my chest, I sit up and look around. My shoulders slump and I let out a breath when I see him across the row, sitting next to a cot with another small child on it, who is whimpering. The child's mother is fast asleep, but the poor kid obviously woke from a bad dream. Cayce is gently rubbing his hairline and humming what sounds like nonsense. "Hewwwww, hewwwwww," he hums, in a tonal way. It works. The child nods back to sleep. Cayce returns to his own cot without a word. I lay there until dawn, pondering the nature of my odd, unusual, and comforting son.

The next morning, Cayce's odd ways surface again at breakfast. We sit across the table from an elderly lady. I choke down some runny eggs and limp toast. Cayce works on a bowl of strawberries and corn cereal. The old woman looks as if she has been through hell. I find out later she is only in her fifties, but she looks nearly ninety. Deep lines surround her eyes, her hair is limp, and her skin tone is a dull gray.

Cayce stares at her in the way that children often will, with frankness and no malice. I shift on my chair and nudge Cayce. The woman looks up, her mouth tight and glares back "What are you staring at, kid?" she growls. "Mind your business."

"Cayce, it's not polite to stare," I whisper to him. I expect him to go back to eating his cereal, but not this time. His gaze is distant, as if he is seeing the older woman, but not really seeing her.

"You're going home soon, aren't you?" he asks.

The woman narrows here eyes. "Kid, if I had a home, I wouldn't be here."

He smiles at her. "Not home here, this place, but you do have a home here somewhere else. I mean home to the Source."

I push his juice at him. I have come to realize a mention of the Source is Cayce's way of talking about God. Telling someone they are going home to God means they are probably going to die soon. Talk about impolite. And uncomfortable.

Apparently, the older woman thinks so, too. Her mouth pulls into a snarl. A swift parental protective streak comes over me. I prepare to gather my son up and leave. I certainly am not looking for any trouble, and I know Cayce doesn't mean any harm. But you never know what you can run into in a place like this.

"Kid, shut up," she says. Her voice sounds rough and harsh.

Cayce reaches out as if to put his hand over hers. "You're not feeling good and the doctor already told you anyway, about the bad spot inside. You should go back to your family."

"Not your business," the woman says again. "You're annoying, but I hope you don't end up alone when you die like I'm going to. Now leave me alone."

The woman stands up to leave.

"No, no. I'm sorry,"" I say. "He says things like this sometimes. You don't need to get up, we will leave. "Come on, Cayce."

As I was stand, he says, "You're wrong, you know. You do have a home. And she wants you back."

"Who?" the woman challenges.

"Your little girl. She wants you back. She misses her mama. She's sorry for what she said to you that made you leave."

The anger drains out of the woman's face. She stands there in shock, fighting back tears, her hands shaking. "I don't have a little girl," she stammers.

"Well, she's big now," Cayce says. "But she is still yours. Time's going away. Don't want to miss her."

"You don't know anything. You're just a weird kid. You don't know anything." Anger and fear shade her voice. She storms off as fast as she can.

I am not sure whether to be mortified or thunderstruck. I gather up Cayce and march him outside. We find a secluded corner and I turn him to face me. I kneel so we are at eye level.

"Cayce, you need to be careful how you say things to people. What you said to that lady was kind of rude. It's not our business what goes on in her personal life. You'll make people angry like this." I am slightly afraid, too. Afraid of my son?

"But she needed to hear it," he says, matter-of-factly. "She doesn't have much time left. She needs to go home."

"How do you know all this?" I ask.

His eyes go wide with surprise." You know, because I am the Incarnation. And you're the Vessel, Mommy. Like Randall said. I see movies in my head and I tell people what I see. You can do it, too. You see me all the time."

A cold chill slides up my spine. He is right in that I can see things I now recognized as precognitive. I have not mentioned this to my son, not that I recall. I also cannot recall having such an ability in my youth or before I lost my memory. Maybe whatever took my memories also woke some psychic ability? If that is true how did I pass this onto my son?

But then I remember my father's mother knew things without being told. Maybe it is genetic and only latent in me until I lost my memory? But while I have occasional sensations, feelings, and images flashing behind closed eyes, Cayce's abilities seem much stronger than my own. He seems to know details, such as the things about the older woman at our table. Just who is this kid?

I shake my head to clear it of that thought. Whatever he is, he is my son and at present the only family I have. I love him, I realize. No matter what my life ends up being from this point on, at least I have him. I shiver when it occurs to me that maybe I am not done losing memories. What if I have another episode and forget everything up to this point again? Poor Cayce might have a mother who forgets him and our histories every five years. I vow to keep an electronic journal of everything, just in case. I also plan to drill him on my mother's name and information. I need to set up an online support system for myself in some way. I need safeguards. I need to know that, if another wave of amnesia hits me, that both my son and I will be able to find our way to people who will help us. Cayce still does not know about my amnesia, and I might not be able to keep it from him for much longer.

But if I do not constantly deal with situations like these, Cayce will draw the wrong kind of attention.

"Son," I say gently, "I know you mean well. You're a sweet kid. But you have to learn how to approach people in a way they will hear you. Otherwise you'll scare them and they won't listen."

"Why they scared?" he asks, his forehead bunched tight.

I ruffle his hair to try and take the sting from the words. "Well, you told that lady she was going to die. Nobody thinks that's good news. It scares them."

"She is," he says, simply. "She has bad stuff growing in her tummy."

"You can see that?"

"Yeah, sort of." He gives a nod and scrunches up his nose. "But I could see her family, too. They miss her. They're sad she went away. Why she scared to go back to Source? Randall says that's a good thing."

"Son," I say, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Not everyone believes in the Source. And it's just you and me now. What Randall said before might not work for us now, okay?"

He hangs his head. "Okay, Mama."

I gather him to me and hug him to let him know I am not mad at him. Standing, I lead him inside. There is a story time for kids starting soon and I have a website to design.

***

Randall stood in front of the crowd, row after row of people seated on cushions filled the floor of the community center hall. He scanned over the assembly of about fifty people all looking up at him as he spoke. Physically, Randall did not stand out in any crowd. He presented an average height with an equally average appearance. And yet he exuded a charisma that few men in history ever had. When he spoke, the timber in his voice commanded attention. His demeanor grabbed the mind, and a simple nod from him in approval was enough to lift the spirits.

He was a natural born leader, and his personality led one to follow and be glad to do it. Only his opportunities limited him. Unfortunately, as with many people with his sort of talent, his gifts gave him a sense of self-importance, which quickly developed into narcissism. Others held him in high esteem. So much so that it didn't occur to him he might be wrong on any topic. After all, if so many people held his opinions to be true, he must be right. Over time, Randall began to disregard people who disagreed with him, sometimes cruelly.

Like many men who are charismatic leaders, he sought to expand his world. He was never satisfied with what he had. He always wanted more. More esteem, more recognition, more attention. It was not enough that fifty gathered in this hall and gave over their entire attention to him on a regular basis. The entire world should know what he had to tell them

He was marked as well by his childhood. Having been abandoned shortly after turning two, and left to his own devices in the social system, he had grown up bereft of the love from a parental figure, having bounced from one foster home to the other with little permanence. He quickly developed his charismatic personality to keep his place amongst his peers. But his upbringing left him spiritually lacking. From an early age, he searched for the meaning of life, for why people suffered. A natural born philosopher, he developed his own system of thought from cherry picking other spiritualities, which he now preached to the gathered crowd.

"Organized religion is a poison. It promises to lead to spirituality, but in practice, it chains you and bars you from finding your path," Randall was saying. "There was a time in humanity when it was needed, for the human being is a shortsighted creature for the most part. Not that there's anything wrong with this. After all, the Source designed us this way. It is necessary. Why you might ask? Well, the Source could not exist without it."

Ellen sat in the back next to Raven and a woman known only to the gathered crowd as Aunt Marzipan. Ellen had once asked her why she named herself after cake icing. She had laughed and said she hated her given first name which was Beatrice. She had owned a bakery in her youth and had always thought that marzipan was the best of all icings, even though most people didn't like it. It wasn't too sweet, it was structurally strong, and held up under pressure. While the inside of the cake might be soft and sweet, the icing of marzipan on the outside gave it its shape and ultimate value. That was how she chose to live her own life. Strong and not too sweet on the outside, but inside secretly soft. She was a long time friend of Willow's, and often helped out in the store. It was she who had introduced Randall to Raven three years ago, when Raven had finally gotten out of juvenile detention for theft and needed a place to go. It was she who put out Randall's flyers at the store, even though Willow did not much approve this. Ellen could already see that Willow did not really like Randall, though she couldn't really understand why. After all, Randall was her brother-in-law. But it was also pretty obvious that Willow and Raven, despite being sisters, were as different as night and day.

Willow often rolled her eyes at Randall's preaching, saying something about the blind leading the blind. But while Ellen wanted to be faithful to her mentor, who had taken her in after showing up unannounced with her sister on the doorstep of the store, she had to admit that what Randall said often gave her comfort. Her disjointed view of her barely remembered life, and her inability to remember anything prior to being found by Randall and Raven, frightened her. It often left her feeling depressed. Randall's words gave her a sense of security. Willow's musings on life and spirit tended to make more sense overall, but Randall had a way of making Ellen feel as if she was being cared for

Originally, Randall's group had started as a simple spiritual study group at Willow's store. But as it grew and became more of its own philosophy system under Randall's direction, Willow put a stop to the meetings at her store. She claimed the store was not big enough, but in actuality, she didn't really approve of Randall's tactics. Ellen knew Willow preferred that Ellen not come to the meetings, and she knew the fact that Aunt Marzipan did also was a source of friction between the two longtime friends. For the most part, they simply did not talk about it.

Randall was beginning to work up his usual energy as he preached. "Think about what knowledge is. If we believe the Source created everything we can see and everything we can't, then it must be a truly omnipotent being. Can it also be omniscient as well? The two are certainly not interchangeable. The Source created the world we see, so it must have working knowledge of everything within it, but how can knowledge be complete without experience? In short, it can't. You can know everything there is to know about the Washington Memorial from reading a book or seeing a movie. But until you stand in front of the actual object or climb to the top of it, you don't have actual experiential knowledge. The Source is the same way."

His eyes swept the room and locked with Ellen's.

"The only way the Source can ever know by experience that which it knows intrinsically is to actually have 'experiences.' But how can the Source experience the actual feeling of, let's say, being alone if it already knows from where it stands that it is not? The answer is really quite simple. If the Source is everything and everything is in the Source, then to experience being alone, one must separate from the Source.

"Think of the Source as a big ocean made up of trillions and trillions of water droplets. Those individual drops are our souls. When religions tell us we are made in the image and likeness of God, they are not speaking of our physical bodies. This is the limits that religion places on the mind. They are speaking of the part of us that is most like God, that of our immortal souls. That is what cannot be created or destroyed, for it is pure energy, just as God or the Source is. Even the term God is a limiting description. How can the Source be either male or female, god or goddess? It is both and neither, and yet many religions assume that the creator is male, even to the point of torturing women for the crime of not being male, and therefore not being as close to God. Organized religions would have us believe a woman is the origin of evil because she does not possess a penis as the divine being supposedly does. They don't see women for the vessels they are, those who bring forth biological vessels for new souls from the Source to inhabit, so that the Source might continue its quest to experience all that it knows in physical form. But I digress."

There was a faint murmur of chuckles around the room. Most people knew that Randall had a tendency to ramble off on a tangent.

"Let's go back to what I was saying about our immortality and why we are here. If the Source wants to actually experience being alone, then it has to take a piece of itself and separate it from the whole. An individual little water drop can go around the entire ocean saying to any that will listen that it is wet. But how can the Source experience being dry if all it ever knows is being wet? So the Source takes that little water drop and thrust it upon dry land. Now that little drop is surrounded by dryness. But the Source goes even a step further. It gives that little drop of water amnesia so it does not remember being in the ocean. Now the little drop is surrounded by dryness and full of despair. Such as those in the history of religion who cry out, 'Why hast thou forsaken me?' never knowing or remembering that they never were forsaken at all. The Source now experiences being dry and being alone through that little drop, but can return the drop of water to itself at any time."

Randall looked at Ellen across the room. "This lack of remembrance of our origins is not a terrible thing. It is needed to experience what we need to experience for the sake of the Source and only a select few number of people in history have ever remembered what we truly are. That is the goal of spirituality, to reconnect to the Source and to remember after having many experiences. That is our goal when we astral travel. Our goal is to remember. And some day, another Incarnation will come, like many before who tried and failed to describe the way to the Source. This Incarnation will come through a Vessel who will be able to understand and guide, until one day that Incarnation will guide us all. Now, let us chant."

Ellen's eyes closed as the hum of joined voices singing Om filled the room and peace washed over her. But in the back of her mind, she had the nagging thought that if only these words had come from Willow, they might have had the feeling of true wisdom, because coming from Randall, they felt almost forced. She pushed aside the unwelcome thoughts, slowed her breathing, and allowed her mind to drift.
Chapter Six

THE CAR ended up taking three days to fix and cost me eighteen hundred dollars. In the end I got a new starter and a new ignition, and a few other things that might have held up if I did not drag that car across the country, but that was unavoidable. The consolation to this is that there is very little else likely to break for some time now. Even though I am glad for the free medical checkups, and a somewhat decent place to sleep, to say nothing of the free food, I am more than ready to get out of here. I want people I know around me who can handle the potential situation of me losing my memory again. I want someone who can take care of Cayce should he need it.

It also doesn't help that Cayce seems to attract attention everywhere we go. When he isn't calling animals to him, or calming nightmares, or touching people on the side of the head and taking away headaches, he is telling older ladies they are dying of ovarian cancer and long-lost daughters want them back. Which, incidentally, turns out to be true. The day we leave the homeless shelter, I am packing our belongings into the car. The older lady from the cafeteria, named Amelia, comes to find us. She is changed. She positively glows.

"He was right," she tells me, looking at Cayce asleep in his booster chair, his Mickey Mouse tucked under one arm, his kiddie tablet under the other. "I don't how he knew, but he was right. After the other morning, I tried to forget about what he said, but I just couldn't sleep. Finally, the other night I sucked it up and called my daughter in Minneapolis. She was so happy to hear from me. She wired me a bus ticket and I'm going home tomorrow morning."

"That's wonderful!" I say, genuinely happy for her. "I'm sorry if he scared you with his odd talking and all. I really had no idea he was going to say that."

"Oh, it's okay." She gives a sigh. "I already know about the cancer and he's right, it's terminal. I know I don't have much time left, but now I can be at peace with it. Now at least I know I can spend it with my daughter."

We say goodbye and I drive off, slightly overwhelmed at the encounter. A dark blue car follows, but I am not certain if it is the one from before. It seems like every other car I see is dark blue. Even so, I spend an hour driving aimlessly and making turns and when I look I do not see it. That makes me even more nervous.

***

It had been a very long, tiring day, but I want to try one more time to call the number I believe is my mother's, and we need a few more clothes, like some good jackets, because the weather is getting colder.

I think Cayce will like going to a mall, but it turns out he's not really a crowd person. In fact, he turns downright agoraphobic about going into the mall at all. He complains the place doesn't feel right, like it is too heavy with too many people. From what I have read online, I worry this might be a sign of borderline autism. But both of us have been feeling uneasy all day. I think we are both getting sick. I am so tired from bad sleep I skip the extra glance over my shoulder and push down my gut feelings.

We visit a few stores and look for some things I think we might need, but Cayce's fidgeting and bad mood is going to cut the trip short. I buy a few things for myself and walk into a children's store to look for some things for my son. I hold a few things up to him, but he is ready to leave. It is odd to see Cayce acting bratty, stomping his feet and whining. I am used to a compliant and precocious child. I suppose this could actually be a good sign, that he's feeling secure enough with me and my love for him that he knows he can act up and still be loved. In a corner of the children's store a television plays Disney Channel shows. I leave Cayce there, easily within sight. I pay for the items and turn to grab Cayce. I cannot find him.

"Have you seen my son?" I ask the sales lady and describe Cayce to her.

"Oh yeah, he was wandering around here with you for a bit."

"Yeah, well, do you know where he is now?" I ask, my voice rising. I gulp down air.

"No, sorry," she says "I'll keep looking around for him. Do you want me to call security?"

"Not yet." I walk around the store, looking for Cayce, but my panic starts when it becomes obvious he is not in the store. I run to the door and look out into the mall. Surely he did not go out to the mall by himself?

I call and call him, but no answer. The salesgirl comes up beside me and offers again to call security. I accept.

I begin to cry. Where is my son? Fear shivers over my skin and settles deep in my stomach.

Suddenly, I know without being told this is no accident. We have been found, and someone has taken him. A full body shudder rattles me. Whoever took Cayce must have walked right behind me to get to the corner where he sat with other children. Why in the world did Cayce go with that person? Wouldn't Cayce know to yell or cry out or give some indication someone was taking him? That leaves only one other option. Cayce recognized the person and went willingly.

I need to calm down. I need to find Cayce. I am not sure exactly how to do this, but this is Cayce. I go with my instincts and close my eyes. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I force myself to relax.

[Cayce, where are you?]

I let the thoughts reach out to him, searching. I lean against the wall, not paying attention to my surroundings as my mind slips out, seeking his particular presence. A little tug pulls me in one direction, toward the east door. And then I hear his voice in my mind.

Mama?

I feel him, a bright presence. East entrance, and moving fast. Eyes popping open, I run in that direction. My feet hardly touch the ground. I am out of breath at the door. Throwing myself outside, I squint against the sunlight. Eyes shaded, I sweep the parking lot. I see his short, up-sticking hair. He is being dragged toward a dark blue car by a woman who holds him by one arm. He pulls back, but isn't fighting hard.

"Cayce!" I yell, and I hear panic in my voice.

The woman and Cayce turn toward me, Cayce with a frown that shifts into a relieved smile, the woman with a look of utter hatred. I see her face. A flash of recognition shoots through my mind. I don't know her name, but I know she's trouble. Panic clutches my chest and turns my knees to water. We have to get away from her and fast.

"Cayce, get away from her!" I yell. "Come here!"

I run toward them, but the woman drags Cayce behind her faster than I can move.

"Let him go!" I scream at her.

Cayce looks confused, as if he can't understand what's going on.

[Cayce, get away from her and come here now!]

But Mama, she's...

[I don't care. I'm your mother and I say come to me now. Do whatever you have to, get away from her!]

Cayce's forehead bunches, but suddenly he whips his head around and stares at the woman. She mutters something and picks up Cayce to carry him. I am not going to make it. She is almost to the blue car. Abruptly, she screams, drops Cayce, and falls to the ground.

Cayce hits the parking pavement with a soft thud and begins to cry. I scoop him up. The woman is clutching her arm now. That's odd. It didn't look like Cayce bit or kicked her. In fact, her hair stands on end, as if she has been electrocuted. I glimpse the black ribbon around her neck with the raven charm on it.

Raven.

Getting a firm hold on Cayce and the bag slung over my shoulder, I duck between the cars. I hear a car engine start, but I don't look back, not even when it seems to follow. I make it to our car and throw Cayce in back with the bag. I jump into the driver's side and start the engine, peeling out of the parking lot in such a hurry I am surprised I don't leave my already overworked transmission behind.

"Mama, slow down!" Cayce cries. He climbs into his booster seat and tries to buckle his straps.

"I can't right now!" I yell back. "Just hold on!"

The blue car is right behind us. I skid through an intersection as the light turns red. The other car speeds through the red light. Apparently the woman is willing to risk alerting traffic cops to get to us. I am no stunt driver. I can barely merge on the Interstate without getting honked at. I don't know how to make donuts or swift U turns. And it looks like I am not going to be able to shake the other car. I head for the Interstate, but it's futile. Cayce hunches in the back seat, crying. His chin is bleeding from where he was dropped on the ground.

"Are you hurt, kiddo?" I call back to him.

"Chin hurts," he whimpers.

"Why did she drop you? What did you do?" I ask, trying to pay attention to the road at the same time.

"I bit her with my mind," he says.

Bit her with his mind? Electricity? Could he control electricity? Could he do it again?

"Son, I need your help'" I plead. We speed toward a four way intersection. , The light is green. "I need you to bite something with your mind again, only this time it's that traffic light up there. Can you do that for me?"

"It hurts my head," he says.

Does that mean it hurts him too? Is he putting himself at risk? I don't have time to find out. If that woman catches us I know we'll be a lot more than hurt.

"I'm sorry, Cayce, I know it hurts. But it's just this once. Please?"

For a moment he says nothing, but a small voice finally answers. "Okay."

"Wait just a second," I say, flooring it, and glance back to ensure the blue car is behind me. "Now!"

Cayce closes his eyes and squints. Right as we blow through the intersection, all the lights turned green. The blue car behind us barrels through as all four lanes, thinking their lights are green, accelerate. The sound of the tearing metal and screeching is horrible. I hoped to hell nobody innocent is badly hurt. I steer the car onto the Interstate and speed away, daring to look back only once. The blue car is in a pileup in the middle of the intersection. Steam rises from engines and airbag powder fills the air. No one is following us anymore. I reach back with my mind. It is easier this time. I sense that two people are hurt with bruises and cuts. No one will die. Not even our pursuers. I breathe out a sigh of relief for the innocents we have involved.

"Whew! That was close. Cayce, why on earth didn't you call to me when she grabbed you?" I ask, getting angry now.

"She said we were going home to Randall." He gives a sniff. "She said you were coming, too, once you got the stuff paid for."

I glance back at him in the rearview mirror. "Do you miss Randall?""I guess," he says. His mouth firms and he shakes his head. "No, not really. He wouldn't let me call you Mama. He said attachments are for drones. He said no one should be special to me, that I was special to everyone, that you were just the vessel that grew me. I didn't like that."

"Then why would you go with her to go back to him? I don't want to go back. We left, son. It's just you and me now. Not them."

"Okay, Mama. I like this better. But I wish we had a house to go home to. I miss our house. And Aunt Marzipan. But I'm not supposed to be attached to her either."

Aunt Marzipan? That was an odd name. Is she really my aunt, or Cayce's? Somehow, I don't think so. I ask, "Was that Aunt Marzipan with Raven?"

Cayce looks at me like I have just grown four eyes. "No. That was Raven's mean friend. The Cold Man. You know that."

I give another sigh. I wish I did know.

Cayce laid down in the backseat, having unstrapped himself from his chair. I wanted to pull over and make him get back in the car seat, since it wasn't safe and I didn't want to get pulled over, but I also didn't want to run the risk of...Raven...catching up with us.

"Mama, my head hurts," Cayce whimpered. I turned to look. His left nostril was bleeding very slightly.

Alarmed, I pulled over anyway and climbed in the back with him, pressing a napkin to his nose. What had happened to him?
Chapter Seven

THAT NIGHT I drive one long stretch, more than I have the entire time I have owned this car. At least that I can remember. The highway is a dark blur. We only stop briefly on the side of the road so Cayce can pee into a bush, and to grab some gas station food. Beyond that, we stop only for gas or to use the restroom. I am in no mood to slow down, even though I worry about his nosebleed and whether or not I should try and get him to a doctor. Thankfully though, after a few hours' nap in the back seat, he wakes up somewhat refreshed, and his headache disappears a little while later. He seems fine, but I am still leery. Had whatever psychic stunt he had pulled back there caused some kind of physical harm? If that is the case, then we will need to rest. I am also pretty sure we both stink. The car is stale and I crack a window for air. Cayce complains more than I had ever heard him about this marathon drive, about how uncomfortable it is, and how unfair it is. He's right. But fear drives me. I drive close to fifteen hours, but backtracking and circling around in attempt to try and cover my tracks doesn't help us get where we need to go.

I am still shaking from what happened, and it takes a long time for me to calm down. Why does she want Cayce? Was she going to use him to blackmail me? Or does she know about Cayce's abilities? I cannot forget the look of pure hatred she gave me when her eyes locked with mine. I never want to look into those eyes again. Obviously she knew me from my past, and she was hunting me and my child for reasons I didn't know.

We spend the night in the car hidden at a truck stop amongst other cars and tall semis. I keep the doors locked. Cayce cries for a full half hour at how uncomfortable he is before finally falling asleep on the backseat. I tilt my seat all the way back and try to sleep, but Cayce is right. It is just too uncomfortable. I doze and terrible dreams haunt me. I am chased by a giant black bird, a raven. It pecks on the windows, trying to get to me and Cayce. Terrible, hateful, jeering people surround us, laughing and sneering. They hold me down. I struggle but cannot move. It's as if my limbs are made of lead. Pain spikes through me, and that's when I wake, sweating and shivering. It is three in the morning and I can't go back to sleep.

When the sun peeks up over the flat eastern horizon, I buy a very large cup of coffee from the convenience store. We drive on. Cayce barely speaks two words to me, but instead plays with his kiddie tablet. I ache to comfort him, but there isn't much I can do now. I tell him we are going to my home to meet his grandmother. He just nods. In late afternoon we finally pull into Charlotte, and then on into the suburbs. Odd twinges tug at the back of my mind. I lived in this town for most of my life, in the same suburb my parents had grown-up in.

Each familiar landmark stirs recognition, which is something I have not felt in quite some time. I now value it greatly. Anything familiar is an anchoring point for my sanity. I point out many things to Cayce.

"Look, kiddo! That's where I went to elementary school."

He looks up and out the window. "What's elementary school?"

"That's where you spend the day with kids your age, and play and learn things. Haven't I told you about school before?"

"Nope," he says.

"Well, some day you'll go to school, and it'll be fun." I try to sound convincing. I don't recall school being all that much fun after around second grade or so.

"Will you be there if I go?" he asks.

"Probably not. Most kids go to school while the parents work at jobs. And most jobs are in buildings somewhere else away from school."

"Doesn't sound like fun, being away from you all day. Besides, your job is on your computer. You made that website for that person from the car. Why can't you just come to school with me?"

"It's just how things are done. Don't worry. You're still too young to go right now. It's something we'll talk about later. Hey, look, you see that little yellow building right there? That's where my dad used to take me to get snow cones in the summer."

We drive around until I find the entrance to the neighborhood where I lived with my mother. I am disconcerted to discover I don't exactly remember where the house is located. I drive around for a little bit under the pretense of showing Cayce the park and the neighborhood pool, before finally remembering the correct street. I pull up in front of the house from my memories, which I ended up passing three times because it is now painted blue with white shutters and not the yellow I remember.

I turn off the car and my nerves completely fail me. I don't recognize the car in the driveway. What if I don't have the correct house? Even if I do, should I just walk up to the door and knock? If my mother answers, what do I say? I can't remember the circumstances under which I left in the first place. "Hey, Mom, I'm home," seems incredibly weak after five years with no apparent contact.

Of all the things I have researched on the Internet, why didn't I research how to reconnect with family? And what about Cayce? Do I bring him with me and say, "Here's your grandson?" No, that shock seems best left for later.

"Case, you stay here for a second," I tell him.

"Why?" he asks. "Are we in the right place?"

"I want to go make sure."

I get out of the car, my back aching and my muscles stiff, and walk up to the door. I hesitate before knocking. As soon as I do, adrenaline shoots through my veins, clenching my stomach and quivering in my hands. I want to turn and run in the opposite direction. I am almost relieved when a man I don't recognize opens the door. In the next moment, disappointment crashes down on my shoulders. Either my mom has remarried or I have the wrong house. Neither is an appealing prospect.

"Can I help you?" he asks in a friendly tone.

"I'm not sure." I swallow the dryness in my mouth and twist one hand into the other one." I'm looking for someone who used to live here. Diane Coulton?"

His brow furrows for a minute, and then he says, "That's the person we bought the house from. Sounds like it anyway. Single lady who was downsizing?"

"Yeah, that's who I'm looking for. Do you know where she moved to?"

"Sorry, I don't. I think she had mentioned she was working at a hospital, so I don't think she moved out of town."

My shoulders sink. I am geared up to face a lot of questions and answers. Now I have to do that all over again. I talk some more with the man who now lives in the house. There isn't much to tell me. I really want to ask him if I can walk around the house again, but I think know he will say no. Heartsick, I stand on the doorstep of my old home and fight the tears stinging the back of my eyes. I don't want to break down in front of this man, or my son.

After a while, I glimpse Cayce moving restlessly in the car. I leave, and we drive down the street with nowhere to go. I pull into the neighborhood park and wrap my hand tight around the steering wheel. My frantic flight across the entire country has been for nothing, and I still don't know where to find my mother. Like the child I last remember being, I wanted to turn everything over for her to handle, or at least some of it. I have no idea what I am supposed to do now with myself or with my son. In my mind, I am still eighteen-years-old, a newly graduated high school student, and just an over-glorified child myself. I want nothing more than for my mother to come and take charge. Now, I can't even find her, not even with all my computer skills. I have nowhere to go, either for tonight or the days following.

"What's wrong, Mama? I thought we were going to meet my grandma?"

I clear my throat to dislodge the lump. "I don't know where she is. She was supposed to be at that house, but she's not there."

I start the car. We'll find a motel to stay in tonight, and I'll decide what to do tomorrow. But I am tired of staying in motels, tired of feeling insecure. I want a place I can call home, preferably some place with an alarm. As I check us into a Holiday Inn, I realize I am going to have to face the truth. I have probably committed some crimes that will make it difficult to convince a judge to excuse me due to amnesia. But, given my situation, I have to go to the police. Cayce is in danger of being kidnapped and I need professional help. Whatever legal repercussions I face, it is best to meet them head on.

I decide that I will spend the evening on one of my throwaway online identities looking up my legal rights, any pro bono lawyers that might be in the area, and any previous cases of people with amnesia facing legal consequences. I know that if I can't remember my past, I might be facing an even bigger pile of trouble. But perhaps, if I can remember something, no matter how the prospect terrifies me, maybe I can turn state's evidence on whoever is chasing me and get off with a lighter sentence. Assuming I have even done anything wrong.

As much as I dread having to walk into a police station, and possibly end up losing my son to social services, once I decide on a plan of action, relief seeps into me. But I sit up that night to hold my son, knowing this might be the last night I have with him for a long time.

***

"You need to know what you're getting into. Randall's not perfect you know. I did some digging into him when Raven hooked up with him. In and out of Juvie for years. He tried a new spiritual path every other month. It got to where I wouldn't even flinch or look up when he came in and announced he was a Buddhist now, or a Mormon, or a Wiccan, or a Druid. Finally, he just decided to form his own faith. Granted there's nothing wrong with that, but he's still looking for answers outside of himself. And Raven...I'm not sure why she and Randall hooked up, but your mate should bring out the best in you. I'm not sure where she's driving Randall, or even if they love each other. You keep that in mind. Raven's said she never wants to bring any children into the world, and I don't think Randall agrees. You're sensitive. You keep your eyes open. Rely on your intuition. But if you go, you watch Raven more than you listen to Randall."

Willow gazed sadly as Ellen placed her last bag in the back of Raven's van. They had argued most of last night, with Willow trying to convince her not to go.

"I don't want to disappoint you," Ellen said. "But I can't explain it. I just feel like I have to go."

The last year had been tumultuous between Willow and Raven as Randall's preaching became more intense, and more followers both came and went. Randall had moved forward from guiding people to find their own spirituality to insisting that he was the vehicle by which a new form of spirituality would make itself known to the world. His paranoia was growing as well. He was convinced that a secret elite group of people that he called the Architects, born out of the secretive Bilderberger group, were directing the world to a New World Order. In order to accomplish this, they were using organized religions to move people further away from true spirituality and into more of a dogmatic mindset, incapable of reason.

"Notice the war on science and reason," he had said not long ago. "These days, people who call themselves 'religious' sneer at people who have spent years collecting and evaluating knowledge. We used to revere people who have PhD's. Now we snort at them, like they are meant to be ridiculed. And why? Because they tell us things about the universe, which they have studied, that goes against dogmatic religion. And if you have been trained by the Architects to be subdued by organized religion with the necessity of thinking for yourself taken away from you, well yes this would be a very scary thing indeed. True spirituality is not afraid of science and knowledge. True spirituality knows that the Source created everything for the purpose of experience, and that the only evil in the world isbeing willing to disconnect from the Source, and so it doesn't matter what we discover scientifically about our universe. But the religions that the Architects use to keep the masses under control, well anything that challenges the dogmatic beliefs is to be feared and so it is ridiculed. Anytime you see some half educated fool on the news ridiculing an astrophysicist, rest assured that that fool is an agent of the Architects. When you think about it, people who believe in rigid and dogmatic religions are really to be pitied. How afraid and small are their lives?"

He looked around at the crowd with a gleam in his eyes as they gave him their utmost attention.

"These poor fools always claim that they are very strong and spiritual and that they love God and fear nothing, when in fact the opposite is true. They don't even really believe in the God they say they do, not if they are honest with themselves. They hate and fear everything they don't understand: their immigrant neighbors, the beliefs of people who attend a different church or temple, they fear people who look or speak differently. Why would they fear or hate anything this God of theirs created? Or do they not believe this God even created the world? They claim they don't fear death and yet they are some of the most fearful ones about the afterlife you will ever meet. Always worrying about some hell or another. They're so preoccupied with the next world that they forget to live in this one. And living for the experience of the human life is the entire point of existence. The Source needs our experiences to round out Its knowledge. They have been so heavily dosed in the amnesia that lets us forget where we came from that they will never recover their memory of who they really are in this life. They bully and victimize those who do not fit into their dogmatic framework. This, of course, is exactly what the Architects want. Keeping us fighting amongst ourselves is how we do not notice what they are doing behind the scenes and with our tacit permission. On the other hand, the Architects have no use for people like us, people who soul travel.

Those of us who can astral project and use it to develop spirituality are a danger to them. We have already experienced the world beyond this one in which we live. We know the picture they paint for us is a false one, and we do not accept it. What they really don't need is us telling everyone else how they have been hoodwinked. How then could they take control everyone if everyone was not afraid anymore? This is why they seek to destroy people like us. And they will, at any chance they can."

Randall's teachings had gotten more and more intense until finally he was convinced that federal agents or agents of the Architects would be coming for him soon, and any of his faithful followers who had managed to astral project or accept his worldview. Ellen had come close during the meditation sessions a few times, but not quite managed it, mostly out of fear. She could feel the pull of the astral world, but had held back, waking up disappointed from the deep meditation sessions. Randall assured her that with her psychic abilities, it was only a matter of time. Finally, Randall had convinced at least half of the group to move away from Milwaukee to a compound in Washington State. It would be here that they would build their society around his teachings and around regaining connection with the Source.

At this point, many had walked away from Randall. The goals he had set to impose on the new spiritual community had been too much for many of them. There would be no procreation allowed. The children of members who wanted to come would be allowed to come along at this point, but there would be no sex amongst members, not even between married spouses and no new children would be brought into the community. The two reasons for this was that all energy must be spent reconnecting to the Source, meditating and astral travel. Secondly, because Randall's other teachings also told of a prophesied birth of a super spiritual being that would come to lead the community, all efforts must be put into this child, when it arrived. Randall believed that the historical religious figures like Jesus and the Buddha were ascended masters who had been born without the spiritual amnesia of the normal human. They had come to direct humanity back toward the Source. Randall believed that he had read certain signs that ran through all spiritualities which pointed to help to bring about an Incarnation of such a being. It would have to be in a proper location at a proper time under the proper circumstances. In each case of a spiritual incarnation, a truly balanced and spiritually strong woman was chosen as the Vessel the incarnation chose to assume his human form.

Randall believed that creating this spiritual community away from civilization and away from the Architects would allow a group of spiritual people to bring forth such an Incarnation again. This would also mean leaving most technology, such as computers, the Internet, and cellular phones behind.

"Come with us," he had argued to Ellen. "You and Raven get along fine and if she ends up being the Vessel, she will need your support."

"You think Raven is spiritual enough to be the Vessel?" Ellen asked with doubt.

"Of course," Randall said with confidence. "Signs have already told me that I will be the human father of the Incarnation, so why not my wife as the Vessel?"

"No offense," said Ellen carefully, "but Raven doesn't strike me as the most spiritual of our group. In fact, sometimes she seems fairly indifferent to it."

"The Source will choose the Vessel when the time is right," said Randall. "But when that time comes, I can think of no better caretaker to the infant Incarnation than you. Who knows, maybe even being in its presence will help restore your memories? Besides, our community will have need of your skills."

"Why?" asked Ellen confused. "I thought you said we would also be leaving technology behind?"

"The members will be leaving technology behind to focus on spirituality," Randall agreed. "But we will still need a means of supporting the community. Lester says he has a way of supporting us that will require us to maintain a webpage and a few computers for operations. That's where we will need your help."

"I learned most of what I know about hacking from Lester," said Ellen. "If you will have him, why do you need me?"

"Because Lester is not spiritual," said Randall. "He will be useful for the technology we will need to run to maintain income for the community, but he will only be allowed to do so because he is not part of the spiritual community. The spiritual ones must remain away from the technology for personal entertainment, but you can be both if it is a job for you. Besides, Lester can't do it all himself, and he will need your help. You can help foster the online business and you can help Raven when the Incarnation arrives. It's a perfect plan."

"Is Willow coming with us?" she asked.

"You know she isn't," Randall said sadly. "She is spiritual but she is too attached to the store and this material world. She will not hear my message. I'm afraid coming with us means you will have to leave her."

"I don't know if I want to leave Willow," Ellen said. "She's been almost like a mother to me."

"We found you and we saved you," said Randall. "You would probably be in the loony bin right now if it weren't for me and Raven. Or dead along the side of that road where we found you wandering."

Ellen flinched.

"Anyway, you have to the end of the week to decide," said Randall as he walked away.

She had hated every minute of that last week. Now, as Willow looked at her sadly, her doubts resurfaced. It had taken considerable wearing down on the part of Raven to convince her to go. Now, she knew if Willow commanded it, that she would stay. She wanted to stay. But she also knew Willow would never do that. Willow believed

that one should choose one's own path no matter where it led. It was how she was able to finally let her own sister go as well.

"Take care of yourself, kid," she said with a sad smile. "You can always come back if you need to."

"Will you be able to keep up the webpage like I showed you?" Ellen asked.

"I'll manage," Willow responded. "Just take care of yourself and remember that Randall isn't always right."

Ellen nodded and climbed into the van and closed the door.

"Come find us when you change your mind, sis," Raven called out, somewhat mockingly. Willow just waved.

The van pulled out, followed by the vehicles of several others, all leaving behind lives in Milwaukee, jobs and relatives, for a spiritual community a thousand miles away. Even Randall was leaving behind a position at the local blood bank, with retirement and benefits.

Ellen stared at Willow until she was out of sight. She tried to ignore Randall and Raven singing along with the radio in the front and fought back tears as she left behind the only home she could remember and the only person she never doubted had been her friend.
Chapter Eight

THE NEXT morning I linger in the motel room as long as I can. The prospect of walking into a police station and turning myself in for potential crimes I can't remember, or for a host of any other kind of bad news, is frightening. My hands are cold, and I catch myself unable to breathe, and have to remember to stop the shallow panting, lest I descend into a full blown panic attack. I tell myself the sooner I get this over with, the better. The night before, I did a little research on the Internet for anything about people who have committed crimes they can't remember, but with little comfort. For the most part, those kinds of crimes are committed while someone is high or drunk. One guy hyped up on meth killed his girlfriend. Another woman got drunk and killed her boyfriend. The courts are not very forgiving of these kinds of cases. Even if you truly forget a crime, you are still responsible for your actions. That means jail time. I brace myself for a battery of psychiatric tests, and probably a few days of intense badgering by police officers. For some reason, I keep having flashes and images of being questioned by police before. I am not sure why, but the images are giving me heart palpitations, as if I am both desperate, pleading, and devastated all at once. I shake my head to clear it.

Gathering our belongings, Cayce and I head to the car. Still, I don't drive directly to the police station. I spot a chain bookstore and, on impulse, pull in. I tell myself I will get Cayce a few books to tide him over today. I suspect by the end of the day he is going to need a treat, but I am only stalling. Taking his hand, we walk into the bookstore and head toward the children's section. I tell him to choose three books for himself. He skips happily at the prospect. I am pleased because it seems he loves to read. While I appreciate his little kid tablet holding his eBooks, few things can replace a well done children's book. I hope he never loses this love of reading, something I myself had inherited from my grandmother.

As we pass by the coffee shop area in the bookstore, I am so engrossed in the displays I barely hear someone calling my name. At least they call what once was my name.

"Hillary? Hillary Coulton?"

I turn. Three girls in their twenties sit at a table. They looked vaguely familiar and I walked over. They stare at me like I am a ghost.

"Is that really you?" one of them says in an incredulous, and slightly drawling tone.

"Yeah," I say, the word drawn out and cautious. My spine tingles. Cayce's hand tightens on mine, and I look down at him. His expression is fierce and slightly troubled. I can't understand why. The girls stare at him and he shrinks behind me.

I turn to the girls and study their faces, trying to force myself to remember. Their faces seem familiar, but I cannot pull up their names. With a click, I know the one who called me over used to be a fairly popular girl in our high school. Leah or Leeann? I narrow my eyes. I cannot remember exactly, but I know she and I did not get along.

I can recall that I was not exactly an outcast in school, but I was never one of the popular kids. These three appear to be studying for a test with several books and papers spread out around them.

I look at the girl who called my name. "Yeah, it's me."

Her eyes widen a bit and then narrow. Her mouth curves into an unfriendly smirk. "Where have you been? Everyone said you were probably dead. Too bad, looks like we were wrong."

The girls with her snicker.

I tighten my mouth and bite down a sharp answer. I mean, seriously, how do you respond to that when you can barely remember the person saying it, much less recall why she would say it?

"Excuse me?" I lift my eyebrows and stare at her.

Her mouth curls with a cruel edge and her eyes harden. "Well, when you dropped out of sight, everybody figured you would finally done the right thing and gone and ended your days somewhere. Where you been? The loony bin? Or a brothel?"

More smothered laughter, but some of it is uneasy.

"And just why would I do something as stupid as that?"

Another girl speaks up. I don't quite recognize her immediately, but I think her name might be Lindsey. "I'd never want to show my face in public again, that's for sure."

My face warms. That familiar panicky feeling settles in my stomach like a lump of rock. I should remember whatever the girls are talking about, but I can't. Something certainly happened here in my hometown, I know that much. I suspect whatever it is must have triggered my amnesia. It must have been terrible. But damned if I am going to let them know I don't remember it. Or get away with saying such nasty things.

"Well," I say carefully, "in your place with your face I wouldn't either. Thankfully I hear there are doctors that can fix that."

Lindsay inhales sharply, and looks down at Cayce. She has perfect make up and cold eyes. "Cute. And I see your behavior probably hasn't changed too much, if he's yours. Condom break or something? Or do you even use them?"

Fury crept through my stomach and lodged in my chest. I am about to retort with something equally unfriendly, when Cayce lets go of my hand and stands in front of me.

"You know," he says, looking Lindsey directly in the eyes, "just because your mommy was mean to you doesn't mean you should be mean to others. It's because she drinks that bad stuff. But you don't. So you don't have a reason to be mean."

All eyes, including mine, turn to him. Lindsey's eyes widen in shock and narrow as she stares at my son. I can see her chest lift with shallow, quick breaths.

"What the hell do you know, you little turd?" she snaps.

I step next to Cayce. "I advise you to watch how you talk to my kid," I say, lowering my voice to a dangerous tone, or what I hope sounds like one. What they say about mother bears is apparently true. I have the urge to growl like one now.

Lindsay flips her hair back. "Your little bastard ought to learn how to talk to grownups. Might get him slapped otherwise. Do you even know who his father is with all that hooking you've been doing?"

Furious now, I open my mouth to let her have it. Cayce beats me to it and replies calmly, "It's not your fault what your mommy did to you. She was just sick and mean. But she's gone now. You can be nicer to people. We didn't hurt you, she did."

"Shut up, you little fart!" she hisses, her face red. People turn in our direction.

Cayce glances at Leeann. "And your daddy taught you to be mean. He uses that yucky stuff in the needle and gets mad at you for silly reasons. You hid in your closet from him. You should go live with your friends instead of with him. He won't get better. "

My heart slammed into my throat. No way are these girls going to let us walk out of here without all of them slapping Cayce. Once they do, I'll slap them right back. When I am the topic of conversation I can keep control. But fire bursts in my chest over their insults to my son.

A look of serenity comes over Cayce's face. His eyes shift to a faraway look as if he sees beyond the girls and this room. He is describing things he cannot possibly know, but which explains these girls' cruel behavior. As angry as I am, if what he says is true, these are abused children, and suddenly flashes of what Cayce sees flashes briefly before my eyes before vanishing. It's terrible. I feel old, far older than these girls at the table. But they are old enough to know they should not bully a child.

I reach for Cayce's hand to haul him out of the bookstore. We certainly don't have to stand here and listen to this crap, and in another couple of seconds, I am going to be arrested for starting a fistfight. That would certainly save me a trip to the police station of my own accord. Just then, Cayce reaches out and grabs Lindsey's hand. Her mouth falls open and she tries to jerk away, but he holds on tight.

"Let go! Let go..." she yells, but her words trail off. Her face relaxes. She blinks and calmness settles on her. Cayce stares into her eyes with a friendly expression on his face and his mouth curves into a small smile. She stares back, mesmerized. He gently pats her hand and lets go. Leann lunges forward as if to grab him, but Lindsay stands up and steps in front of her.

Leann glares at Cayce. "What the hell did you do, you little freak?"

"No, just let them go," Lindsay says. Even her voice sounds different now. "Just leave it, Lee." She puts a hand on Leann's shoulder. I scoop up Cayce and hurry out of the bookstore with him.

"Cayce, what the hell were you thinking?" I shake my head and snap him into his booster seat in the car.

"They're hurting really bad, Mama." He glances up at me. "Inside, I mean. I could see it. That's why they were mean to you. It made them feel good to be mean, but they were making bad karma."

"Cayce, you are young to understand what they were saying to me. Yes, they were being mean, but you shouldn't have stepped in like that. They might have hurt you. And what did you do to Lindsay anyway?"

"I made her anger go into the ground. You told me Willow says that when we are mean to others, we steal their energy. It makes us feel good for a short time, but doesn't fill the hole inside. The only real way to feel better is to connect to the Source. Those girls were trying to steal your energy and that makes bad karma when you do that. Everybody has bad karma they're trying to fix. It's not good to make more. Randall said the same thing too."

Willow? Another name I should know? "Cayce, look, I know you heard Randall say a lot of things, but we need to not talk about this all the time." Frustration simmers in me and I try not to let it out on Cayce. I buckle myself into the car and drive away. "Maybe those girls had a hard life, but they shouldn't have said mean things to a kid. And whatever you did to Lindsey, well, I know you were trying to help. And you did. But that's the kind of stuff that gets attention and we don't want attention right now. When you're older you can help people like that, but right now we need to avoid people staring at us."

"But I'm the Incarnation. I can't not help people."

It takes everything I have not to slam on the brakes and swivel around to stare at Cayce. I cannot have this conversation and drive. But I wonder what this Randall has told my son that he believes he is this freaky, special thing. It's not right. And just who is Willow, now? "Okay, I don't mean that you don't help people. I mean you have to learn to do it in a way that won't cause trouble. I'll help you learn how to do this, but right now we need to take care of ourselves. I don't know where my mother is, and I don't know why Raven is following us. We need some help from the police, and I need to deal with us right now. We can't live in the car, we need a place to go, and we can't go back to Randall."

"I don't want to go back to Randall anyway," he mutters, sounding half ready to rebel. His voice goes even quieter. "Randall got darkness in him. It's because of Raven. And the Cold Man."

I am not sure what he means, but I shudder at his words. The Cold Man? Raven? Willow? Aunt Marzipan? I'm going to have to start writing down all these crazy names just to keep track of them all. Just who are these people, and what have they done to me? Why am I running from them? Frustration nearly overwhelms me, because I know I should remember. And I don't, damnit!

I stop at the next street and open my phone to look up the nearest police station. We make a beeline in that direction.

***

Why is it so hard to turn myself into the cops? The officer at the desk barely looks up when I walk in and tell him I have amnesia and need to talk to someone. Hardly glancing my way, he says I will probably have to go to the hospital. It is only when I mention I am being followed by someone who has tried to snatch my child that he looks up. I tell him I may have committed a crime and may be involved with bad people. Do I have to hold up someone with a gun and wearing nothing but my underwear on my head right in front of him to get him to pay attention?

He eyes me as if he doesn't know what to think. "I thought you had amnesia." His voice drips doubt and scorn.

I count to ten slowly in my mind, and answer, "I do. I don't remember the last five years. I just woke up about two weeks ago and thought that I was still eighteen. It was only after I turned on the news that I saw it was five years later. And I have a driver's license with my picture on it and a name I don't recognize. And there was a lot of money and I don't remember where it came from. I don't know where to find my mother and I don't know who the father of this kid is. Now, if you don't want to deal with me, can you please show me who can?"

After about an hour of waiting with Cayce in uncomfortable chairs—him playing a game on his tablet and me looking at a political talk show on a boring news network, a man walks out and calls us to see Detective Bankston. We are led to a desk that holds a computer and stacks of paper.

A man sits across from us, his head bent over a folder and some papers. He seems a standard police detective, like one you might see on a TV show. He wears a charcoal business suit, white shirt, and a black tie. His badge is hung from his belt. I look at his face and my jaw drops. He cannot be that much older than me. Me now, I mean, in my twenties, not me as I remember me. I am no expert, but I seem to remember it takes years to become a police detective. This guy must be pretty good if he is a detective so young. He looks up briefly and his eyes meet mine, before skimming back down to his papers. A momentarily jolt flashes through me. Warmth spreads across my cheeks. He is actually pretty good looking. Soft, light brown hair looks like it could use a trim, and his face is standard All-American attractive. Lean angles. A clean shaven, sharp jaw. A strong nose. I can't tell specifically from the clothes he wears, but it seems like he has a decent athletic build under the suit. He at least has broad shoulders.

And then I realize I recognize him.

I see him a year ahead of me in school, even occasionally saying 'hi' to me in passing. I can see him in the school computer club with me, hunched over a keyboard with a hunt and peck two finger approach. I scrape my Swiss cheese brain for his name and finally find it. Stephen. Stephen Bankston. Beyond that I don't remember much about him. I think he was quiet and somewhat bookish and aloof, like me. I think he was on the track team, but I do not remember him hanging out with the jock crowd.

"Uh, hi," I stammer.

He looks up again from his files and really looks. His eyes widen in recognition.

"Hil... Hillary?"

"Yeah. Um...Stephen? We were in the computer club together. You're a cop now?"

He smoothes his tie and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his desk. "Yeah. We...we were. I remember you were trying to learn to develop mobile phone applications on your own. I was mostly interested in computer games. We didn't really cross paths much otherwise, but when we did, we got along pretty well. Or so I thought."

I smile and nod, but I can barely remember that. It seems my interest in computers carried over into my fugue state.

The smile drops from his face and he straightens. "You said something about amnesia? You've been gone for several years, I knew that already. It was all over after you vanished. Your mom filed a missing persons report. I just now double checked and you're still listed as missing. Where have you been?"

Missing persons report? Well, that makes sense.

Taking a deep breath, I tell him what I can of recent events. I stumble through words, unsure how much to say. My gut instinct tells me to trust this guy. So does Cayce's reaction.

I see Stephen glance over at my son as we talk, and so I introduce him.

"This is my son, Cayce," I say. Silently, I mouth the words, 'I think.'

Stephen nods. "Hey, buddy."

Cayce looks up from his game, tilts his head, and stares at Stephen. The two study each other for a full ten seconds before Cayce's eyes light up and he smiles.

"Hi," he says, and gives a shy duck of his head.

I loosen the grip I have on the edge of my chair and start to relax. Cayce has an impeccable judge of character. If he likes the man in front of us, so do I. As I talk with Stephen a few things become clear.

I can see he is a skeptic at heart. He raises his eyebrows when I mention any of Cayce's ethereal abilities, or how I knew where to find him at the mall. I decide to leave out the encounter at the bookstore for now.

"Are you sure you didn't just make a lucky guess as to which exit the woman used?" he asks.

"Pretty sure." I nod. From the tightness of his lips, I can tell he doesn't quite believe what I am saying. I have to word things carefully to describe our adventures or he is going to write me off as crazy.

"It doesn't really matter. This woman that Cayce recognized is named Raven. At least that's what he called her. She tried to snatch him from me and has been following us. It could be because of the cash that I found in my stuff, but I don't know if it's mine or hers, or how either of us might have gotten it. I don't remember."

"You're absolutely sure you don't remember anything else?" he asks, yet again.

I straighten in my chair. "Wire me up to one of those lie detector things. Call in a shrink or something, whatever you want to do."

He leans back in his chair. His mouth is a thin line. He studies me for a second, before he looks at Cayce. "Hey, dude. You like games, right?"

Cayce looks up from his tablet and nods.

"Well, we have a really cool thing in the back called a video game console. It has some neat games like pirates and alien invaders. Want to go have a look at it while I finish talking to your mom?"

Cayce smiles and jumps up. Stephen leads us to a back room that looks like it might have once been a break room, but has been somewhat converted into a room for children. Half used coloring books fill a small table. A flat screen TV in the corner has a game console attached. Stephen inserts a children's game and shows Cayce how to use the controller to operate it.

He stands and puts a hand on Cayce's shoulder. "We're going to be right outside this door, okay? If you need your mom, just call."

Cayce is already too engrossed in the game to do more than nod.

I follow Stephen outside. He closes the door to just a crack, and turns to me. His expression is serious. "Okay, now we get to talk about the things I know you don't want to talk about in front of the kid. First of all, have you done any drugs that you know of? Or did you find drugs with you?"

"I don't remember."

"Committed any crimes that you know of?"

"No, I...I don't remember."

He folds his arms. "Who is the kid's father?"

"I really don't know," I answer truthfully. I lick my lips and wish for coffee in my hands or a bottle of water.

"Do you think the father could be following you? Along with this Raven?"

I shrug and let out a breath. "It's possible, I guess. There's someone with Raven, a guy I think. Cayce calls him The Cold Man, but I have no idea why or who he is."

He stares at me and shakes his head. "Do you remember much about high school?"

I wince. "I can kind of remember my sophomore and freshman years, but not much after that. From a lovely encounter with three bitches at the bookstore earlier today, I take it something pretty bad happened. Every time I try to think back, I feel nauseous and my heart starts pounding really hard. Kind of like an anxiety attack."

His worried eyes meet mine. "Yeah, I don't doubt it. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to tell you what I'm about to say next, but I don't believe we can move forward unless I do. I don't want to cause you any more trouble than you already have, so you have to promise to tell me immediately if you think you need a doctor, okay?"

I grit my teeth and nod.

He leans his shoulder against the wall, his handsome face slightly strained. "Right before I graduated my senior year, there was an incident involving you at school. It was close to the end of the year, which I guess would have been your junior year. You were at some end-of-the-year party, and someone gave you a drink with something in it. Later, I heard someone had invited you, but I don't know for sure. A few weeks later, pictures of you started circulating. They showed you with several football players, and you were, well they were...let's just say it looked like an orgy. The pictures didn't leave much to the imagination, either."

My eyes widen and my heart starts to pound. On no, this can't be true.

"I'm sorry, Hillary, I know this must be a shock to you if you really can't remember. It was a shock to you the first time around, so it sucks to relive it. They left you on your front lawn with barely anything on, passed out drunk. Your mom found you. When they got you to the hospital, they took evidence kits and confirmed sexual contact. When the pictures started circulating later, they were found to have come from one particular guy, Brock Townsend. He was the football team captain and his dad's cousin was the mayor.

Your mom filed charges because you were sixteen at the time and he was eighteen, as were a couple of the other guys in the pictures.

Not much came of it. He got community service spending the summer playing football with disadvantaged kids. In fact, most of the cops around here just assumed you were lying, that you had actually consented and just got remorseful afterwards. Your mom didn't have the money to keep on fighting, not with so many people saying you were consenting, even with statutory rape laws. You were only a few months away from the age of consent in this area."

My knees give out. I grab for the nearest chair and sit with a thud. Rage burns in my guts.

Stephen follows me and sits in the chair next to mine.

"I can't tell you how much it killed me to know I had left that same party earlier. I thought you were acting a little tipsy, but so were a lot of people. I don't really remember specifics. If I had known what was going to go down...I never believed you were a willing participant in all that crap. That wasn't you. People were coming after you in a way I haven't seen since I once saw a shark feeding frenzy on Discovery Channel. People thought you were trying to ruin the lives of the guys, that you were a slut who had morning after remorse, that you were a low class nobody trying to get attention. Girls left used maxi pads and condoms in your locker, boys passed you in the hall making sex noises and asking you to do them, people would steal your stuff."

By now hot tears trailed down my face. I bend over and hide my weakness in my hands. Stephen is quiet, but he clears his voice.

"By the middle of your senior year, people still wouldn't let up. Your house was vandalized, your mom nearly fired at work for all the negative attention following her there, and she ended up leaving that job anyway due to the harassment. One of the boys' cousins worked there as a nurse. Then one day, you were gone. Just gone. Your mom filed a missing persons report, but...well, no real effort was made to find you. I hated the whole mess. I drove around looking for you, so did a few other people from the computer club who didn't join in the bullying, but you vanished. Later on, I decided to become a cop myself, specializing in computer crime division, and I decided that if I ever encountered a case like this again, I wasn't going to look the other way. You don't know how glad I am that you're alive and here.

We're coming up on six years now since the initial report was filed. It takes seven years to declare someone legally dead. Another year and you'd have a mountain of legal issues to sort out."

I look up. "And I don't have them now? My mom suffered terribly, so did I, and the guy who raped me with his friends walked free? Three girls I barely remember got snide with me in a bookstore, and with my innocent son, so is this what I have to look forward to staying around here? And where the hell is my mom? And what about Cayce, and my amnesia, and...?"

"Okay, calm down. I probably shouldn't have told you all this, at least not without a counselor present, but we need to be on the same page. I'm going to have to process you and start the paperwork indicating you've been found. We also need you checked out by medical specialists, Cayce too. It's a bit late in the afternoon to get with your mom today, and I'll want to call her first. I'll get you and the kid set up in a halfway house for tonight. You'll be safe. But you need to promise me not to run. I need you to not disappear again, got it? Otherwise we won't have any choice but to assume you're on the run for reasons that might interest the law."

"I might be," I say and lift my hands. "You should probably arrest me now."

"Not unless I see you smack someone," he says with a grin. "Come on. I'll get you and the kid some burgers and we can start all that crappy paperwork we need to do. And, Hillary...welcome home."

He smiles at me. It is the first real smile I have seen from anyone in a while, and my heart gives a little jolt. I lift my lips slightly, but I am unable to process all he has told me. We go to retrieve Cayce from the break room.

***

Ellen sat in the meditation hall next to Aunt Marzipan and across from Randall and Raven, not quite sure she was hearing Randall correctly. They had been at the compound for a little over three months. It used to be a farm about twenty miles from the nearest small-town. They had received a visit from the sheriff the first week when word got around that over two dozen people were living there, but no one ever saw them in town. The sheriff had left apparently satisfied with what he had seen. Only Lester, Raven, and occasionally Randall, made grocery runs to the town. For the most part, they tried to grow everything they needed. They also had learned a bit about foraging in the nearby forest, and while they didn't eat much meat, the occasional deer in season or rabbit made its way to the communal table.

Ellen had to confess she was having a hard time adjusting. She missed Willow and she missed the New Age store, with its multitude of quirky and familiar faces coming in and out. She missed the availability of the big city and the rainbow of activities that always seemed to circle around Willow's store. Above all, she really missed her computer classes and playing around with emerging technology. Although Randall had been right when he said the community would maintain an online presence for the sake of earning money, it wasn't the same as the web design where she had been learning to develop mobile applications. She didn't like Lester, and she liked working with him even less. His eyes were hollow, and his voice monotone, even when he spoke to her, which was rarely. And his hands were cold. Really cold. She hated even just having to hand him things.

Here at the compound, the community was entirely isolated from civilization, expected to meditate for six straight hours, beginning at five in the morning after a light breakfast. They would break for a meal and then go about their chores. Adopting the idea that cleanliness was next to godliness, the communal house, which used to be the farmhouse, was cleaned from top to bottom every day, along with some of the outlying buildings.

There was another three hours of meditation followed by dinner. After dinner, everyone gathered in the great hall, which used to be the barn. It had been cleaned and converted to a giant meditation room. The community listened to Randall preach every night for however long he felt like it, although Lester and Raven frequently snuck out. There was little free time, but when there was, members were expected to pursue some sort of productive exercise. Many of the members took up crafts or growing goods that could be sold in the nearby farmers market on Sundays. The money went into the collective pool. Ellen's job was to assist Lester in the computer room, and she soon learned the true nature of Lester's online business.

Much to her horror, Lester had set up a methamphetamine lab in one of the old sheds, and in another shed, it looked like he was storing bricks of cocaine and heroin, having set up a smuggling station. More than once, some stranger had emerged from the woods, traded backpacks with Lester, which she knew at least one contained drugs, and then would disappear again, with the community none the wiser. She had immediately run to Randall, who had not been surprised. He told her he had given permission to Lester to do so. Ellen was to aid Lester in selling the finished product online on the Silk Road website. Lester had above average computer skills, but it was not long before Ellen's talents outpaced his. She was uncomfortable with the meth business, but her ability to find programs that would allow her to maintain an online presence while cloaked was invaluable to him. She would be lying if she had said it didn't give her a sense of satisfaction to pull off complex computer work like nobody else. But when she complained to Randall about the illegality of the business, Randall's reply left her unsatisfied.

"I know it's difficult to understand, Ellen. But we need money. We are the chosen community through which the next Incarnation will arrive on this planet. It is imperative we bring this about as soon as possible. Unfortunately, even while we are going to try to move beyond this world, we still must live in it. Lester's path is the quickest and most efficient way to get what we need."

"But it's drugs, Randall. These things destroy entire families and kill people. Isn't it bad karma to release the sort of stuff into the world?"

He waved off her protests. "The bad karma is on the people who buy it. It is not our fault if they pursue a life of wickedness. Ellen, there will always be drones in the human race. Most people are drones. The drone believes this world is all there is and lives his life that way, even if he says he believes in God. Many of them never move beyond this material world. If we provide them the means to anesthetize themselves, there is no bad in that for us. In fact, they are so eager for our products, it seems almost as if they want to help. Who are we to deny them?"

Hands on her hips, Ellen faced him. "I'm not sure I agree. A small child might not know that the stove is hot, but to purposely leave a hot stove on where he might be able to reach it? Is it not the fault of the adults who know better? If we are truly the chosen people for the Incarnation, wouldn't it be our job to assist people toward his path as much as we can as well?"

Randall had smiled indulgently and condescendingly at her. "Ellen, you have not soul-traveled yet. You don't know what lies beyond the veil, and you don't know the plan. It is the job of this community to create the Incarnation and move beyond this world ourselves. We can inform the drones of what we believe, but we can't make them see it. See how well proselytizing has worked out for other religions? How many have ever converted after getting that knock on the door at dinnertime? Should we start knocking on doors and standing on street corners now? If we engage in gray area practices like Lester's to create the Incarnation, then the good karma cancels out the bad."

Ellen didn't like that explanation at all. Willow would have flat out said that was bullshit, not to mention hypocritical. But the rest of the community accepted Randall's explanation with accepting nods. Ellen's own uncertainty left her unwilling to question Randall further. He always had an answer for everything. But Ellen always had doubts.

And he was wrong about her inability to astral travel.

She had managed to float out of her body three times already during meditation. She had been so excited. She wanted to tell him immediately. But as she walked up to tell him, something held her back, warning her against it. She still had not told him. Perhaps this was why she suspected he was wrong about Lester's activities. Even so, she continued to assist Lester. It was Ellen who discovered Digicoin, the online currency that was having difficulty in its infancy. At its heart, it was an ingenious system. A Digicoin was really nothing more than a unit of value against existing world currencies represented by an encrypted string of data.

Lester scoffed at the entire thing, saying it would never work. He preferred hard cash, and he and Raven frequently drove to Seattle to sell the results of the meth lab that stank up the north end of the property. But Ellen had her own hunches. With her ability to cloak her activities on the computers by creating a hidden user account, she installed Digicoin processing software on all five computers and told them to start processing. By the end of her first year, she mined several thousand Digicoins. Of course, they weren't worth much at the time. It wasn't until countries with unstable governments and banking systems started to take notice, as well as the drug trade, that Lester finally started asking about Digicoins. He was starting to see more and more payments online for Digicoins and finally conceded that Ellen might be on to something with the digital currency. Of course by that time, she already had a small fortune in her own right, using the five computers in the shed to run the hidden programs that did the calculations for the system, which paid in new Digicoins for the work. The only thing anyone might have noticed was the computers running a little slower, but nobody had. But she had no idea what Lester would do if he found out about that. Take them for certain.

Ellen continued to have the thin hairs on the back of her neck raise in Lester's presence. She guarded her actions and words around him. She didn't like his eyes, or the way he and Raven were constantly going off and whispering. She especially didn't like the way Randall didn't seem to be worried about that.

And then Randall dropped another bomb on her.

She sat across from Randall and Raven in the meditation hall, trying to wrap her mind around what he had just told her.

"You want me to be the Vessel of the Incarnation? Why?" she said, her voice trembling.

"Because I've been watching you, Ellen. I know you possess the gifts, you possess them naturally, and you hardly had to work for them. Raven is my wife on this plane, but my soul and your soul were destined to bring about the new Incarnation. It has been shown to me."

"But..." she trailed off. She shook her head.

"You don't agree?" Randall asked evenly.

"I thought Raven was going to...she's your wife, you said so yourself." Ellen heard the edge of panic in her voice.

"I have done a lot of soul travelling, Ellen, and I tell you, I believe you lost your memory for a purpose. Had you not, you would have remained in your old life, and we would never have found you. Had we not found you, you and I would not have met, and the Incarnation would not have a chance to come. This was meant to be. You should be happy about it. Everything happens for a reason, and this is it."

"Do you think I'll get my memory back?"

He shook his head. "That's yet to be seen."

Ellen wanted to refuse. What Randall was asking... no, telling her to do, she was pretty sure she couldn't. The entire situation just didn't feel right. He was asking her to have a child with him, a married man and leader of their group. What she really wanted was to talk to Willow. But she knew Willow would tell her to leave immediately. She also knew Randall would never let her call Willow. She looked up into his eyes, prepared to say no.

The words refused to come.

She lowered her eyes, unable to resist out loud. Randall smiled, knowing he had won. Aunt Marizpan squeezed her hand. Behind her,

Raven fumed.
Chapter Nine

BY THE time the authorities finish asking me the same questions over and over, giving me a mountain of paperwork to fill out, and the doctors finish poking us and shining lights into orifices, I am beyond tired. Cayce is hollow-eyed and scrunched into a ball. It helps that I have the medical paperwork, which included our TB tests and other exams from the homeless shelter. To my relief, we both tested negative for various diseases and other medical problems, and were pronounced as healthy as could be for a near-four year old who had likely never been vaccinated, was allergic to every food known to science, and had never been around other children, along with his mother who had amnesia and a host of other troubles could be.

Technically it isn't his job, but Stephen Bankston drives us to the halfway house for women and children at which we will stay until he locates my mother. He stops at a health food store where I pick up some gluten-free, dairy-free, peanut-free food for Cayce. As to my mother, apparently the harassment we suffered those years ago prompted her to move to the outskirts of town and retake her maiden name under an unlisted phone number. However, her Social Security number is listed on the numerous police reports she filed for me. She is working as a neonatal nurse at a nearby hospital.

"I'll give your mom a call tonight, after she gets off work in a few minutes," he says as I pull our bags out of the trunk of our car.

I shoulder my backpack and heft Cayce's up into my arms. "Why can't we just go over there now? I really want to see her."

"I know you do. But sometimes it's best to follow a certain protocol. When someone has been missing a family member for years and that person just shows back up, there's a lot of questions that will be asked. Emotions come out. It's best to have a therapist there to help things go as smoothly as possible. Just trust me on this, okay? I'll see you get sorted out."

"Well," I say drily, "if push comes to shove, I guess I could always volunteer for those medical experiment trials where they pay you to be a guinea pig. How many amnesiacs do you think they'd have regular access to? They'd probably be knocking each other over for the chance to pick at my brain."

Stephen smiles. He has a warm smile that lights up his eyes. "That's it, Hil, keep your sense of humor. But I don't think it'll come to that. And try not to be too jaded. Sometimes people surprise you."

If it wasn't so late in the evening, with my kid asleep on my shoulder and a difficult day behind us, I might argue more. I decide against it. I am not sure if Stephen is serious about helping us, or how far such help might extend. He is a cop, after all. He is duty bound to arrest me if I have broken laws and amnesia wouldn't be much of a defense. I couldn't remember the terrible time he had talked about in school, where I had apparently been raped and victimized. But he had been professional, and even caring, as he broke the news to me. He had seemed rightfully disgusted by the entire thing.

I want so badly to trust someone. Sadly, if what I know about my past is any indication, I have placed my trust in the wrong people more than once. But Stephen's no nonsense approach to my entire ordeal is like the rock of security I had been craving. Despite the weirdness of my situation, he seems to have a checklist to go by of what should be done. If it ends up badly, especially concerning him, so far the singular person in all of this mess who seems to have some sympathy for what I have endured, if he ends up letting me down, then I know my faith in humanity is never going to be restored. I watch him drive away feeling both bereft and relieved, and unclear about why. I realize how much of a relief it has been to talk to someone candidly about my situation, someone who had known me, even if just in passing, from my blurry past. It is like having an anchor to hold on to.

The matron of the house comes out and waits for me with a smile. She greets me with a handshake, glances at Cayce, and asks if we need anything to eat. I shake Cayce awake. In the kitchen, the matron dishes out beef stroganoff for us. Apparently one of the women staying with her two children is a professional cook. The food is hot and delicious. It was also apparent that our arrangement to stay here had been hastily arranged, as there were actually no beds available and we would be sleeping on the couch. That was okay with me really. I didn't expect that we would be there long anyway, and the sofas ended up being fairly comfortable. This halfway house was for women fleeing with their children from abusive relationships, sort of like the shelter back in Chattanooga, and it was not uncommon for a woman to show up in the middle of the night with her kids, needing a place to stay. No one was ever turned away, even if it meant sleeping on the floor, and so the sofas got a decent amount of use.

I settle Cayce down in the sleeping bag on the floor, and I try to get some sleep. Maybe it was Stephen's story reminding me of what had happened to me before I left, or maybe my memory was coming back on its own, as my dreams and daydreams had been frequently filled lately with images of a life I suspected I had been living as Ellen. But that night, as I slept on a lumpy sofa in a refuge center for women, I regained some of the first real memories that started to tell me of my past and what had happened.

***

I had not wanted to go to the party in the first place. I wasn't one of the popular kids, even though I had a handful of friends, but we mostly kept to ourselves. We didn't fit any kind of clique like the Goth kids or the outcast kids or the college bound kids, although I considered myself college material. We were really just normal. We were juniors in high school, and we were in normal extracurricular activities, such as the computer club for me and piano classes for my friend Jamie. I wasn't exactly close with the four other girls with whom I hung out, not in the sense that I told them deep dark secrets about myself and who I had a crush on, nor did I think of them in the way that teenage girls often think of their friends: as honorary sisters. It's not that I didn't like them, quite the contrary. We had sleepovers and went to the movies like any normal group of teenage girlfriends. I just was never open to the point of absurdity or close with any of them. It just so happened that night that it was Stacy's idea to go to the party, because she was certain the boy she had a crush on would be there and wanted back-up.

So I had told my mother that we were staying over at Stacy's house that night, and I had reluctantly accompanied my friends to the home of one of the football players, as his parents were on a cruise. From the moment we walked in, we knew we were out of our league. The party was exactly what you would envision for a bunch of rowdy high-schoolers with no adult supervision and at least a handful with older siblings who could buy kegs of beer. The mood was rather out-of-control and rowdy, due to the fact that it had been discovered earlier that day that our high school's greatest sports rival had been defeated by a much lower ranked team in a football game, which virtually ensured our high school would easily take the state championship in the final game. A-1 level colleges had all but thrown scholarships at most of our starters and they were walking around town like gods. This party was basically a celebration of the state championship not yet won.

Personally, I had never understood all the hype around sports. I mean sure, it was kind of cool to hear that your high school was the best at something, and I would be lying if I said the football games didn't raise a certain level of excitement. But I simply didn't understand the treatment of the players. They got free refills on drinks in restaurants and were almost never carded if they wanted to go into bars. If they were caught skipping class, they just got a slap on the wrist and had to spend the afternoon helping the janitor empty trash cans. If

I had gotten caught skipping class, I would've been suspended. I knew it was unfair, but for the most part, it didn't affect me, so I didn't let it bother me the way it did some people.

It was worth noting, however, that if you were a boy in our high school and didn't play some sort of sports, you ran the risk of being bullied and ostracized. Some of the boys in my computer club were cliché geeks and definitely looked the part. One boy, Kenny, was extremely good with computers. His father was a computer software developer, and had shown him a lot of things. When I mentioned my idea for an application for mobile devices, which would be nothing more than a simple 8-bit game of tapping the screen to navigate a small spaceship through an increasingly difficult maze of asteroids, with no real end to the game, but the only goal to see how far you could get and share your score online with friends, Kenny had been quick to help me. He had loaned me some books and had shown me some of the software developer kits on his own laptop, one of which I had used to develop the graphics for the spaceship and asteroids, but he was certainly not an athlete. Even at 16, he still looked like he had yet to hit puberty. He was a skinny stick of a kid, and although he didn't wear glasses or goofy clothes, he had a long angular face that could have benefited from more testosterone, but sadly did not, and so he looked a little bit like the guy on the cover of Mad Magazine.

He was a prime target for most of the bullies in our school, not all of whom were jocks. Some were just a knot of kids with no real talent for anything but being assholes and who made a science out of public humiliation. He almost never made it to class without somebody knocking his books out of his hands or tripping him in the hallways. I heard he dressed out for gym in a stall that was securely locked because the other boys were prone to stealing his clothes and trying to snap pictures of him with camera phones to post on Twitter.

He was accused of being gay at least three times a day, to the point of even having gay pornographic pictures printed off the Internet plastered all over his locker or hidden in his books. Eventually, the lack of response from the school on the matter, because most of the bullies were on the sports teams, and doing something about it would mean suspending them from games, coupled with Kenny's growing depression and threats of suicide, finally prompted his parents to pack themselves up and move away. I actually missed him quite a bit, and it angered me, because people like Kenny could have been a real benefit to the school in science and computer competitions. I had really appreciated his help with my mobile game. Why did notoriety only come through sports in our school?

It was because of Kenny that Stephen had taken up running track. He didn't really enjoy it, but it kept him from being a target enough to show he could be both smart and athletic, and he was good enough at it that his participation deflected any bullying he might have received. Plus it certainly helped that Stephen was taller than most kids, even if he wasn't as muscular, but some of the smaller boys tended to think twice about picking a fight with him. It was a Neolithic social pecking order and we knew it, but unlike others at the school, I didn't expect it would define my life as an adult. At least, I hadn't planned it to. It was for this reason, among others, that I seriously questioned my own reason for being at this party at all.

We carefully staked out a corner at the party and looked around. I was introverted by nature, and this entire thing was a nightmare for me. There were too many people I didn't know and didn't like, all so Stacey could scope out the senior boy she had been crushing on for some time. Eventually, my friends drifted away to talk to other people, and I was left on my own. I sipped a Coke and played a beta test of my spaceship game on my phone, counting down the minutes before I could gracefully leave. As I was getting up to retreat to the yard outside, one of the football players, a guy named Cade Hanes, sat down next to me. I looked up surprised.

"Hey," he said in a friendly tone. "That phone can't be as interesting as what's going on around here."

"Yeah, sorry, not really my thing. I'm here with a friend," I said, pointing to Stacey, who was talking up her crush.

"You're a junior, right?" he asked.

I was surprised he even knew I went to his school, much less my grade. I nodded and let him strike up a conversation. He got me to talk about my mom and how she had to work two jobs since my dad died, and a little bit about my mobile game, and he told me about how he hoped to go to college on a football scholarship since his parents couldn't afford it otherwise. He wanted to be a lawyer, like his grandfather had been. I was starting to loosen up and relax a bit, and he noticed I had finished my Coke.

"Want a drink?" he asked.

"Just a Coke," I replied.

"Just a Coke? Nothing else?" he asked

"Nah, I'm driving," I lied.

He returned with an open cherry Coke and sat back down. We talked some more, but as I sipped the drink, I started to feel odd. At first, it was just a slight pressure behind my eyes. Then, I started to get sleepy and had a hard time keeping my eyes open. I felt myself sinking deeper into the seat and my head leaning back against the sofa. Cade leaned in and asked me something, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. The room was fading to a hum and going dark. Why couldn't I stay awake? Why wouldn't my arms or legs work? Where were my friends? I felt myself being lifted up, and not gently. I thought I heard derisive laughter, and I felt myself being pulled and jerked upwards, and then deposited on a soft surface. I faded in and out, and then I was vaguely aware of another person, the captain of the football team, a guy named Brock Townsend, hovering over me, and then pinning me down.

I struggled to twist away, but I had no energy. Then the pain came. Burning. Tearing. I know I cried out, and I heard responding laughter. There was more than one, I heard Cade's voice, no longer friendly, but sneering and cruel.

"Hurry up dude, my turn next," he was saying.

Brock groaned and collapsed on top of me, then he was gone and Cade took his place. I tried to tell him no, but my mouth wouldn't work. All I could manage were pained whimpers. Then Cade was replaced by someone else.

"Move to the side," Brock was saying, "I can't get a clear shot. Yeah, that was a good one..."

I was vaguely aware of a camera phone being held near me and the resounding sound of a shutter click. I could only just make out around three more guys in the room. Then darkness overcame me and I knew nothing else.

***

It was cold. So cold. I shivered hard, and I hurt all over. I felt nauseous and my head was splitting open. I was lying on a wooden surface, most likely a porch, and it was silent and dark. The wind was blowing hard and I shivered again. I think the sun was coming up over the horizon, because it was light enough for me to make out certain features of the street and porch. I was on my own porch. How had I gotten here? I tried to call for my mother, but the only sound I could make was a hoarse cry. The darkness threatened to overcome me again and my body was going numb. Then I heard a door open, footsteps, then the sound of my mother's scream.

***

The next few hours were like being in a tunnel with voices all around me. The paramedics who arrived to hoist me onto a gurney and monitor my vitals, the emergency room personnel who performed the rape kit examination, the doctors asking me questions that I was only dully able to answer, then the police and their questions.

"Well Hillary, are you absolutely sure it was Brock Townsend and Cade Hanes? You know a false accusation of rape could damage their reputations for life, right? Those boys have scholarships to A1 colleges, this could end all that for them."

"Are you sure it wasn't consensual? If you were so drunk you were passed out, would you even remember if you had said yes? Weren't you and Cade getting along, the last you remember, or so you said? You don't get to say yes and then change your mind after because you regret it, you know."

"Were you wearing shorts? Or was it a short skirt? Why didn't you just try to keep your legs closed if it was rape? Didn't you tell him no?"

"Well, you know Hillary, you've told us a lot of different versions of this story. Was it Brock or Cade? Now it's both of them? Who was first? Did you say you did or did not try and find your friends? Seems like you have a lot of conflicting details you can't keep straight. Are you sure you're telling the complete truth?"

"So how many were there? I thought you said there were just two, now there were three others? It seems to me like you're just making this up on the fly and can't get your details straight."

"So you were at a crowded party in a house jammed with people, and nobody saw anything? Seems a little hard to believe."

I could barely comprehend that the police were actually reluctant to help me, and that they were suggesting that I had brought it on myself, that because I had been drugged with something, that wasn't supposed to matter in how straight I had all the details.

My mother's strident voice came from the hallways, "They left my daughter on the porch to freeze to death after raping her, and you're not going to arrest them? What, is there a football game this weekend they can't miss? Do something now!"

"Well Mrs. Coulton, we just don't have enough evidence against those boys," said the officer.

"No evidence? She's lying in a hospital bed suffering from exposure and has all the signs of being raped," came my mother's outraged reply.

"She shows signs of sexual activity, yes, but she can't even remember how it went down. We already questioned Hanes and Townsend, they say it was consensual. We also questioned some of the other kids at that party. Nobody saw or heard anything that looked like rape. She has no problem ruining those boys for life on something she can't even remember," came the unfeeling reply.

"Well of course they'd deny it!" my mother yelled.

My vision blurred through my tears as I turned over and pulled the head over my pillow. Why had this happened to me? What had I done to deserve this? Where had my friends been? Where were they now? Wasn't anyone going to punish those guys? It was the first time I saw what real privilege was, the kind of privilege that meant as long as you won sports games, the law didn't apply to you. Privilege that meant if your uncle was a high ranking politician or knew people like Brock's, you didn't get investigated for rape. Privilege that meant if your parents were wealthy enough for lawyers, and the victim's mother worked two jobs and couldn't afford a lawyer in a civil case because criminal charges were dropped, then rapists walked free, and bragged about it. This was my new life in a small town on the outskirts of Charlotte. And it only got worse.

***

I also discovered what it meant to be a rape victim who accused the beloved town football heroes of a crime that could get them removed from the football team before the coveted state finals game could be played. It's amazing, but people were outraged that I would dare do anything that could cause this to happen, that my assault meant so little to grown adults in my community.

The harassment started slow at first, with people treating me at school the way they had treated Kenny. Books knocked out of my arms, condoms and handouts for birth control pills shoved in the slits of my locker, snickers and whispers, and direct insults to my face of "skank," "whore," and "slut." Girls giggled cruelly in the hallway and asked questions like "were you wearing that when you did the whole football team?" Boys came up behind me and made panting noises as if in the throes of sex and said "Oh Hil, do me too!" My phone number and email address were painted on the side of an abandoned building with the words "Climb this Hil tonight!"

The teachers were no help either. They didn't do much to stop the harassment, although one tried, and was disciplined for it, with the administration claiming he had acted outside of his sphere of authority, and when the cyber bullying started, the police only took some information, and then ignored the whole thing. I couldn't be online without a message popping up with links to sex sites, suggesting I apply for a job, or cruel remarks from hidden user names. One of the first skills as a hacker I developed was the ability to trace IP addresses behind messages sent from hidden sources, my tormenters thought themselves safely hidden behind. They quickly learned not to harass me online, however, because I developed swift skills out of self defense. I infested their computers with viruses and Trojans and leaked their personal information to a community of hackers in Internet Relay Chat rooms. Some hackers overseas came to my defense, with one in Russia sending messages to Brock and Cade, detailing their parents' names, addresses and financial information and suggesting he would wipe out the parents' financial information and bank account if they didn't confess to my rape. But for the most part, I was on my own. I scrambled my IP address and hid behind layers of firewalls just to be able to get online without attacks. I abandoned my mobile game and worked for three weeks straight to create an app designed to block incoming calls or texts from any number not in my phone's address book, which, at the time, was technically against the terms of service of my mobile carrier.

My friends, who were never close to me to begin with, abandoned me, not wanting to be in the crosshairs of such treatment themselves. They got up and walked away at lunch when they saw me approaching. Some other children were outright forbidden to be around me, their parents claiming I was a bad influence for encouraging sex before marriage. Stephen tried to sit next to me at lunch and walk with me in the halls, but his schedule was very different from mine, and at the end of the year, he graduated and I was on my own for the next year. The harassment only escalated when no consequences were met by authorities.

My mother lost her second job at the mall, with her boss claiming they didn't want the negativity following my mother to work when Brock's mother showed up at the store where mom worked and loudly accused mom of raising a tramp daughter who wanted to ruin her talented and lovely son, and that in no way would she or her friends ever be shopping there again if the shop employed such immoral people. I was despondent over the thought that I was causing my mom trouble at work. We discussed leaving, but by then, depression had overtaken me and I just didn't care anymore. I barely left the house, barely got out of bed. Mom would plead with me, and then get angry with me, then try to comfort me all over again. But she had to work so often, and we couldn't afford therapy, that I had to deal with most of it alone.

Then, one night, in the middle of my senior year, after a particularly bad day at school where some girls had tried to rip my shirt off in the bathroom, I lay in my bed, feeling very odd, almost detached from my body. There was a strange, buzzing pressure behind my eyes, almost like a tinkling wave sensation. I thought about suicide. I thought about climbing up on the roof and jumping off, but with my luck, the fall probably wouldn't kill me and I'd just end up paralyzed or something. I considered taking my mom's sleeping pills, but then I thought about her finding me dead. I couldn't think of a painless way to do it, or a place to go to do it where mom wouldn't be the one to find me. As the night wore on, the shadows on the wall of my room got longer, and I felt more and more detached, like I was watching a movie. I gazed at the full moon outside in the sky and held up my hand, seeing the moonlight filter through my fingertips, but feeling as if I were seeing a hand that didn't belong to me. It was so odd, to feel so detached from my body, as if I could cut a finger on purpose but not feel any pain. As if the rape had happened to someone else, but not to me. I wondered what would happen if I got up, walked out of the front door and just kept walking. How long before I would die of natural causes or exposure? Maybe I should have died on that porch that night.

I drifted in and out of sleep, and gradually, as the darkness overtook me and despair washed over me, I felt myself getting out of bed and pulling on a jacket, but no shoes. It was if I were watching a movie, and all of this were happening to someone else. I could feel the person I was, Hillary, retreating into a mental shell, securely locked and the key being thrown away. This shell of myself got up, and walked out the front door. I remembered nothing after that

***

"Mama! Mama, wake up!" Cayce's worried little voice pulls me back to the world. He shoves me hard in the shoulder.

I open my eyes. A flood of tears washes out of them. I focus on his small form. He stands beside the sofa. I am shaking and shivering with the memories of what happened, what had likely caused my amnesia. I remember reading that fugue states can be caused by extreme emotional trauma. Well, that certainly fit the bill. Apparently my two choices had been either suicide or to detach completely from the pain, leaving my identity and personality behind.

Cayce reaches out and rests his palm on my temple. He smiles down at me.

"It's okay, Mama. They have to live with their Karma. But you won't anymore."

Warmth spreads through my head and bleeds into the rest of my body. I remember my life, but instead of the sick sorrow, peace washes over me. Cayce wraps his small, pudgy arms around me. I hold him close. My little boy, my son. If nothing else in this world ever goes right for me again, at least I have him. There is nothing in the world that can compare with the accomplishment of bringing him into the world. He climbs onto the sofa with me and we snuggle back to sleep. As I drift off, the anguish of my past finally settling into place with remembering and facing it, I suddenly remembered what Cayce had said when I woke up.

How does he know these things? How does he know why I was crying?

***

I sit in the police station meeting room, my hands clenched tight in my lap so I will not bite my nails. It is a day and a half since Stephen left us at the halfway house, and I thought we'd be wherever mom is calling home by now. It seems to take time to properly prepare us for reunification. Now it is almost time. He had been able to get a hold of her yesterday morning at some point, informing her of who he was over the phone and asking if he could come speak with her. She was at work but had agreed to meet him on her lunch break, at which point he had driven to the hospital where she was working in the NICU taking care of preemie babies, and he had, as gently as possible, informed her about my reappearance, with Cayce. According to Stephen, she had burst into tears, both happy and sad, and had asked a thousand questions. Was I OK or hurt in any way?

Where had I been? Why hadn't I called, especially when I had a baby? Who was the father of her grandson? What did he mean I had amnesia? She had spent most of yesterday afternoon with a counselor preparing for the meeting, as had I.

At least the tests are over. As near as all the professionals can determine, I am telling the truth about not being able to remember most of the last five years, but I will need extensive counseling. The police department psychologist has friends at the local university who say they want the chance to study an amnesiac firsthand. A few phone calls have set me up with an agreement to have my therapy paid for in exchange for letting psych students study me for the next three years. I figure there are worse things in this world.

Cayce's evaluation comes back more interesting, however. The child psychologist is able to get out of him that, despite his precocious vocabulary and understanding of certain things, he is actually developmentally delayed in a number of areas. It seems he has spent most of his life in a single location away from other children, meaning he is bereft socially in many crucial areas. The psychologist gets Cayce to speak of Randall often. Cayce tells of being treated as an object of worship and having everyone refer to him as the Incarnation. Apparently, I have only ever called him Cayce, and I did so in private. It also seems I have not been his exclusive parent. We cannot be sure, because Cayce isn't sure, and I can't remember, but it seems from what Cayce says that Randall is some sort of cult leader, and is probably Cayce's biological father. Randall is also Raven's husband.

That news leaves me shaking. I do not think of myself as someone who would have an affair with a married man.

The counselor tries to console me. "It's actually not at all surprising," he says. "Lots of girls who run away from home find themselves taken in by charismatic criminals, pimps, or control freaks, sometimes even cult leaders. That was the case with the

Manson group anyway. You're lucky to have gotten yourself and your kid away. And it's also not unusual for cult leaders to exert sexual control over cult members. The Branch Davidians in Waco, Texas, that guy had a bunch of kids with women other than his wife in that cult. In fact, I'd be willing to bet you weren't the only one he was exercising his privileges with." This doesn't do much for my self confidence, especially when Stephen suggests a round of DNA tests to ensure Cayce is in fact my biological child, something that scares me intensely. What if he isn't? I am already terrified I will lose him to the authorities, but Stephen assures me they will take into account the relationship I have with Cayce. It is better if my mother also agrees to take us in and gives us a stable home.

Having informed my mother of all this, too, we now wait in the police station for her to come in and see us. I have managed to settle Cayce with a new interactive eBook on his tablet to keep him from picking up on my fidgeting. He is engrossed for several minutes. The door finally opens. Stephen and the counselor walk in, and an older woman follow. It is my mother, Diane.

The next thing I know, I am on my feet and in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably. I am not sure if I moved first or if she did, but relief soaks into me to be encircled by my mother again. She smells of lavender as she always has. I just hope that whatever has happened to me doesn't make her turn away in disgust once we finally sort it out all.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God," she keeps repeating. She hugs me tighter. "I can't believe it."

I am not sure what to say, so I almost cringe when the words manage to work their way out. "Did you miss me?" Of course she did. Maybe she has not missed the hassle of being the mother of a bullying target, but surely she missed me?

We stand back and look at each other, staring. I know I look different. My hair is longer, my body slightly thicker, and my eyes are more tired than your average twenty-three-year-old's should be. I wear thrift store jeans, a faded t-shirt, a worn jacket and old shoes.

Otherwise, I look basically the same. Mom has changed, though. She is thinner. Her hair is cut shorter and back to its original dark brown color, probably to get out the gray I remember from the turmoil of the past. She wears scrubs, like I remember her usually wearing, but she is different in subtle ways. He shoulders slouch from the weight of what she has dealt with these last few years. She looks tired, not defeated exactly, but not able to handle another fight.

I can tell she wants to ply me with questions that I probably can't answer about where I have been. She stops as Cayce comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my legs, burying his face against me. I know he is disturbed by the emotional display he has just seen.

"Well, hey there." Mom bends down and offers a genuine smile.

Cayce peeks sideways at her. A small smile blooms.

"Can I have a hug?" she asks, holding out her arms.

Cayce flinches and turns his head back into me, gripping tighter.

I put a hand on Cayce's head. "He's been through a lot. Give him a little time."

"Sure." She nods and forces the smile brighter. She is hiding her disappointment, I know. "I guess he must be overwhelmed."

"Why don't we all sit down?"the counselor says.

I sit on a sofa with Cayce in my lap. Mom perches nearby her hands folded tight as if she needs to hold onto something. We listen to the counselor go on about separation anxieties, discomfort in relationships, and rebuilding after trauma. Living together will be a good way of reconnecting, but we all have to be understanding of each other, especially since I am, essentially, newly processing the remembered details of the rape and harassment. Whatever Cayce did the night of my memory-nightmare has taken the edge off my emotional despair, but the wound is still there. This is especially true since no real consequences befell my assailants, and they are, apparently, still around town.

"Above all," the counselor is saying, "Hillary and Cayce need to feel safe. They need a refuge, a home to call their own, and they need continued counseling. Establishing a daily routine will be essential for both. Hillary, you could look for a job or do your freelance web design at a specific time during the day, just like a regular job. Have a schedule and stick to it. Cayce should start with playgroups or daycare, something to help him begin to socialize with other kids his age and learn routines. He should have a schedule, too. I'll help you work out both, but this will be part of the healing process. Now, do either of you have any questions?"

"I do." I feel like I should raise my hand. It's silly, but I need to know. I turn to Mom. "What did you do when I disappeared?"

She blinks and looks taken aback. "I looked for you, of course. Flyers up everywhere, missing person's reports, spreading your picture all over social media. Some of your friends from school even looked. Remember Stacey? They all went off to college, but they looked, too. The police figured you had run away, or had jumped off a bridge somewhere, so they only looked for you for the required number of days."

Her eyes hardened. Stephen's own gaze goes stony at the mention of how this department failed.

"Is that what you thought?" I ask. "How long did you look for me?"

Tears glitter in her eyes. "I never stopped hoping you'd come home. It got harder and harder to keep looking over the years, when it was obvious you weren't coming back. If I had known where you were, I'd have come get you. You weren't dead. I wouldn't let myself believe you were dead."

I believe her. I know she suffered from my disappearance, and guilt stings me. It was beyond my control, but for some reason, irritation shivers under my skin. Had she given up when I needed her most?

"Feelings of resentment over issues we can't control are normal," the counselor says. "In the coming days, there's going to be a lot of hindsight and thinking of things that could have or should have been done. I'm here to tell you, recovery won't happen if we dwell on that. Hillary, everyone who cared about you never stopped looking for you or praying for you. Diane, you did everything you had the power to do. We should acknowledge that and move past it."

I hug Cayce tighter. Yeah, a lot of good that did me. Because from where I am sitting, there are enough people who wanted me gone, who hoped that, if I weren't dead, I would never come back. Logically, I knew this doesn't apply to my mother, and probably not Stephen either. I know if Cayce disappeared and reappeared years later I'd be thrilled to have him back.

The counselor talks some more about emotional healing and stuff, and then lets us go. I follow Mom out. I can't believe she is taking us in. Just three days ago her life was quiet. Now she is being invaded, but I can tell from her step and body language that she is happy about it, and nervous. We drive to the small apartment she rents on the outskirts of town. It is weird seeing her maiden name on the mailbox, even though I know she has done that to protect herself from further harassment. She has a two bedroom apartment. The spare room has a bed, but it is stacked with boxes, too.

"I kept most of your stuff, it's all in here somewhere," she says, restacking some boxes to make room. "Don't worry, I'll get all this out of here tomorrow, somehow. We can rent a storage unit or something."

"Mom, it's okay, really, we're good. We've slept in worse places. We're fine for now." I find a place to set our bags.

She shivers at the mention of us sleeping in worse places. Her eyes seem haunted. "Just let me know what you need. Just don't...don't leave again."

I turn to face her, my heart hurts for her, and for the me I used to be. I walk over and hug her. "Mom, I didn't mean to leave the first time. I just had a nervous breakdown or something. I want to stay, really."

Cayce pulls out his tablet, but the battery is dead. "Granma? Can I watch your TV?"

My mother turns toward him. She smiles in delight at his addressing her as his grandmother. "Can he?" she asks me.

"Sure. Just don't rot your brain," I joke.

Mom and Cayce take off to the living room to see if her cable package includes some kid channels. I sit down on the unfamiliar bed in the unfamiliar apartment. It is now home. I sniff and try not to cry again. What good will it do now? No, the days of being the victim are past now. From now on, for my sake, my son's sake, and now my mother's, I can't allow myself to be overwhelmed by my past and all the horror my memories will bring. Facing them had been painful but cathartic. Cruel people like those girls in the bookstore would use my fear and shame against me for their own fun. I couldn't let this sort of shame and fear filter down to Cayce. He would be watching me, learning from me, and I had to be brave and hold my chin up, for his sake and mine. Let them come and laugh at me. Let them arrest me even. As long as nobody took Cayce away from me, I could make it. But no one was ever going to make me cry again.

***

Ellen shivered hard, nearly paralyzed with fear. It was March twenty-first, the spring equinox and nine months before the winter solstice. Randall wanted the Incarnation to be born on the solstice because all Incarnations had been born when the sun was starting to regain power from the darkness. When she pointed out that Jesus had likely been born in the spring since shepherds only watched sheep in the fields during the spring lambing season, and that no Roman census would have taken place during the winter, which had prompted Mary and Joseph to journey to Bethlehem, he brushed her off, saying it really didn't matter. The belief carried the most weight, not the facts, of an Incarnation's life.

The community had spent the last twenty-one days in meditation, day and night, focusing on the conception of the Incarnation. They had eaten only raw vegetables, less meat, imbued with the negative energies of the dying animal, which they believed weigh them down with inhibiting energies. Aunt Marzipan had sewn Ellen's linen shift, loose and flowing around her. Crystals hung from her head, her neck, her waist, one for each of the Hindu chakras, and several quartz stones for power. Frankincense filled the room, and the community chanted the "Hew" sound over and over to bring down heavenly energy. Requests for assistance from all of the archangels were entreated, and great energy rose in the meditation hall.

Ellen could feel the swirl of energies around her, something she had not been able to feel before. Tony, one of the community members, played Tibetan singing bowls which resonated with a hum through the air. Randall waited for her at the front of the hall, dressed similar to her and smiling. Cold fear wound through her and settled into a hard pit in her stomach. Randall had assured her they would be behind a screen, hidden from the rest of the community to preserve modesty, but all must be present to ensure the Incarnation's conception through their focused thoughts. For three nights in a row, they would take part in this ritual to conceive the child Randall prophesized.

Leaving nothing to chance, Raven and Aunt Marzipan had taken her basal temperature every morning for the last three months, getting an idea of when her cycles were at peak, and had learned that these coming three days would be the best time for the rituals. Ellen knew she would not be hurt, but for some reason, anxiety built in her to the level of borderline panic. She had no idea why. What if this didn't work this time around? What if the Incarnation ended up being born at the wrong time? Would Randall get mad at her, even make her keep doing this until she conceived? Trying not to look at Raven, who watched Ellen walk away with her husband, Ellen put her cold, clammy hand in Randall's. She allowed him to lead her behind a screen where a pallet and bedding lay on the floor.

She started shaking violently as she allowed Randall to lower her to the floor. She tried not to cry as he lifted her shift and his own out of the way, but she couldn't suppress the cry when he entered her. She gasped for air. Her chest heaved. Panic clawed at her, overwhelming her. She had a flash of being pinned down, derisive laughter, a camera clicking. Agony. Cold. She wanted to curl up and die. She blacked out.
Chapter Ten

I AM actually amazed how trouble-free my readjustment is to my old home town and living with my mother, truly. I'm not sure why, but I suppose I expected more drama. Don't get me wrong, it isn't effortless. I am a completely different person in many ways, even though my mother still treats me at times as if I am a child. And yet I am still emotionally vulnerable and need of her support. Mom tries to give it, she really does. However, her long work hours, and her inability to cope emotionally with what drove us to the outskirts of town, really means she isn't much help overall. She holds me when I cry and tries to say placating words. She watches Cayce so I have some time to myself. She is doing her best to form a relationship with both of us. However, she works such brutal hours, and I don't want her to lose another job because of me. I don't ask her to take too much time off, although I know she would. On the other hand, resentment crawls in at her inability to help me, and I begin to understand I have to handle my issues on my own.

The university counselors are actually a big help. It means having the occasional MRI, taking a ton of psychological tests, having electrodes taped to my forehead while being made to watch images and take Rorschach tests. In the end, the counseling from therapists helps the most. Once the professors and their students are able to say that nothing physically is wrong with me, the real therapy begins. Three different therapists work with me, my mother, and Cayce. Cayce is his own conundrum, needing a round of evaluations to determine his educational and developmental level, and also what form of therapy and training he needs to catch up with other kids. His speaking skills are above average, but many of his other reasoning skills and motor skills are delayed.

Then there is my mother. When she can make it, she talks to counselors about how best to support us and encourage us. She also has to deal with her own feelings of inadequacy over her inability to help me in the past, and seemingly now. For the most part, she and I begin to build a new relationship, that of two adult women. Getting into a routine of counseling, therapy, and productive work helps us all start to adjust.

I enroll in some online university classes in computer science, and start working towards the degree I always planned to get. I also accept freelance web and application design jobs. I even begin to re-create my spaceship game with the intent to release it in the coming year. Cayce attends a private daycare three times a week and play-therapy sessions twice a week. We seem to be on our way to recovery.

However, I can feel the cracks under the surface. I know we aren't anywhere close to normal. I still have not regained my memories of my missing five years, but flashes keep disturbing my dreams of this other life. It leads me to believe there are some crucial bits of information I am missing and need to know. Furthermore, I have no guarantee that whoever was following us has stopped looking. They can show up at any time. On top of all that, Stephen is investigating whether or not I have been involved in any crimes. Even he admits one doesn't just come by thirty thousand dollars in cash. I want him to assure me I won't be held responsible, but he cannot do that. This is made even worse by the fact that anytime I am around him, which happens at least weekly when we meet to compare notes, I find myself highly distracted by a growing attraction to him, a novel concept for me given what I've been through. I think it might be mutual, given the way he sometimes looks at me, but at the present, he looks tired and worried when he looks up at me.

"Hil, it's not my decision whether to charge you with a crime you can't remember," he tells me during one of our many meetings to go over anything else I can remember for his investigation. I dropped by his office that morning to deliver the final results of medical tests, indicating there is nothing physically wrong with me. Thankfully, DNA tests confirm Cayce is indeed my son.

I lean back in my chair and sip the bad coffee his supervisor brews every morning but never gets quite right, and nibble on a stale donut. Stephen shakes his head. "My job is to investigate. If I find evidence of any wrongdoing, it gets turned over to the DA. It's his job to decide whether to charge you or not. I mean, I can get some say in the matter, and your cooperation is certainly a factor but..."

He trails off and stares at me for a while until it becomes uncomfortable.

"But what?" I ask.

"Have you thought any more about what Dr. Thompson at the university suggested? About trying hypnosis? You know he's one of the best hypnotherapists on the eastern seaboard? He's done good work before for us in law enforcement."

I shudder. The thought of hypnosis raises bumps over my skin. I am still afraid of my past and I am reluctant to face it. Dr. Thompson assures me I will not be quacking like a duck when the phone rang afterwards, but hypnosis still has that air of mystery and a sense of a lack of control I am not prepared to face. I am not eager to relinquish control of what is left of my mind.

"Not yet, Stephen," I say, and stare down into my coffee. "I know you're frustrated with me, and I know you want answers. But I just can't. Not yet."

He nods. "I understand. It's just that there might come a day when we don't have much choice. But if you're not ready, I'm not going to push."

Changing topics, he asks about Cayce and how he is doing. I fill him in on some of Cayce's therapy and progress. I even mention some of the ongoing odd things Cayce does, like drawing pictures of odd geometric patterns and calling them "The Grid," and trying to build a sweat lodge out of chairs and a bed duvet, when most kids are content with sheet forts. He laughs at Cayce's antics good naturedly, but then goes serious again.

"There's something else," he says, and he leans forward to brace his elbows on his desk.

I don't like the worry in his eyes. "What?" I ask my throat tight.

He glances at me and his mouth pulls down. "My supervisor is thinking of taking me off your case."

"What? Why?"

"It's because we knew each other in high school. I mean I know we weren't close friends or anything but he thinks I am too personally close to this case."

"What if I don't want you off my case?" As soon as I say it, I close my eyes and shake my head. Foot meet mouth.

He laughs. "Repeat that to yourself silently a couple of times before you see how it sounds."

"Actually, I heard how it sounded right as it came out of my mouth, hence the cringe. Very funny. But seriously I don't really want to work with anyone else."

"Neither of us may have much of a choice. It's not like I can't be involved at all, I just wouldn't be the one you answer to. But there can be an upside to the whole thing."

"Such as?"

"Well... um." He picks up a pen and puts it down. Looking up, he smoothes his tie. "Would you maybe um, consider, err...?"

He trails off and looks unsure of himself, which is the first time I have ever seen him exhibit anything less than complete confidence. Finally, he takes a deep breath and looks at me. "Would you consider, maybe, like, going to get coffee with me or something sometime?"

It takes me a full sixty seconds to comprehend what he has just said. "Are you, um, like, asking me out or something?"

"Uh, yeah. Kinda." He smiles. A dimple shows up in his left cheek.

I stammer on my reply. "Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised. I mean it's unexpected. But, uh, sure, I guess. I just..." My heart pounds faster than it should. I swallow a breath. "You know my history isn't great and all and..."

"I totally get it. I probably even shouldn't be asking you now, given everything you had to go through, and still might have to go through. But I wanted to ask you out back in high school and never had the nerve. Then, everything happened, and I wanted to stick up for you, but my father was afraid to let me. Then, you were gone, and those bastards never paid for what they did, and I haven't been able to pin anything on any of them. Typically, guys who are rapists at an early age don't stop that kind of behavior until someone presses charges. I'd be very surprised if you were the only girl they assaulted. I've been keeping my eyes and ears on them, waiting for them to slip up. And when they do, I hope I'm the investigating officer. Now you're back, and if your story is true, then you probably had to endure a lot more of the same the last five years. Until you start remembering, we don't know that some other guy didn't treat you just as bad. So, I get that you're nervous, and there's probably a proprietary question about me asking you out when, as you put it, I don't know if I'm going to have to arrest you for hacking into the Pentagon or something next week."

He gave me a wry grin, suddenly aware that he was rambling. I could barely return it. "That would be funny if I knew for sure it weren't true. And I know you're probably a nice guy, and all, at least you've passed a background check to be a cop, so I hope you won't take it personally when I ask if we can go somewhere public."

"No worries. I totally get it. I was going to suggest a coffee shop or maybe a picnic or something. We could bring Cayce if you want."

I smile in spite of myself. "You don't mind him as a third wheel?"

"Not at all. He seems like a good kid. Besides, it's great kite flying weather. Has he ever flown a kite?"

My grin fades. "I don't know."

His own smile falters for a second. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that. I keep forgetting you wouldn't remember something like that."

"I don't remember his first steps or what his first word was," I say, looking away. My throat is tight. "But none of that's your fault. Don't feel bad about it."

"Yeah, well..." He gives a shrug. "How about this Saturday?"

"My schedule's pretty free these days. Except for the three ring circus once a month, the sideshow says I can take sixty percent home."

He stares at me, his expression serious. "Hil, you really shouldn't make jokes about being nuts. You know you aren't, even not remembering and all. I've seen real mental illness, you'd be surprised at how common it is...and how normal sometimes."

I nod, slightly chastised. We make plans for him to pick up me and Cayce on Saturday morning. As I leave the police station, my mind swirls. Have I really just agreed to go out on a date with Stephen Bankston? Excuse me, Detective Stephen Bankston? The man I knew in school and who is now investigating my case? Have I just agreed to go on any date with anyone? I must be out of my mind. Part of me is shaking in fear, but another part of me wanted to do a little dance that he even asked, knowing about my past.

Admittedly, my experience with men up until this point in my life hasn't just been bad, it's been outright horrific. I didn't date at all in high school, and my ordeals have left me severely lacking in social development with men. Then I apparently took up with a cult leader who fathered my child. Actually, it is ironic that I am a grown woman with a child who can honestly say she has never been on a real date. I am both exhilarated and ready to shake apart from nerves. I just hope Stephen doesn't end up being the latest in a long line of men who bring me trouble.

When I make it back to the apartment, I find my mother at the stove.

"Hey, Mom," I say in greeting. I lean over to see what she's cooking. The smell makes my mouth water.

She looks at me with a frown. "Um, I have a question for you. How does Cayce know what a vortex is?"

"A vortex?" I ask, confused. I lean against the cupboard.

"Apparently, he's building one in your room. Roast beef and mashed potatoes in fifty minutes."

I walk down the hallway to the bedroom Cayce and I share and find him sitting on the floor in the middle of a circle made from quartz crystal points. A neighbor of my mother's went crystal digging in Arkansas, and gave Cayce a bucket full of freshly dug points last week. He was thrilled.

As I walk into the room, Cayce sits quietly, his eyes closed, apparently meditating.

"Hey, kiddo," I say.

He opens his eyes and smiles.

"Doing some meditating?" I ask. I squat down and sit outside his crystal circle.

"Yeah, I miss it. We used to meditate every day. How come we don't anymore?"

"Well, we've been busy traveling and all." Honestly, I don't remember much about meditating, and am not even sure I know that is what he is doing.

"Can we now?" he asks, sounding eager. "Your energy aura is all wonky."

"Sure." I give a nod, not surprised that I can add seeing auras to the list of Cayce's talents. I get up and step into the circle with him. We sit next to each other. To my surprise, I feel at ease in a cross-leg position. My entire body relaxes. I close my eyes and count my breaths. Peacefulness I have not remembered even existed surrounds me.

***

Ellen curled up on her bed, tears running down her cheeks. She couldn't deny it anymore. She was truly in labor now. The past nine months had been a roller coaster, passing by with both agonizing slowness and amazing speed. At first, upon discovering she was pregnant by Randall, her first sense was of relief that she would no longer have to take part in his rituals, which had been a misery to endure. Not that he had hurt her, but she kept having anxiety attacks and flashes of being assaulted. And going about the process with twenty other people and his wife in the same room, even behind a screen, was almost too much. The process hadn't worked at first. It had taken two months to get pregnant, and Randall was irritated the baby would not be born closer to the winter solstice. He even went so far as to lay down plans for the fact that that this might not be the Incarnation, but maybe just a "practice run" and they'd end up having to do this all over again, after giving this child up for adoption. It had caused even more friction between him and Raven after Raven made a snide remark about the fact that Ellen probably didn't carry the Incarnation at all, but just another regular child. Randall's ego would not allow such a thing. He and Raven had argued bitterly for weeks. There had been words exchanged such as "inability to give me children" and "lecherous adulterer" which left Ellen feeling miserable for coming between them, even though she had known their relationship was rocky long before she even met them.

The only real good that had come of this entire situation was that she wasn't required to spend as much time helping Lester in his "business," although she did still have to maintain the underground online business end for him. The one time she flat out refused, she had been locked in one of the sheds overnight with no food, water or even a bucket to pee in. Of course, they would not risk doing that to her now that she was pregnant, so the solution was to give her fewer opportunities to be insubordinate. Furthermore, Lester was spending more time away from the compound. Occasionally he took some of the younger members, those just out of their teen years and into young adulthood, with him on his "forays." Ellen was far from the only one who felt relief at Lester's absence too. Some of the girls who maintained the house regularly were tired of complaining about the pistachio shells he left everywhere, and Aunt Marzipan had frequently mentioned how eerie he was. "Like a robot," she had said. "No soul behind his eyes. No warmth anywhere. I'll be glad when he realizes he's not supposed to be here with us and moves on." Ellen didn't have the heart to mention that Lester already knew this and was just using them for cover. She was pretty sure that would get her in serious trouble with somebody.

Aunt Marzipan had been supportive, spoiling her with massages and aromatherapy showers, and assuring her that Randall and Raven had always had a volatile relationship, that this was nothing new. It was natural for Raven's apparent infertility to make her jealous of the true Vessel, especially since Randall was supposed to be the father, and his own chosen wife could not accommodate him.

"It isn't your fault, Ellen," Aunt Marzipan had said. "Try not to think about it. And don't worry if this child isn't the Incarnation. I'm sure Randall will let you keep it if you really want to."

But even Aunt Marzipan didn't know about the truly vicious things Raven and Randall said to each other behind doors. Ellen only knew about it because, for some reason, during her pregnancy, it had become much easier for her to astral project and to send her consciousness down to their private room and listen. She knew it was unethical, but her own uncertainty about her future overruled her doubts. She wasn't sure she wanted a child. Now she was supposed be giving birth to the next spiritually enhanced being? The problem was, the further along she got in her pregnancy, the more she truly felt like she could do this parent thing. She found herself wanting it more each day, especially when she felt the baby start to move for the first time. But Randall shut her down fast when she mentioned anything like that which might give the indication that she was closer to the baby just because she was carrying him. In fact, he was oddly detached from the whole process himself. Her travels to listen to Raven and Randall were not encouraging in that department. She learned her only role in the child's life would be to feed him, and that was it. Randall had determined the Incarnation should not be more attached to one person than another, including his biological parents.

"How can he be a light for all if he lives only for a handful?" had been Randall's response to her questions about her role as mother. Ellen felt more afraid than ever. There was also the question of Raven's role as the wife of the group leader. Raven would be calling most of the shots in terms of raising the baby, since it was, as Randall put it, her right as the wife of the Prophet, as he referred to himself. Ellen would be no different than any other member of the group which had now lived in the compound for eighteen months. As her time grew shorter and the day of delivery got closer, she found herself thinking more and more that this would not be acceptable. She was beginning to seriously consider ways that she might leave the group, with her child, and get away from this entire crazy scenario that she found herself believing less in every day.

Ellen woke early that morning, feeling her abdominal muscles tighten, the contractions more insistent and painful. She had tried to ignore them, but pretty soon she no longer could. Aunt Marzipan, who had been a nurse early in her life, had been designated midwife and was trying to help. Ellen wanted to go to a hospital, but Randall had flatly refused, as he had refused her seeing any medical professional during the pregnancy.

"The Architects are on the lookout for the Incarnation!" he had stormed. "And you want to walk right into an institution that is a mandated reporting facility? Absolutely not. The child will disappear from the nursery in a matter of hours. Minutes. No, we stay here where it's safe."

Ellen was beyond afraid at this moment. She truly regretted leaving Milwaukee and Willow's store. More than once during her pregnancy she had thoughts about going back. But as she got more and more ungainly, thoughts of walking the twenty miles to the nearest town quickly became absurd. She didn't have any money or means of calling Willow for help. She had checked the five computers she had mining Digicoins. She had the several hundred Digicoins, but they weren't worth much, only a couple of US dollars. She did, however, have one angle she wasn't yet willing to risk.

During one of her many astral projection sessions during meditation time, she followed Lester to the meth lab and watched him uncover a secret panel in the floor. He had hidden the cash from his drug sales. She wondered how come this had not been turned over to Randall like it was supposed to have been. It didn't take long to figure out Lester was keeping a good deal of money for himself. She had no doubt Lester would kill her for what she knew. Now, due to her lack of initiative, she was now in labor on a farm in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people who thought the baby was the next Messiah. She was in a serious jam and she knew it. Aunt Marzipan's special meditation sessions with her designed to help prepare her to disconnect during childbirth now seemed ludicrous.

Another serious pain hit her and she doubled over. In an instant, Aunt Marzipan sat beside her, wiping her face with a cool cloth, murmuring, "I knew it. I just knew it would be soon."

Pretty soon, Ellen didn't know much. Pain twisted her into knots. She became aware of Randall standing at the foot of the bed, and then Raven. She heard the sounds of the rest of the group chanting in meditation below. She knew nothing as the pain threw her into the dark abyss, where not even Randall or Aunt Marzipan could reach her. She was falling into a void and disconnecting from her body.

Paralyzed in fear, she cried out for help. Suddenly, a light appeared. It grew bigger, brighter, and came into focus. A smiling, shining being walked forward and put its arms around her. She knew without being told this was her son. The fear left her and she embraced him. His spirit began to shrink, collapsing into a small but brilliant orb that floated forward and entered her abdomen. She felt herself infused with light and warmth. She fell back to earth, slamming back forcefully into her body just as the baby emerged with a forceful cry.

Aunt Marzipan held him up.

"It's a boy!" she exclaimed.

"I knew it would be," Randall said, coming from the corner to take him, Raven coming to stand at his side. "It's really true. The Incarnation is here."

"I want to hold him," Ellen said struggling to sit up. "Let me see him."

But Randall wasn't listening. "I will bring him down and show the group we were not mistaken. Our leader has been born."

Ignoring Ellen's weak protests, he turned and left the room with the baby. Aunt Marzipan had finished tending to her and turned to calm her, saying she would be right back with some pain medication so Ellen could sleep. As she left the room, Ellen called out again that she wanted to see her son.

Raven turned to look at Ellen, this time with no hint of friendliness in her gaze. In fact, her eyes gleamed with cruel delight. Her mouth tightened and twisted. "You don't get it do you? He's not your son. He's nobody's son. He is the Incarnation. He will be a man greater than Christ, greater than the Buddha. You are nothing more than the Vessel. It should have been me, but Randall decided otherwise and he's the Prophet. Your job is finished here. Now shut up and remember your place, mush-head."

Ellen was stunned. Had this woman ever been her friend? She realized now Raven had her own agenda. Maybe she'd had it from the beginning, and Randall, too. Instead of taking her to a hospital after finding her, they had brought her along, knowing no one would be looking for her. Had it always been Raven and Randall's intention to use her as a surrogate for the child they wanted?

"I'll make the decisions for him now," Raven said. "You'll feed him, but he stays in our room and you will not interfere. You will not give him an earthly name that'll make him forget what he is. You will not be special to him because you gave birth to him. You either comply with this or we turn you out onto the highway like we should have done the day we found you."

Ellen stared up at Raven, horrified, before bursting into tears. Raven laughed.

"What did you think? That you'd keep my husband and baby after all this? Hell no. I'd send you back to my bitch of a sister, but we need you to nurse the baby. Keep yourself useful and out of the way and you can stay. Interfere and I'll dump you somewhere personally. Maybe even alive."

She stormed out leaving Ellen sobbing, inconsolable even when Aunt Marzipan came to bring the baby back to Ellen for a feeding. It was the first time she was able to see and hold her son. He had been crying the entire time he had been apart from his mother, but quieted immediately in her arms and began to nurse .Ellen decided then he was going to have to be careful not to arouse suspicion or make them think they weren't calling the shots for the child. She would pretend to be totally on board with their plans for her son. But she started working on options. She didn't know how yet, but somehow she was going to get out of here. And it would be with her son, she didn't care if he was the Incarnation or not. She had lost enough in her life. She would not lose her child too.
Chapter Eleven

I LOOK across the table with its dark green linen tablecloth and stare at Stephen. I try not to react to what he has just told me, but I want to get up and leave. So far, our second date is not going as well as I would like. He shifts and his bent cane chair creaks. Mom is watching Cayce tonight and teaching him checkers. Despite enjoying Stephen's company off the clock, I wish I was home with them. Stephen's superior officer has more or less ordered him to inform me I am going to have to undergo hypnosis. Apparently, this can be made into a court order, given the suspicion of a crime. I understand their position. They want to know if I have been involved in any crimes given the wad of cash and the people following me. But I still feel this should be my choice. Stephen has told me I should get a lawyer to represent me and my rights. Better to do it now, he argues, so the lawyer can become familiar with my case. There is some question about whether crimes admitted to under hypnosis will count as a confession or not. I hate the need, but it is definitely time to seek legal representation.

I wish Stephen had waited to tell me some other time. Our first date, a picnic in the park, was a lot more fun. He brought two kites and we ran, laughing, with only a little wind to help us fly the kites. Cayce was astounded as he watched Stephen make the kite dip and swerve. I find myself the entire time hoping Cayce doesn't mention anything about astral travel and just enjoys a normal past time for a change. I am pretty sure Stephen's skeptical mind will not be able to wrap around that concept. I was only barely able to comprehend myself, having spoken with Cayce about it several times on the car trip when he would bring it up, along with other things like crystal healing and meditation, along with asking for music CDs of Tibetan singing bowls, when most kids ask for Disney music. At first, I thought Cayce was just talking about dreams of flying like most of us have, but he kept insisting that it was real and that his mind left his body to travel to other places. He also insisted that I could do it. Not telling anyone, I had looked up the methods used to try to induce astral projections on the Internet, and had gone about trying to do it with no success. It was a scary prospect, really, and I suspect my hesitation is what kept me from being able to do it if such a thing was possible at all.

At any rate, the picnic had been fun. I forgot then that Stephen is a detective working on my case, but it seems I cannot turn my back on my past, not even for a day. I have admitted to Stephen I have been searching online for more about my identity as Ellen Seaver, without triggering whatever traps are being used to track me. He has cautioned me to be careful, or better yet, let his computer crime division handle that.

Now, here we are in an Italian restaurant, the spaghetti and lasagna eaten, half empty glasses of red wine on the table. Dinner up to this point was wonderful. We talk briefly of people we had known in high school, the latest news stories in technology, and oddball news stories we both heard from various websites we both enjoy. At least Stephen waits to drop his bombshell until after the meal. The pasta now sits heavy in my stomach and the sauce seems like acid eating into me.

"You don't know...I don't know if it will work at all, and if it does, what if I find out things I'd rather not?" I'm babbling, the words rushing out. "It would at least help if you could tell me whether or not I'll be held responsible for anything I might remember."

"That's why you need to get a lawyer," he says his tone patient."It's possible you might be granted amnesty if you weren't in your right mind at the time."

I turn my wine glass and watch the ruby liquid catch the candlelight from the table. "I thought insanity pleas almost never worked?"

"They don't usually. But you've already undergone lie detector tests and plenty of psychological tests to prove you do have amnesia. That has to count for something."

"I don't have the money for a lawyer. Not unless I use the cash I found on me, and I don't like using that not knowing where it came from."

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "I suppose you're right, but you may not have much of a choice."

The waitress brings the check. Stephen graciously pays. I let him and we leave. Outside I shiver in the night air. I am anxious to get back to Cayce. On the drive, there is a question that has been knocking around the back of my mind. I can't ignore it any longer.

I turn to Stephen and ask, "Why are you interested in me at all? I mean, it's awesome getting to know you again, better than before when we sort of knew each other. I think we have fun and all, you're great with Cayce and it's good to be able to talk to someone, like having a friend again. I've almost forgotten what that feels like. But you've got to know I'm a mess. To say I come with baggage is a major understatement. I can't remember where I've been, I was gang raped in high school and ostracized. I've got a kid. I don't have a whole lot of future prospects. Why me?"

He glances at me and puts his stare back on the road. "Seems like you could use a friend right now."

"How do I know you're not just using this as a means to get more information out of me?"

He gives me a lopsided smile. "Guess you don't. But, Hillary, at some point you have to start trusting people again."

"I suppose. But if this is just you getting close to a suspect, I'm going to post your contact information on transvestite dating sites."

He laughs. "I learned a long time ago not to piss off anyone in the computer crime division. And I have to say, I was impressed with your digital retaliation against those bullies back then, from what I heard. Some of them are still getting phone calls from Indian mail-order-bride services."

I smile, but another sobering thought hits. "What about the father of my child? What if you find him and he wants Cayce back? Could he argue I'm an unfit parent? I mean, this guy could be dangerous as a cult leader, right?"

Stephen is quiet for a moment. We stop at a red light and he glances at me. "We both know the answer to that. Unless his parental rights have been legally terminated, he has a right to Cayce. But, if he's a cult leader, that's not going to help him. Cult leaders involved in illegal stuff rarely get their own hands dirty, but a judge isn't going to be thrilled with that background. Like Manson, they get other people to commit the crimes for them. Though Manson was eventually convicted, there's some suspicion that he was probably guilty of a lot of stuff we'll never know about. And you're right, he probably will try to argue that you're unfit, mentally or physically. To get fully custody of Cayce, you'd have to disprove all of that on top of doing the same to him, arguing why he is unfit. It won't be easy to do if you can't remember. Again, not a bad idea to find a good lawyer."

I am quiet the rest of way back to my mother's apartment. Stephen walks me to the door. I don't know what to say or do in terms of goodbyes on the second date, but when I turn to look at him his face is stony. He reaches for the gun I know he wears. His stare is locked on the front door. I turn and follow his gaze. The door is open a crack.

I go numb in an instant. Stephen pushes me behind him and draws his gun from the ankle holster he wears. Motioning for me to stay behind him, he slips inside. I stay very close behind, my heart pounding and everything inside me screaming to find Cayce, reaching out again with my mind as I had at the mall, but fear clouds my mind again. The apartment is completely trashed. Lamps lay on the floor. The couch is ripped open and stuffing litters the place like snow. Pictures on the wall hang askew. There is no sign of my mother or Cayce. Stephen glances into the kitchen, but I stand in the living room shaking, holding my own arms. I hear a muffled noise and run for the bedroom. Stephen growls a warning, but anger lights up under my fear. In my bedroom, I find Mom tied up in a chair, her mouth is taped. There is still no sign of Cayce.

I rush to my mother's side and pull the tape from her mouth. She is crying as I untie her.

"Don't disturb anything," Stephen says. He checks behind the bathroom door. "I'm going to call this in."

"They're gone," Mom says, choking the words out between sobs. "They took Cayce and left. I thought they were going to kill me, but they just tore the place apart like they were looking for something. They kept asking Cayce where was it, where was it. The man was shaking him, and he was crying."

"Who?" I ask. "What did they want?"

"I don't know." Mom shakes her head. She has hold of my hand and hers fingers tremble. "A man and a woman. Cayce called the woman 'Raven.' The man looked everywhere for something. He was furious. The woman seemed a little afraid of him. They took Cayce and left."

Stephen comes back into the room. I can hear sirens in the distance. The cavalry coming a little too late. "Did they leave any ransom demands?" Stephen asks. He sounds terse, all business now.

Shaking her head, mom says, "I think the man was going to kill me, but Cayce kept begging him not to. Eventually the woman convinced him to leave. I don't know how long ago."

I sink to the floor. Raven has found me. Raven and the Cold Man, whoever he is. All my attempts at hiding have been useless. Why does she want Cayce? The man must be looking for the money, but the last of it and my laptop are locked in my car trunk, and the car is parked out of sight behind the dumpster at the back of the apartment building. They must not have seen it. Leaving Mom with Stephen, I head out to the car and retrieve my backpack.

In the apartment, Mom sits in the living room in a chair that Stephen has stood back on its legs. She reaches for me and I take her hand. Where is my son? I close my eyes and reach out for him again as I did at the mall. Nothing. He must be too far away. I feel emptiness. I sink to the floor, numb and cold. I can barely see through the burning tears that gather but do not fall. Mom puts her arms around me, and I lean against her. How much more do I have to endure?

Suddenly, something bright winks at me. I pull away from Mom and crawl over to a sofa cushion. Cayce's ID bracelet half hides under the torn fabric, next to the hull of a pistachio nut. I grab it and turn it over in my fingers. He never went anywhere without this. Does Raven know not to feed him peanut butter or strawberries? Panic settles in me along with chilling fury. Do they have an EpiPen? What if Cayce has an allergic reaction? I have to find him. Squeezing the bracelet hard, I feel something hard deep inside the pocket. I pull out the information slip and bring the bracelet closer to my eyes. After several twists and turns and curses, I finally reach the small lump hidden in the bracelet and pull out the tiniest flash drive I had ever seen.

"What is it?" Stephen asks. I shake my head and glance at him and something in my look makes him shut up. Lights outside flash and Stephen goes to meet the other police officers who arrive.

Sitting on the floor with Mom watching, I fire up my laptop. The tiny flash drive is encrypted with a password and nothing I try works. I start up my password cracking programs. The password is at least twenty characters long. It will take weeks to crack. I know this can help me find my son. And if I set the password to this drive, I need to remember it.

Stephen walks back in. I stand and face him. "You know what you were saying about that hypnotherapist?" I take a deep breath. This is for Cayce. "Better give him a call."

***

For over a day Cayce has been missing. I am ready to fall apart. I had to force Mom to go back to work and keep her schedule. She is worse than I am—this is the second time she has lost a child. I am ready to do anything to get Cayce back.

I lie back on Dr. Thompson's couch and try to relax. He has gone through some breathing techniques with me, many of which seem familiar. Worry eats at me. Amber alerts have gone out for Cayce with the information that he is allergic to many things and should be brought to a doctor immediately. I have even tried astral projecting to find him, but I am too keyed up and afraid to make it work. The only real lead is locked in my memory, and possibly on the little flash drive I found in Cayce's bracelet.

"Now, Hillary, I want you to close your eyes," Dr. Thompson says, his voice calming and deep. He is a surprisingly young man, but has an aura of age and wisdom. His dark hair is already graying at the temples. "Count backwards from ten." I do as he asks. My anxiety about being hypnotized is not helping. He has already tried twice to put me under with no luck.

That's enough. If you want your kid back, you have to concentrate. You already know you would jump in front of a bullet for him. How in the world is being hypnotized worse?

I focus on my toes. I wiggle them, breathe deeply and feel for the pulse in my feet. Eventually, I begin to relax. I know what I am about to face will be difficult, but I feel now, more than ever, that I am ready. The therapist's voice leads me into weightless drifting.

"That's it, Hillary. See yourself coming to a large wall, made of brick. This wall is your memory. It seems impenetrable, unbreakable. On the other side is everything you need to remember. On the other side is everything you want to access. You can decide right now to go through the wall, or over it or around it. But it will not hinder you any further. See a door appear in the wall. It's a heavy door. It looks like it will never open. Imagine putting some oil in the lock, on the hinges. Pull it open, force yourself to open it. Now walk through it, see your memories..."

In my mind, I see the images he mentions—the wall and the door. It appears as one of those heavy, medieval monstrosities, thick heavy oak and iron hinges and studs. It must weigh a ton. It is hard to see the door open. It seems to stick. Fear courses through me at having to step through the door. I know it will hurt to see what waits for me on the other side. But I think of Cayce, gather myself, mentally shove my shoulder against it to open it, and step through.

***

I am Ellen. I saw Randall standing at the front of the meeting hall. A group of people sat in a semicircle around him. Tammy and Tony stood next to Randall, their heads lowered.

"We have rules in this community," Randall was saying. "These rules exist to maintain order and bring about the spiritual awakening we know is coming."

Randall gestured to a little boy who sits on golden cushions on his other side. Cayce. My son. The boy's place of honor at the front of the congregation was commonplace now. For a three-year-old, he was remarkably calm. Most kids his age would not be able to sit still for very long. But I had seen him hold still for up to six hours in meditation, which I knew is highly unusual. I knew I am not supposed to have any kind of claim on him, but I am proud of my son. Regardless of what Randall said about forming connections or allowing Cayce to put certain people above others in the community, I still thought of him as my son. Also, despite Randall's best attempts to derail any kind of bond between the child and myself, he clearly thought of me as his mother and someone special in his life.

Frequently, his eyes sought out mine during these group meetings, and he would give me a small childish smile, which I often returned when Randall wasn't looking. He sought me out for comfort during free time, and asked for me when he was sick, which was rarely. Because of his numerous food allergies, I had continued to nurse him well into his third year, and those nursing sessions cemented the bond between us as mother and son. He learned not to address me as "Mama," but as my first name of Ellen, unless we were alone together and I allowed him to. I was also not allowed to address him by the name I had given him, which was Cayce, after the famous psychic Edgar Cayce, who was my personal hero. The first time Randall had heard me call him by that name, he threatened to banish me from the community. Raven pushed heavily for outright banning right there. After that incident, I never forgot that Raven wanted nothing more than for me to be gone, and Cayce to be hers. So I stressed heavily to Cayce when we were alone that the name "Mama" for me and the name "Cayce" for him were special, secret names that we only called each other. In front of everyone else, I was Ellen to him and he was the Incarnation to me, as we were to everyone else.

Randall insisted that we refer to the boy as the Incarnation, so that he never forgot what he truly was. He was directly addressed as "Your Holiness" by Randall and everyone else, when they addressed him at all. Usually they would talk to him in the third person by saying something like "Does His Holiness want his breakfast now?" I, on the other hand, could never bring myself to address my own son by this title, and I didn't think it was healthy for him to be addressed in the third person anyway, so typically I refrained from addressing him directly at all, and simply started speaking to him. Since he always knew when I was talking to him, it wasn't that big of a deal. But I think Randall noticed.

I was unsure if Cayce truly is the next Messiah, but there was no question of his powerful psychic abilities. I had seen objects that he wants move towards him as if pushed by invisible hands. Even as a baby he moved the mobile over his bassinet by looking at it, and it was the kind that didn't move on its own. As he learned to talk, I noticed a telepathic connection between us. This started with pictures and feelings, then finishing each other's sentences, and now we could hear each other's voices in our minds. I had no idea if this was because I had some inherent ability he had inherited from me, or because he was so powerful himself, that when he thought towards me, and listened from me, he heard me anyway, even though I wasn't as strong as he was. His ability to heal others is Cayce's most remarkable gift. Aunt Marzipan's frequent migraines disappear once Cayce learns to go over to her and put his hands on her head. His hands would get very hot, almost like a heating pad, and then suddenly the pain would be gone. Headaches, sprains, minor things, all healed by Cayce. We almost never needed to purchase aspirin any more. Our daily meditations, chanting circles, drumming circles and attempts at soul travel were all quickly understood by him, and he accepted the belief system easily, although some of the more troublesome aspects, such as the idea that some people were special like us, and some people were drones like everyone else, didn't seem to sit well with him.

Over the past few years, I began to notice that Randall had taken on an almost dogmatic approach to the running of the community. Where he had simply been a strong and charismatic presence before, he was now positively a dictator. He threatened banishment at the drop of the hat and had already banished two members for disobedience. They were minor infractions I thought should have only gotten temporary punishment, such as talking to strangers out in the farmers market about the group when they should not have been. All of this made me immensely grateful that he had not sought me out after Cayce was born for more sex, because I feared what would happen should I become pregnant again. I knew Raven was pushing him heavily to banish me for the slightest thing, and so I had been walking on figurative eggshells for the last three years to keep from being banished away from my son. I was the model community member, showing deference to Randall and Raven, and to my son as our arrived Messiah. It had meant keeping silent when Randall and Raven insisted upon Cayce sleeping in their room, away from me, even as a nursing baby. It had meant not complaining and acquiescing to Lester's instructions on expanding his methamphetamine empire on the Internet with my growing list of hacking skills under the guise of providing money for the cult. It had meant staying silent when punishments started to include beatings and withholding food for community members who did not live up to Randall's standards. It meant putting up with a lot of things so that I could plan my eventual escape with my son, which was well under way, and most of the necessary details in place, ready to go as soon as the opportunity presented itself. At first, I had planned to go back to Willow in Milwaukee and the store that had been my first refuge. But, realistically speaking, I knew this would be the first place Raven would look for me.

I must disappear entirely. I still went by Ellen Seaver, but I also knew that is not my true identity. I have created this persona over the years, so assuming another shouldn't be too hard. Thanks to Lester, I knew how to get false papers on the Internet for a driver's license as I had done in California two years ago, when Lester took me with him to meet with some other technical people to set up online communications to trade meth across state lines. I had been scared to death to meet these people I knew they were dangerous criminals, but my ability to assume the roles I needed to assume for survival had been set in me almost from the moment I realized I had amnesia. Learning to blend into the community for the sake of survival and for my son had also meant staying silent when Randall's preaching had gotten more and more bizarre.

I understood now what Willow meant when she insinuated Randall is nothing more than a fraud. I had never let on to Randall the true extent of my psychic abilities that I had developed since I had come down with amnesia, such as the ability to astral project, or to read people for lies. I still let him believe that I had never attainted it, and he still regarded me as one of the spiritually lesser in the community, unable to do this very important thing crucial to our faith. He never knew that I understood that he had never actually managed to astral project himself. Some of the benefits of being able to travel beyond your body included being able to see things more clearly when you did. No one else in the community, besides Raven and Lester, knew that Randall often indulged in LSD and some of Lester's meth. What he thought were spiritual experiences as a result were nothing more than drug-induced hallucinations. He took much of the wisdom that he had gotten originally from Willow and the community back in Milwaukee and put his own spin on it, which was often contradictory.

Because I could see now that he was doing nothing more than repeating what others had said with his own twist on it, and that, unlike other spiritual men who spent time meditating to achieve enlightenment, he chose to cheat with drugs and pass himself off as a master, I began to see through the fragile façade that he had built for all of us. He was a clinical narcissist and such people often build illusions about themselves in their minds. Anything that challenges this illusion is to be immediately put away or put down. I began to notice that those who questioned Randall the most were the ones most severely punished, and so I kept my mouth shut when all I wanted to do was scream at him. He was not nearly the spiritual master Willow was. Why on earth had I let him talk me into leaving her? It had been Willow who had never given me answers, but instead had encouraged me with "What do you think about it?" It had been Willow who encouraged me to meditate to try and recover my memories. The idea that life was just an experience for the creator of the universe to experience what knowledge it had, on a mortal level, was a teaching of many kinds of spiritualities, and it was not Randall who had first come up with the concept. Furthermore, what we were practicing was a type of spirituality loosely based on a system known as Eckankar, but with Randall's own hold on the minds of those who followed him. I understood now why he wanted us cut off from the Internet. These were all things I had learned on my own with access through Lester's computers, but with my own web browser hidden on my own thumb drive to hide my search history.

Randall was not oblivious, however. I could see in his eyes that deep down he knows my own psychic skills have surpassed his own by that point when I left. I understood his eagerness to have me bear the child he thought would be the spiritual being he needed to believe in. His need for a woman more psychically gifted than himself is strong. Despite what he said to us, and to himself consciously, deep down he knew that he was no spiritual master and had few, if any, psychic gifts. Raven had absolutely none. If he was truly meant to be the father of a prophet, then the talents would not come from him. Possibly he had planned from the beginning, once he understood my precognitive and clairvoyant talents, to have me bring forth this child for him, to cement his claim as the Prophet and hold up the child as something he had produced, rather than me. What he didn't anticipate was me being strong-willed on my own, despite my emotionally induced amnesia.

But he expected me to always be easy putty for him to mold. For nearly five years, he has been right. However, I had no intention of allowing him to use my child to fulfill his delusions.

My anger at Randall and Raven was growing into actual hate, especially now as I watched him castigate Tammy and Tony in front of everyone. The hypocrisy was bitter to swallow.

"Do we or do we not have rules of behavior, conduct and faith in this community?" he asked, addressing the crowd. Murmurs of agreement echoed.

"When we planned to make our home here, we knew we would be giving up a lot of things. We gave up the distraction of electronics. We gave up the foolishness of materialism. We gave up the lure of lust. The ones who are already here must pass on into new incarnations that will live our new spirituality."

I kept my face blank. No one ever had the guts to ask Randall why these rules of celibacy did not apply to him and Raven, or to him and two other women in the community who frequently snuck into his room when Raven had snuck off with Lester. Or why Randall was so concerned with the pursuit of money through Lester's meth business. We were all sheep now.

"These two among us have broken these rules," Randall said, sweeping out his arms. "They have continued in their carnal relations as man and wife despite the ban. The evidence is here."

Randall held up a pregnancy test, which we all knew was a positive one. Tammy was pregnant.

"There is but one choice. Raven suggests banishment. I concur. And now we shall vote."

Randall did not give Tony and Tammy a chance to defend themselves. Randall's word was law. No one ever voted against Randall's wishes. Personally, I thought these two getting banned from the cult was the greatest gift they could receive. Their child would never know the fear of being part of a community run by a madman. I would seek the same, except it meant losing Cayce. The vote ended. Tammy burst into tears, but Tony remained stoic. They were banished.

"You will be driven past the gate and to the highway," Randall said. "From there, you are on your own. We are dismissed."

I glanced over the crowd to see Cayce lookd confused and worried. I gave him what I hope is a reassuring smile. Raven scooped him up and left the hall with him. I ran ahead of the crowd and entered the main house. In my room, where I slept with three other women, I dug a small wad of cash out from under my mattress. I was carefully skimming Lester's hidden stash for my own escape fund, only a dollar here and there, but it had added up over the years. I headed downstairs and caught up with Tony and Tammy as they climbed into Frank Malone's truck.

"Good luck." I slipped the money and some homemade granola bars into Tony's pocket while giving him a hug. He looked surprised, but said nothing. I watched the truck disappear down the gravel road to the highway. I ran to the house before anyone could see me.

Dinner that night was subdued. The days that followed weren't much better. Because Tammy had been our herbalist, we now had to rely on conventional medicines for our health issues, meaning frequent trips to the pharmacy twenty miles away, even though Tammy's garden still grew behind the house. Aunt Marzipan and I had picked up a little knowledge from her, but it was nothing compared to what she knew. On the other hand, the frequent trips to the convenience stores for regular medicines meant more opportunity for me to begin acquiring what Cayce and I would need to leave the group. I got a bracelet for him that had a pocket in which a slip of waterproof paper listing Cayce's various health issues and personal information could be hidden, in case it was needed by someone who didn't know him, like an emergency room doctor. I bought a small first aid kit and two thumb drives, one that would be mine which I would load with programs I knew of that would run from the drive itself, and leave no trace on the computer on which it was being used. I could load my hacking programs, secure browsing programs and Digicoin programs, use them on any computer, including Lester's, and not leave a trace. I also used the thumb drive to leave versions of web browsers that I controlled on the computers, so that when Lester logged in to his accounts, I could grab his passwords. The other drive would be the one I made for

Cayce with an electronic diary detailing everything I could remember and with the Digicoin information I was going to need to keep us safe.

I still had Lester's five computers mining Digicoins for me under a hidden directory that only I had access to. I installed key logging programs on the computers to gain access to his passwords when my thumb drive wasn't plugged in, and in no time had the login information for his Digicoin wallet which he was using for online drug trafficking transactions. My own wallet amounted to several thousand Digicoins, just from legitimate mining, but Lester's wallet was figuratively fat with drug money from the Silk Road website.

When I left, it was not going to be empty handed. I planned to snatch Lester's Digicoins and run. The problem with Digicoins is that, once transferred, it was hard to prove they were stolen and you didn't have many methods of recourse or customer service to complain to if they were. It was also hard to sell them for real money, although their value had skyrocketed in the past three years. Now, with so many people trying to get them, mining for them wasn't really productive anymore, and their value had gone up from a few cents to hundreds of dollars. When I did the math on the dollar value of my own Digicoins, my head started spinning and I had to sit down. It was millions of dollars. If I could manage to leave with the virtual money on my flash drives, then me and Cayce could be set for life with no financial worries.

The banishment was a spur to drive me faster. Over the next few days I recorded all of the information I needed to snatch Lester's Digicoins on a tiny thumb drive that I hid in Cayce's bracelet. I also made a digital diary of everything I could remember from the time Raven and Randall's van pulled up alongside me on the road to that day. I set the password as Cayce's birth date spelled out with words, which I hoped I would never forget. I taught Cayce a song I had made up to help me remember my Digicoin wallet login password.

Raven continued to be jealous of the closeness I had with Cayce and I had to be careful of her eavesdropping. Once she overheard me telling Cayce about the vision I had had at his birth, of his soul light coming into my abdomen at the moment of his birth and first breath. Raven had told Randall who had been furious with me for not sharing that information. He didn't like being left out of true spiritual experiences such as these, and interrogated me to find out if there had been any more. He warned me never to keep such things to myself again, and to not tell the Incarnation these things either without his permission. My lack of discretion in that matter had earned me a beating from Raven with a belt across my legs for lying by omission. I knew Raven was getting far too much enjoyment out of administering my punishment, and then overseeing me having to clean the house from top to bottom on my own for three days straight. I never made that kind of mistake again.

I didn't know when Cayce and I would be able to sneak away for good. I had to be ready with everything I needed, and I needed Cayce to cooperate. He was still so young, and if he fought me leaving or made too much noise, he'd give us away. Also, I needed a way to carry him, for he was far too young to walk twenty miles, but too heavy to carry in my arms for that kind of distance. I solved that problem by going with some of the girls to the farmers market to sell crafts one weekend. I had jars of preserves and bags of dried herbs from Tammy's forgotten garden as part of my personal craft project. I had been selling them at our stall when I noticed someone selling used baby gear not far away. I wandered over and saw that they had a special carrier for children that could be used from infancy to around five years old in various positions. For a kid Cayce's size, you adjusted the straps to carry them piggyback style on your back. Best of all, it came with a backpack that strapped to the carrier, allowing you to carry the kid and the pack on your back. Actually, the thing fully loaded would end up being quite cumbersome, but it was functional. I hid the carrier part inside the backpack and came back to show everyone the cool new bag I had purchased. Thankfully, no one gave it a second thought.

In the end, the decision of when we would leave was made for us. Randall's paranoia about the supposed Architects in the government coming for him and Cayce to prevent the spiritual revolution led him to begin holding defense drills against invasion. I began to hear rumors that the local sheriff was becoming interested in us. And that he is calling in Federal help. I did not want my son involved in a battle. He started allowing technology into the community only for the purpose of driving his own points home, and showed videos of the standoffs at Waco and Ruby Ridge, and forced everyone to watch, including Cayce, railing on about how the Architects would come for us soon too. He started to preach a more fatalistic vision, in some cases directly contradicting what he had said in the years before. As his drug use and depression deepened, so did his paranoia and narcissism.

"The Architects suffer no challenges to their grip on the minds of the populace," he said one evening, almost manic. "Rest assured they will come one day. They will come for the Incarnation, who has come to lead people to enlightenment as his predecessors before him. They will come for me, his Prophet. They will come for all of you, his followers," Randall warned over and over.

Then, I knew the time to flee was coming soon when, one evening, Randall said during preaching time, "The Incarnation is wise, and the Divine who sends him as well. But I fear the more we see, the more the world is not ready for him or us. Wars abound so that rich men might get richer from war profiteering, as they send poor, lower class boys to die for the illusion of patriotism. They tell us we are apart, the world is made up of warring tribes and 'those people' are our enemies, when in reality, the 'enemies' too worry about how evil we are and how to protect their children from our bombs. They hide the cures for diseases like AIDS and cancer so that profit can be made from the ongoing treatment, not the one time cure. Neighbors fight each other over religions and politics, never knowing that both are senseless fictions, and that they are more alike than they can ever know. Yes, they need the voice of the Incarnation, but who will listen? In the end, they will only slaughter him on a tree as they did those who came before." Randall hung his head, and we could all feel his despair. Cayce held out his hand and placed it on his father's head. Randall looked up with a smile. But even in that smile, I felt a cold chill run down my spine. Just what would Randall do to keep his imagined enemies away from the boy who was his son, even though he knew he wasn't supposed to think of the child in that way?

The last straw happened later that week. We sat in the main house, discussing aura colors with Aunt Marzipan. Cayce climbed into my lap and tugged on my shirt to nurse. Without thinking, I began to lift my shirt. Raven walked into the room and saw us.

"That's enough!" she yelled. "That kid is nearly four. He doesn't need milk from you anymore. You're forcing him to remain attached to you." She came over and, before anyone could react, snatched at Cayce to take him away.

"Mama!" Cayce yelled, gripping me like a snapper turtle.

The room fell silent. I gripped Cayce, but everyone knew now that Cayce called me "Mama." He shouldn't. Raven's eyes narrowed. She grabbed Cayce. I tried to hold him but she tore him away. I stood, my fists bunching, but Aunt Marzipan touched a hand to my arm, knowing my punishment for defying Raven would be severe otherwise.

"Mama!" Cayce yelled, reaching for me, beginning to cry.

More silence.

Raven glared at me. "Ellen, go to your room now. Randall will deal with you." She carried a struggling Cayce out of the room. Aunt Marzipan pointed me towards the stairs. I had no choice but to comply. I sat on my bed, trembling. The ethereal tendrils of Cayce's mind reached out to me. Closing my eyes, I reached to him with my own mind.

Pain and fear hit me in a wash of colors. The emotions left me gasping. In an instant, I was mentally in the room with him. Raven was spanking him. Hard. Cayce cried out, but she kept on hitting him.

"She is not your mother!" Raven said and gave one whack for every word. "You'll never see her again. You don't have a mother! She's gone! She doesn't love you anyway. You'll see. She's already left you behind. Because you're a fake. You're no one. You just think you heal people because they let you think that. No one is special. Time for you to learn that!"

She put him on his feet and shook him. With a final swing, she slapped him across the face and sent him sprawling. I screamed. Raven looked, her face red and her breathing hard from her abuse. She narrowed her eyes, but glanced at Cayce and turned to leave.

"That bad man made you mean!" Cayce yelled.

Slowly, Raven turned around.

"He hurt you and made you mean! You're dark. And you make Randall dark! The Cold Man doesn't love you either. He doesn't love. He left Justin in the ditch alone," Cayce sobbed.

Her voice low, her face even redder, Raven stalked toward Cayce. "What the hell do you know about anything?" Cayce yelped and ducked under the bed.

Randall slammed open the door to the room. Raven pivoted to face him. "Randall, it's time to eject Ellen. She defied me about weaning the boy. He called her 'Mama' in front of everyone. They've been defying our orders against attachment. We've given her enough chances. He will never reach full potential with her here. She needs to go, tonight or tomorrow if possible."

"No one's going anywhere," Randall said, his voice low and hard. "Especially not Ellen."

Raven pulled back. "But..." Randall cut her off." The Feds are coming. Tomorrow or the day after, depends on when Derek cracks. Lester says he was arrested bringing a load of meth across the state line. Routine traffic stop. I made it back with Lester, but it won't take long for them to trace us. They'll come and kill us all. Or arrest us. They'll take the boy. It's the end, Raven. The Architects are coming."

Raven stiffened. Her eyes went flat. "You know what that means?" For once, Randall no longer looked confident. His shoulders slumped. He aged in seconds. "The Final Exit?" he asked, his voice empty and dull.

Raven grabbed Randall's arm. "It's the only way. No one can be left to tell. They'll torture everyone in prison, have the women raped, maybe the men, too. And the boy... he's what they really want."

Randall looked at the bed. Cayce had crawled onto his cot and was sniffing back frightened tears. He didn't look like anyone's messiah. With his pale face and his hunched shoulders he looked like what he was. A frightened child.

"So innocent," Randall said, his voice softening. "There must be some way to save him."

Raven's voice turned harsh. "We always knew this day would come. The world wasn't ready for him. Not ready for any of us. We'll be setting the family free from the burden of life under the Architects. They'll be reborn into glorious new lives for when the Incarnation comes again. It's the greatest gift we can give them. It'll be quick and painless. They deserve the best. He deserves it." She gestured to Cayce.

Randall knelt and stroked Cayce's hair. "I know you're right, but it's still hard. And I know I can't claim him as my son. It's selfish to claim the Incarnation as your own. Joseph the Carpenter understood this. I wish I could. But I tried to give his soul a chance. I don't want him to suffer as he goes."

Even in my astral form, fear shivered my soul. Raven smiled. I felt pure fear go through me. The emotion snapped me.

Cayce drifted off to sleep and Raven and Randall had a quick, and I do mean quick, session that I supposed passed for sex. I looked away, focusing on Cayce as he drifted to sleep for his afternoon nap. I whispered ethereal comforts to him until he was asleep. As I started to will myself back to my body, I saw Raven get out of bed and pull on her clothes. Randall was asleep. I wondered where she was going. Was she coming to whip me? Kick me out? Could I be ready to go if she did? My backpack was packed, but I wasn't sure how I would bring Cayce with me in the middle of the day and I couldn't leave him.

Thankfully, as I followed her, invisible, down the hall, she turned to leave the house, not head down my corridor. I saw that she was heading to Lester's meth lab at the edge of the woods.

Raven stormed with purpose across the back field and into the shed that Lester had converted. He looked up quickly as she entered, and his hand went to his pocket, as if to draw a weapon. He only relaxed marginally when he realized who it was.

"What happened?" she asked.

Lester's eyes hardened and his lips curled. "What happened was your idiot of a husband insisted I bring that bigger idiot Derek with me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Randall didn't trust me, thinks I'm skimming money. But he wanted Derek to get more instruction from the big boys on the computer stuff. Something about replacing mush-head Ellen. Now were screwed. It'll only take a few hours for the cops to crack that kid. He'll lead them right to us. And when they do, they'll find that traitor Justin's body in the ditch out back. His fault for trying to run with the meth, but oh well. Sorry babe, but I'm out of here. Cover's blown."

"I told him not to send Derek," Raven said. "And you're right, he doesn't trust you. He may be too self-absorbed in this dumbass religion of his with the zombies who follow him without question, but he's not completely blind. He knows he's been using this camp as a cover for your business. It doesn't take a genius to know you've been keeping most of the profits for yourself and not turning it over for the 'greater good of the community.'"

To my surprise, Lester laughed. "And you? He doesn't suspect you at all? You must be a damn good actress."

Raven smiled coldly. "Good enough to convince him that I ever wanted a child at all, and that I actually care about the little bastard sleeping in my room like I wanted him all along. Ellen can take him and go stand in the middle of the highway for all I care. Good enough to keep having sex with him like the devoted, mindless wife while mouthing platitudes about Architects and Incarnations and crap. Good enough for him not to suspect that I head over to your room right after."

She walked across the room and wrapped her arms around him. They kissed passionately. I knew I should be surprised, but I wasn't.

I had suspected for a while that Raven and Lester had something going on. But Raven's next words did surprise me.

"Actually Derek getting caught will end up being exactly what we need. We've wanted to move operations for some time, but everyone here is a liability. They'll give us up in a second. It's been pretty easy to convince Randall that his delusions about the Feds and New World order plots are real. Now he thinks everyone is coming for him and his little brat. Personally, I don't know why anyone would want that kid. He's freaky weird. But now Randall agrees with me. Everyone needs to check out. He'll do a regular preach session tonight, so nobody suspects. Then, tomorrow night at the next preach, everyone drinks the Kool-Aid. No more witnesses to give us up."

"Well, I'm not drinking anything," Lester said.

Raven laughed. "Oh no, not us. I'll be the one prepping the poison, so I'll make sure ours doesn't have anything in it. And I'll make sure Randall's has a double dose. Then I'll finally be rid of him. It's cheaper than a divorce."

Lester laughed coldly, then shoveled some pistachios in his mouth. "Then we had to Mexico?" he asked, crunching.

Raven nodded and the two left the shed together heading back up to the house. I immediately willed myself back to my body and I woke up lying down on my cot, sweating, shaking and weak. What I had just witnessed left me sick to the deepest level. Raven had been abusing Cayce. She didn't want him at all. Why had I not seen it? I had to get myself and my son out of here. Now. In the excitement over Derek's arrest, I was forgotten. It gave me a chance to pack and get ready. With everyone downstairs, including Randall, I slipped down the hall to Randall and Raven's room to grab things for Cayce. It wasn't going to be enough for more than a few days, but we would have to make due. Before heading downstairs for dinner, I carefully extracted from my backpack a carton of adult strength Benadryl. I had figured that the only way to keep Cayce cooperative and quiet was to knock him out in some way. He was underweight for his age due to lack of a normal environment, and had a multitude of allergies, and so I was extremely hesitant about what I was about to do. I read the package over and over but the instructions didn't really say what would happen if a kid Cayce's age got a hold of one of these pills. I didn't have much choice, though. I planned to crush one up and slip it into Cayce's drink at dinner. It should kick in right about his bedtime and knock him out for most of the night, assuming he didn't have an allergic reaction to it. Sneaking out with him was going to be tough enough, but accomplishing the other things I planned to do was going to be even more dangerous. I am not going to let Lester take off with any Digicoins or the evidence on the computers of my involvement. I will destroy that evidence before leaving.

That evening, at Randall's preaching session, the mood was quiet. Randall spoke of reincarnation and how beautiful the astral plane was. I knew he was preparing everyone for the end, though nobody seemed to pick up on that, but I didn't intend to let that happen. I would call the police as soon as I got out of here. Only Lester, Raven and Randall had cell phones, and I didn't think I could get a hold of one of them, so I planned to send emails and an Internet phone call from the computers before destroying them.

After preaching, I helped prepare dinner, including Cayce's favorite child cup with a straw. He was really too old for it, but he had always liked sippy cups and Randall said there was no harm in it. Cayce could only drink soy milk since he was lactose intolerant, so I mixed up the milk with a little stevia, and quickly slipped the crushed Benadryl tablet into his drink. I set it down in front of him with his plate and left him sitting at Randall's side to assume my own place further away down the table. I tried not to stare to make sure he drank it all, I didn't want to arouse suspicion, but it was hard not to. Besides, everyone was watching me, sure I was about to be ejected from the community for what happened with Raven that afternoon. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief when it was all finally gone and he set his cup down. I also felt an odd mixture of relief and apprehension when he began to yawn. The drug was working, but would it harm him? I fought the urge to follow and check on him when Aunt Marzipan scooped him up and carried him to the back bedroom to his cot.

I also forced myself to remain in the main living room talking about the Architects for hours, feigning complete engagement in Randall's beliefs, and ignoring the nasty and suspicious looks from Raven. Finally, it was bedtime and I followed my roommates to our room and crawled into bed, hoping I didn't fall asleep. I needed not have worried, I was wide awake. I had decided to wait until midnight to make my move, and those three hours were the longest of my life. My mind imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios that could go wrong. Raven would catch me. Lester would catch me. Randall would catch me. Cayce would wake up. Finally, I forced myself to relax and reach out with my mind to see if it was safe to go yet or not.

Thankfully, I soon smell the sweetness of pot on the air. Randall encouraged everyone to smoke and this was a blessing for me tonight. I waited until I sense everyone is asleep, including Randall, Raven, and Lester. The coast was clear, for now. I slipped out of my bed and avoided the creaky floorboards. Pulling on my jacket, I grabbed my shoes and backpack. I headed towards the living room where I hid my belongings behind the sofa. My heart thundered in my chest. Knowing that Raven had wanted me gone for some time now, on top of knowing about her callous plan with Lester to have Randall order all of us to drink poison just to cover their drug running tracks, let me know that if she caught me, I was probably dead where I stood. I didn't expect Cayce to be spared either. Not after yelling to Raven what he knew about Justin's odd disappearance two months ago. I had never liked Justin, but my heart ached when I realized what had happened to him. Randall had indicated that Cayce, in his warped mind, was the reason for the intended mass suicide anyway. Cayce would probably be the first to drink the poison. I had to do this undetected, and I had to go undetected until morning at least. It was twenty miles to the nearest town and we had to walk.

The traitorous floorboards creaked, causing me to stop several times and listen. My senses were on high alert. I expanded my mind as far as I dare, listening and feeling for anyone stirring. When I have my things, I slip into Cayce's room and cautiously make my way to his cot. I squatted down and listened to his breathing. The Benadryl had done its job. He would sleep through this part of our escape. He was breathing lightly and regularly. Tears of relief started up in my eyes, but I pushed them down. Now was not the time for me to go all weak. I lifted Cayce into my arms. He was heavy enough to be unwieldy as I snuck out of the room. It seemed to take hours to get back across the room, through the door, and down the hall without stepping on a creaky floorboard or knocking into something in the darkness.

On the porch, I placed Cayce on the swing and hurried back inside for our shoes, jackets, and my backpack. I bundled him up in a jacket. I slung Cayce onto my back into the carrier and pushed out a breath of air. I head towards Lester's shed. I would have preferred a little more moonlight to see by, but I was grateful for the darkness which hid us. The shed is locked, but I used a screwdriver to pop the hinges off the door. Slipping inside, I turned on one small light.

It took longer than I would like to logon, transfer my Digicoins and delete the software on the computers. I wrote over the data to ensure it is fully erased. Everything was now hidden on my little thumb drive. I transferred everything from Lester's account to a throwaway Digicoin wallet, and then from that wallet to mine. After thirty agonizing minutes, the transaction was confirmed. I sent three emails to local law enforcement about the drug operation and impending mass suicide of the community, and reformatted each of the hard drives. It was just after midnight and time to go.

Once the hard drives were erased and the distress messages sent, I shut down the computers and removed the hard drives. If I replaced the panels, nobody would know the hard drives were missing for a while, or at least until someone tried to figure out what was wrong with the computers when they powered on but didn't boot up. Leaving Cayce sleeping on the couch, I took the five hard drives out back and smashed them with a hammer. I put the pieces into a shopping bag and brought them back inside to shove them in my backpack. I would dispose of them as soon as I could. I knew that it was not enough to just keep Lester from the Digicoin fortune, but also that these computers were evidence of my own involvement in his operation, even if it had been under protest. I doubted that law-enforcement would see it the same way. Plus, I needed that money. I had scoped out the best ways to sell the Digicoins and by my calculations, it would be more than enough to set me and Cayce up somewhere in a new life.

After ensuring that the computers were now useless, and the Digicoins were now mine, I pulled up the floorboard where Lester had hidden the money and grabbed the money bag, looking inside. There was an insanely uncomfortable amount of cash inside, and I briefly thought about only taking some of it. But I knew there was no point in that. Lester was going to be pissed at me to the point of murder anyway for taking the Digicoins and killing the computers. He wouldn't be appeased by anything. I might as well take all of it. I had chosen to store my own Digicoin wallet on a server off site, the more secure option. Lester had chosen to save his wallet on the second of the five computers. That meant that now that the hard drives were destroyed, so was his wallet. Even if I had not taken the Digicoins, he would have been very hard-pressed to retrieve them. Might as well take the money. Either he killed me for the money bag or killed me for the Digicoins, there was no point in being choosy about how I ripped him off now. No need to go halfway any longer. I stash the money in my pack.

I slipped out of the shed and replace the hinges on the door. By the time the community discovered what I had done, I hoped they would be in custody and I planned to be hundreds of miles away on a Greyhound bus. I pulled Cayce back on to my back, turned out the light and replaced the door. Then, with a final look towards the farmhouse and my sleeping comrades inside, I turned tail and set out through the forest.

Without a flashlight, I stumbled on the dirt road. I finally reached the paved highway and turned left toward the town. My legs burned and my shoulders ached already. I was beyond afraid.

A dull headache started in my temples and pounded between my eyes. I walked down the highway, keeping an eye out for headlights so I can duck out of sight if I needed to. The humming sensation in my head was now distracting and I felt oddly disconnected from my body. I was moving my arms and legs, but I wasn't feeling them. I wished for some aspirin. I was only barely aware of dropping the bag with the smashed hard drives into a river along the way.

Thoughts of wandering grizzly bears or rabid moose chasing me trickled into my mind. I put my head down and keep walking. When I looked up at last, I saw the town on the horizon. I was too exhausted to be relieved, but the sight did give me energy. The sun came up at my back. It was midmorning by the time we made it to town. Cayce stirred but slept on. I had to stop. My vision blurred. If I stayed at a motel for a few hours, I could call the police about the plan to poison the cult members that night. They'd be arrested and we'd be safe. The strange sensation intensified in my head as I paid cash for a room at the motel nearest the bus station. Feet dragging, I carried Cayce to the room and locked the door behind us. I got us both into bed. I dreamt of a different home. I wore fuzzy pajamas, but I put on a jacket over them and walked out of the house. I slept and dreamt of walking down a highway and away from a pain that chased me.
Chapter Twelve

"HILLARY? HIL, are you okay?" a voice is asking me, irritating for being so insistent. I open my eyes to a splitting headache and stare up into Stephen's eyes. He bends over me, his forehead bunched and his eyes worried. I hear Dr. Thompson shut off a recorder.

"Did it work?" I ask. Rubbing my head, I sit up.

Stephen's eyebrows dance up. He offers a small smile. "What do you remember?"

I swallow and rummage in my head. A mix of emotions sweep through me—relief, worry, elation, fear, anger. I remembered them, and myself. I recalled getting out of bed at mom's house. I remembered stumbling down the road in a dazed state and thinking about suicide to escape everything. The bullying, the shame, the self-hatred. Randall and Raven pull up in the van. I remember being both Hillary and Ellen. For the first time in six years, I remember something else.

"Ellen was my grandmother's name. The name I chose, Dad's mother died not long before the incident at school. We were close and I took it hard. I guess part of me remembered something from home."

Dr. Thompson comes over to stand beside me. "You did very well. You should rest tonight. You'll probably feel pretty tired, and you might have some vivid dreams. Be sure to write everything down you can remember. It might be significant."

Stephen pulls me to my feet. "Come on. I'll take you home. You gave us enough information to start looking for whoever took Cayce. And it's all been recorded."

Shaking, I follow him to the car.

My mother calls from work as soon as Stephen and I walk into the apartment. I say hello but let Stephen fill her in on the details of the session. I am exhausted. I lie down on the couch. Stephen's voice is reassuring. Reaching out with my mind, I try to touch Cayce. I remember how to do that now. A tendril of thought touches me.

I open my eyes to see Cayce standing in the corner of the room. "Cayce, you're back? Where have you been? What happened?" He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything. "Cayce, did you hear me? What's wrong?"

He still does not answer. I want to sit up and reach for him, but I seem unable to move. That's when I notice Cayce is not completely solid. Vague outlines of the furniture appear behind him and through him. My heart stutters and cold washes my skin. Is this his ghost?

"Cayce..." I squeak out. I know now I'm seeing him in my mind. He has reached me in my sleep. "Where are you?"

Cayce reaches for me. He mouths the words 'help me.'

"Tell me where you are. I'll come get you."

Raven took me.

"I know," I say. "Where did she take you?"

She won't let me come back.

"Why does she want you so bad?" I ask.

She wants me to sing the song. The song you taught me.

I am having a hard time understanding him. I have taught him many songs. Why would Raven want him for a song? How did she escape the police and authorities? She never liked me or my son, so I know she doesn't just want Cayce for the sake of having a child. I know now she never wanted a child at all. Does she want to take him from me only for revenge? Then I remember.

I taught Cayce a song to help me remember my Digicoin wallet password. Raven doesn't want Cayce, she wants the Digicoins. She always listened whenever I nursed Cayce and sang to him or told him stories. I might even have unknowingly made the connection for her by humming the song as I worked on the computer. And the money I took from Lester is nothing compared to the value of the digital currency.

As soon as Cayce tells Raven the password, she will kill him. Just as with the members of the group back at the compound, she wouldn't want to leave any witnesses.

I stare at the apparition of my son. A faint aura surrounds him. Ghosts no longer carried a life force aura. I remember Willow telling me that. He wasn't dead!

"Cayce, listen to me. Don't tell Raven the song! Never tell Raven the song! Once you do, she'll hurt you. She'll hurt you bad and you can never come back to me. No matter what, don't sing the song for her. Understand?"

Cayce nods.

"Son, where are you?" I ask firmly.

I don't know. The Cold Man's house, I think.

"How long did you have to drive to get there?" I ask.

A long time. We drove for days. We just got here.

I ask for more details, but the astral form of Cayce starts to fade. He is having a hard time maintaining. He must be waking up.

"Cayce, wait!" I yell. Suddenly, I am awake and blinking at Stephen. He stares at me as if I have two heads.

"What's going on?" he asks. "You yelled for Cayce, like he was here. Bad dream?"

I am still on the couch. I glance at my watch. I've only been asleep for minutes. "Cayce was just here, but he's gone now."

Stephen frowns. He sits down next to me. "Explain."

I take a breath. This is not going to be easy. I describe how I saw Cayce's astral form, how he told me Raven wanted the password to an online wallet that she believes Cayce knows. I can see him struggle not to roll his eyes at my mention of astral projection and telepathic communication. His eyes narrow when I describe the Digicoin situation.

"Look, I know how it sounds. You think I'm crazy. But I'm telling you, Stephen, it's the truth. I'm not crazy. Not about this, anyway."

"Let's say you're right, and all of this is for real. How does that help us find Cayce, or these people? You admitted twice today that you stole digital money from criminals. If they have your son, he's in more danger than you can imagine. Now you say you saw his ghost floating around warning you in some sort of astral dream? What do you want me to tell my captain about all this?"

I stand up and walk to the window and look out. Stephen's help might save Cayce. I have to convince him somehow. I turn to face Stephen. "I can find Cayce the same way he found me. I think I remember how to astral project. I used to do it all the time. But if I find him this way, will you finally believe me? Will you help me go and get him?"

"Hil, I believe you're not lying to me. But you're not giving me anything I can work with here."

Standing, he walks over to me and puts his arms around me. He is warm and hard and I am surprised. I resist my initial impulse to pull away. Leaning into him is surprisingly comforting. He smells like Old Spice.

"I'll access that thumb drive. And then I need to make a phone call."

***

My hands shake as I dial the number from a website I designed. Stephen is on my laptop, examining the contents of the tiny flash drive I found in Cayce's bracelet. The password I remember worked. Several secure documents pop up with my diary of events. Randall and Raven coerced me to assist Lester. Everything I remembered under hypnosis is there.

Now I am connecting to someone I have not had the courage to face. Willow. The phone rings and I half hoping no one will answer, but I need her help. Cayce needs her.

"The Willow Branch, how can I help you?" She sounds cheerful, happy.

I let out a breath. "Um...Willow?"

Silence answers me, and then I hear her say, "Ellen? Ellie, is that you?"

"I'm so sorry. So very sorry."

"Oh, thank God!" I hear a laugh and a sob. "I thought you were dead, too! Oh, I'm so happy to hear your voice!"

"Too?" I asked dully. Dread sinks my stomach. I know the answer but I ask, "Why would I be dead?"

"Hon, didn't you know? The group, they're...they're gone. All of them. Randall, Bea, everyone. They drank poison. The authorities found them a few weeks ago. They came to ask me about them, since I knew everybody before they left, and to identify my sister. But I didn't see Raven in any of the photos they showed me. I didn't know if you were there. They wouldn't let me look at everyone, just a few. They...they didn't look too good after a couple of weeks...and...well, the animals got in there, too."

My knees give out and I sink to the floor. Bile rises to my throat. I swallow it. I emailed the police. I left a voice message. Why didn't anyone pay attention? I know I planned to call from the motel, following my flight, but I forgot everything. Is it because of me everyone is dead? Randall, Aunt Marzipan...how could they do such a thing?

I burst into tears.

"Ellen," Willow says gently, "Ellen are you still there?'

"Yeah." I wipe my running nose. Stephen waits beside me, his expression grim. I wonder if he already knows the cult's mass suicide. I ask him.

He frowns. "We just started matching your information to records. Hang on, let me check what's turned up." He pulls out his cell phone and steps outside.

"Ellen, listen," Willow is saying, "I don't know why this happened, but I'm grateful you weren't there. By the way, why weren't you there? Did you leave before it happened? Why didn't you come back here?"

"It was complicated, and I'm still having trouble. But first, it's not...Ellen."

"You remembered?" she asks softly. I hear a smile in her voice. "I knew you would, kiddo. So what should I call you now?"

It's a jolt to hear her call me the nickname I use for Cayce. Even with everything going on, I smile, too. "It's Hillary. Hillary Coulton. Ellen was my grandmother's name. But I didn't call you about that."

I fill her in as best I can and as fast as I can. It pains me to have to tell her horrible things about her sister, but the resignation in her voice tells me she isn't surprised.

"Raven's always been lacking in the empathy department, but to steal a child. Oh, I knew she was headed for trouble. After our father died, mom moved in with her brother and his girlfriend. My uncle was...well, evil is the only real word I could use. He did things to Raven. It left her damaged, but she hooked up with some seriously bad people, too. I had found the New Faith Temple in Milwaukee by then and told her to come to me. But that's where she met Randall. He was his own tragic story, abandoned by his father and mother, lifetime in foster care. He's always been searching for something, something spiritual. He was into a new religion every week it seemed. Then he just decided to make his own. I had no idea he had fallen so far."

"Why marry Raven, someone so not spiritual?" I ask

"I'm not sure," says Willow. "She faked it mostly, told him what he wanted to hear, faked a tarot reading or two, but they were bad for each other. They made each other worse. The greatest thing she ever did for herself and the world was get her tubes tied. I'm thankful every day they never brought a child into the world to share their misery."

"I thought she couldn't have kids?" I ask. "That's why Randall said it had to be me."

"I can't help you much with that," she sighs. "Such a waste. I just can't understand how you could have been so fooled by Randall and Raven."

"Maybe I just didn't want to see. But it hardly matters now. Do you think Cayce is the next Incarnation?"

Willow is silent. I can almost see her thinking. Then she says, "I can only tell you this, any psychic ability he has, he got from you. And each person destined to be a Master still has free will, and makes the choice to continue on the path at some point. Cayce' choice will be his, but he was given to you for a reason. Maybe he's none of these things and is just a special little boy. I hope I can meet him some day."

"That's why I need your help. Do you have any idea where Raven could have taken him?"

"Haven't seen or spoken to her since you left. I spoke with Randall a few times, and Tony and Tammy came back a few weeks ago. They just had a little girl."

"I had no idea where they went."

"They said you helped them. I think they're grateful they left. As for Raven, I just don't know."

"Actually, what I really need is your help finding her and Cayce another way." I explain about how I used to be able to astral project, but have trouble now.

"You want me to talk you through it over the phone?" Willow sounds certain. I am not.

"Can you?" I let out a long breath. Stephen stands over me, listening now. My mother walks in as well. I glance at them and ask, "You overheard?"

Stephen's mouth is thin, thinner than I have ever seen it, though his eyes are imploring when they meet mine. But Mom nods. "You really believe all that stuff?"

"I've done it. I can find him."

She glances from Stephen to me. He stands with his arms folded, locked tight. Mom touches my cheek. "I guess I'll believe it when I see it." She looks at me hard and searching. "I did try to protect you, you know. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you the way she was. I tried." She gestures to the phone.

My heart breaks a little. I stand up and hug her. "Willow once told me that people are only as good as they are able to be. And she was never you. But I need her help."

"I'll stick to praying the police find him, but whatever you have to do, don't get hurt again. I don't think I can take it."

I hand the phone to Stephen. "You want to know about all this stuff, you talk to her." I go into my bedroom and ready the room as much as I can, burning sage to clear the room of its violence, lighting a few white candles for protection. I arrange Cayce's crystals back into a circle. I hear Stephen asking Willow about Raven, not about this. It's all facts and background information. When he finishes talking to Willow, he hands the phone to my mom. "You're supposed to help walk her through this."

Mom's eyebrows shoot up and she swallows. But she puts back her shoulders and takes the phone.

I lie on the floor in the crystal circle. Mom puts the phone on speaker, but she echoes Willow's words to me. It's like Dr. Thompson's office just this morning. I close my eyes and listen to Willow's voice and my Mom's.

"Imagine yourself as a hollow shell, completely hollow. See a light above you, the most brilliant light you've ever seen. It begins to pour pure white light in to your shell through your third eye. See your hollow shell self filling up with the brilliant light until you are a pure, radiant being."

The words go on but I lose track of the two voices, the voices of the two women who, in my life, have meant protection and love. They become sounds that lull me into a sleep that isn't sleep.

I see and feel vivid imagery Willow describes and which Mom echoes. I glow, vibrate, extend, and rise. When I open my eyes, look down. My body stretches out on the floor. Stephen sits in the chair by the bed, his face tight and disapproving. His aura radiates stress. He thinks we are wasting time and he wants action.

Willow stands next to my mother, her astral body glowing, gently sending tendrils of supportive light to me, mom and Stephen. "The body can't survive without the soul, not for long. It will pull you back, and you won't be able to resist. Go find Cayce now. Focus on him, focus on Raven. Focus on the raven charm she wears. Ask for a guide, but go now."

Mom looks sharply at Stephen. "Willow says don't disturb her. She may seem cold and breathing very shallow, but leave her be." I smile. Willow didn't say those things, except in my mind. Seems I have my gifts from someone else in my family too.

I turn away and reach out, focusing on my son. Cayce, where are you?

I feel his pull, a bright singing. Floating up through the ceiling, I rise above the building and above the trees. I fly westward, toward the setting sun. Astral eyes see a vivid, beautiful world, colors swirling, and the sound of the Earth humming. I cannot be distracted. I will myself to my son, and fly, the ground rushing below me. Hills, mountains, plains, forests, deserts, storms, and serene suburbs dart past. Another desert comes into view. Mountains and pines, a narrow river with lush green to either side. I slow and see a city and land on a street. Already my body tugs, a silver thread that sings like a siren. I understand why Cayce did not stay long enough earlier to tell me where he is. I looked around. Which house holds my son? What city is this?

I glance at the nearest car. It has a New Mexico license plate. I find a mailbox and push my astral head inside to read the address on a letter. The town is Las Cruces. I have no idea why Raven and Lester haven't already crossed the border to Mexico. I suspect they do not want to take Cayce with them. They want the information. They will kill him here and escape without a kid to slow them. I look around the street again. Cayce's pull is weaker than the call of my body. Suddenly, I glimpse a familiar form standing on a porch to my right. It looks like Randall!

Randall?

The form flickers and fades, but manages to point to the door of the house. I move toward him, uncertain. The form flickers, grows fuzzy. Sorrow fills me. The form lacks the telltale aura of the living. It is a lost spirit, with no body as an anchor. I face him.

Why? Why did you do it? Why all of this?

He simply continues to look sad.

Go home, Randall. See the light? If you look around, you'll see it. It might be small at first, but if you focus on it, it'll get bigger. Go home, and try again another time. You won't be judged for it. I'll take care of our son.

The sorrow lifts. Randall fades. I don't know if he has moved on, but as tormented as he was in life, and despite all he did, I hope he can at least rest in peace. For now, I have to deal with a woman who betrayed us all. I floated through the door and into the living room.

Cayce is curled up in a dog pen in the corner of the room, his crying muffled by his arms. Raven stands in the middle of the room. "Let's try this again. You want to go home to Ellen, right? Well once you tell me, I'll take you home myself. Just sing me the song, buddy. Sing me the special song she made up for you. That's all you have to do. That's not too hard, is it?"

Cayce shakes his head. "Mama said don't sing the song to you."

Raven narrows her eyes. Her voice drops from cold to arctic. She threads a belt through a clenched fist. "We need to learn our lesson, don't we?" She steps toward the dog pen. Cayce yelps and scoots back.

Strolling into the room, a beer in one hand, Lester says, "Let's just kill him and be done with it. I'll run fifty goddamn password cracking programs to get it, but I'm done with the little bastard. We should have been over the border days ago. Let's just go."

Lester obviously cannot see me. Raven ignores me, too. But I know Cayce can, if he looks up. But I don't want him alerting Raven. I float behind a wall and listen.

"Not yet," Raven says. "If he won't tell, Ellen will. I'll get her number and call her. She can listen to you whipping the brat in the background. Don't kill him, but make him scream good, just enough to get her to tell me the password. I'll tell her we'll let him go if she does."

"If that doesn't work, I'm leaving without you."

"You're an idiot if you do." Scorn drips from Raven's voice. I long to go and comfort Cayce, but I have to go.

Outside, I note the house number and street name, and I whisper with my mind, I'm coming Cayce. Mama's coming

I will myself back to my body. I snap back, the silver ethereal cord anchoring me to my body whips like a stretched rubber band. I slam into my body with a gasp. Stephen is instantly at my side, looking concerned. My mother steps up with a glass of water, as Willow instructs. She is still on the phone with Mom. I sit up and sip the warm water.

I shiver, feeling like I have stepped from a warm, wonderful bubble bath and into an old, tight, cold, muddy pair of coveralls. Mom holds the water. My hands are too weak and clumsy. I am beyond disoriented.

"Well?" Mom asks. She sounds anxious. Stephen glances at her as if to say don't even hope. But his warmth spreads through me. Some of his energy shifts into me. I know he can't feel anything more than a sudden weariness, but I am grateful for the boost. It means he truly cares. Energy exchange like that only happens with deep attachments.

I choke out between gulps of water, "Give me your tablet."

He hands it to me from where he dropped it. I pull up his maps application and use it to navigate to the town and road where I landed.

"He's there." I give them the address.

"Are you sure?" Stephen asks. He sounds reluctant.

Over the phone speaker, Willow says, "Tell us what you saw?"

I relay everything. My mother chokes back tears at the description of Cayce in a cage. Willow is silent. Sometimes it is easy to forget Raven and Willow are sisters. This must be as difficult for her to listen to as it was for me to witness it.

Stephen's mouth thins, but he shakes his head and says, "I'll call the department there and ask them to have a look. No way in hell will they get a warrant for this."

"Don't tell them how you found all this out! Tell them it was an anonymous tip or something. And I want to go there myself. Now!" I struggle up off the floor and sway.

"Hillary, take it easy," Willow says. She sounds tired. "I need to get off the phone now, but call me when you find out anything. And, please, let the police handle this."

I promise to call Willow tomorrow before hanging up. I grab my computer and Stephen dials his station. I cannot believe they will waste manpower on a crazy woman's delusions. He hangs up and looks at me. "I have to go in to discuss this. They...nothing's going to happen." He sounds disappointed.

I nod. He hugs me, pats my mom's arm, but she grabs him for a hug. He drops a quick kiss on the top of my head. I jump back on my computer.

Mom stares at me, my phone still in her hands. "What are you doing?"

"Booking a flight to Albuquerque. For when Stephen's superiors back him into a corner so he has to tell them he got his tip from a psychic with amnesia and they either laugh in his face or write him up in a reprimand. It's going to cost him his job and Cayce his life."

Her chin lifts and her eyes widen. She looks affronted on behalf of Stephen. "Well, that's certainly a valid point. Maybe you should call the FBI?"

"If local law enforcement laughs in my face, I don't expect the Feds to be much more help."

Two hours later, my mother is dropping me off at the airport. She grumbles all the way there about me taking off into danger again. "Just promise me you'll go straight to the police once you get there. Report Cayce missing all over again and tell them you have someone who has a grudge against you, okay? I want him back, too, but do not go looking for him yourself, Hillary."

I am about to respond when Stephen's rough voice behind me has me jumping. "Don't worry, she won't be."

I spin around. A backpack is slung over his shoulder. His coat and tie are gone, replaced by a casual shirt and jeans, as he asks, "Ready to go?"

"What..? How...?" I sputter.

"I could say I'm psychic, but, all joking aside, if it were my kid, I'd do the same."

"You got permission to go look for Cayce?"

"Not exactly," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I'm on official voluntary leave of absence. I told them I'd look into it on personal time. My captain rolled his eyes."

"Go. Be safe," Mom says, shoving us both to the Airport doors.

I hug her and follow Stephen into the terminal. I carry only my knapsack and enough cash for this trip.

As we board the plane, Stephen finally admits he told his captain everything. I stare at him, but he just shrugs. "I probably should have just said it was an anonymous tip, or that you had remembered Lester mentioning the address, but not much good ever comes from lying."

"I'm really sorry, but I do appreciate you doing this for me."

"If they fire me, I can always go private. A friend of mine makes a good living as a PI. Mostly he's just peeking in windows or sitting in his car getting quite the collection of pictures of cheating spouses. But I think I'd look good in a Hawaiian shirt in a red Ferrari."

"You would," I said, feeling a blush cross my cheeks. "My mom was a major Tom Selleck fan; I can still hear the Magnum theme song in my head. She used to watch reruns every afternoon. But checking up on cheating spouses? Seems like a good way to get shot in the ass by some irate husband or boyfriend."

"I'm a fast runner," he said drily.

"I remember," I said, thinking of his track days in school. "That might just come in handy soon."

"At any rate, I couldn't just let you run off and end up disappearing again. Not again. As for the psychic stuff well, cases have been solved by stranger means. And they say a bond between a mother and her child is special like that." He sighed. "Now what the hell are we going to do when we hit the ground?"

I gulped. "I was hoping you would know."
Chapter Thirteen

WE ARGUE about a plan the entire flight. "We'll call the local police department and explain the situation" Stephen says, yet again."They probably won't believe us, so I'm going to say I'm investigating a missing person case from my own jurisdiction on an anonymous tip. Then I will scope it out, you will wait in the car. If there's anything to see, we call for backup. If not, we go home."

"What if they don't believe us?" I asked.

"Well, they probably won't, which is why all I'm going to say on the phone is that I'm here investigating a missing person case from my own jurisdiction on an anonymous tip, and I'm letting them know as professional courtesy. Then, we go check it out ourselves. It's all we can do," he said.

"Why are you here, though? Do you think I'm right?"

"Hillary, I'm not going to say it again. You probably still have some residual amnesia left over, and maybe what you thought was a psychic vision was really just another memory. Or maybe you remembered something important. Either way, it's a lead and it's worth checking out."

"Why me? I asked you back at the restaurant, but you never really answered. Why are you doing all this for me? And don't say it's your job, because it isn't. You could get fired for this."

He turns to face me. "Do you remember when you were in fifth grade and I was in sixth at Spring Valley Elementary?"

"A little," I say, confused.

"One day after school, we were all waiting on buses and rides. You saw a couple of boys off in the yard. They had a kitten and were torturing it. I remember looking for the rest of the litter later on.

Anyway, the poor thing was crying in fear and pain. One kid put it on the ground and raised his boot to stomp on it. I was running over there to stop them, but you got there first. You tackled that guy like an NFL pro. You got up and punched the second guy dead across the jaw. Laid his ass out onto the ground. You grabbed the kitten and yelled at them, calling them demons and monsters. You stomped off with it, and hid it in your book bag and snuck it on to the bus. I knew you were something special, someone with fire inside. You ask why you? A man would be an idiot to not find you special. When you disappeared...after everything that happened...and I wasn't there for you, wasn't your friend when you needed me to be. That's always haunted me. Not this time."

Mouth open, face hot, I look away. He reaches across the arm rest and takes my hands. I don't know what to say, but I believe him. I don't know who moves first, but one minute I turn to look into his eyes and the next his lips meet mine. An electric jolt starts at my lips and spreads down to my toes. This isn't like anything I have experienced before, limited and warped as it was. This was amazing. I close my eyes and lean into him. Then we break apart. I expect a very thorough talk is long overdue and will be happening once we return home. Something like this doesn't go on ignored. I just pray it is a trip home with Cayce.

***

We land in Albuquerque and Stephen retrieve his weapon from the necessary authorities, while I rent a car. I use my Ellen Seaver ID. I make a note to get a proper driver's license when I get home. If I get home. Funny how I never thought before now that this could end so badly. It's not like we can just walk into that house and tell them to give us Cayce. We drive to Las Cruces going eighty along with the rest of the traffic. The I-25 follows the Rio Grande. The land to the west is barren, but beside the river lush trees and fields line the waterway. I look up the phone number for the local police department so Stephen can call them to "advise them of our situation." His words, not mine. I would have preferred the words "Rescue attempt with or without your help."

We discovered that most of the town's law enforcement is unavailable, due to an emergency request from the DEA. Las Cruces isn't that big a city. The town is also not that far from the Mexican border. Two vans full of people have been stopped just outside of town, and two other vehicles carrying drugs slipped over the border. And the whole thing is tied into a major DEA bust of pot growers. Only two people man the main station right now. Even the off-duty officers are elsewhere in the ensuing mess. Since the police force in the town only equals around fifteen officers we don't have much chance getting help to go after Cayce.

Stephen speaks to the highest ranking officer on the phone anyway. He tells me this kind of thing normally sparks several jurisdiction talks, but frankly no one is in the mood at the moment. After running Stephen's badge number to ensure this is legitimate, the officer tells Stephen to go ahead and check things out, but to call the station immediately if we find the people we are looking for. I am practically spitting nails at lack of help.

Hanging up, Stephen glances at me and says, "There's not much we can do about it. Let's just find the street you thought you saw and see what's there."

I bite back a retort about thinking I see anything and press my lips tight. I do not need to antagonize the one person who is willing to help me, despite his unspoken questions about my mental health. I concentrate on looking for landmarks.

Stephen's tablet has a cellular data connection. It drifts in and out on the drive, but I manage to navigate using online maps. I have already looked up the street I saw on my astral trip. I have a rough idea of where we were heading and an urgent need to go faster. But the landmarks throw me. A McDonald's I saw seems farther away, and a dry cleaning business I thought was far away turns out to be right around the corner. Astral perspectives, times, and distances are often distorted. I forgot to factor that in. This worries me. Was what I witnessed with Cayce something in the present, or in another time? Are we already too late?

I slow my breathing and calm my heart rate, but all of my relaxing techniques are useless. My leg jiggles as if I have had too much coffee. Stephen is the picture of calm, collected professionalism, but I sense the tension beneath the surface. I envy his ability to keep it together. All I want to do is break into tears. Or tear into someone.

We finally locate the street in Las Cruces. It looks different this time of day, darker and more rundown. Stephen kills the headlights and we roll down the street relatively undetected in the deepening twilight. We pass the house twice before I recognized the dull green exterior as the one from my vision. Colors are different through astral eyes. I remember the mailbox.

"Are you absolutely sure this is it?" Stephen asks. I nod. I recognize the number of the house.

"Are you just going to go knock on the door? Or sneak around a bit?"

"I'm not going to sneak. I'm going to 'verify occupancy, assess the danger, and then knock.' You, on the other hand, are going to wait right here."

He slid his cell phone into my hand. "If anything happens, and I mean anything, call for help, got it?"

Swallowing hard, I nod again. Stephen gets out of the driver's side. He checks the driveway and approaches the house from the side. He peers into one window and heads around to the back. My heart is pounding, slamming in my chest. A sense of foreboding tingles inside my stomach. I know Stephen is a professional, but something is wrong. I know something is wrong. Minutes pass. He doesn't return. My worry escalates into something really bad. He found something, or something found him. I drum my fingers on the door handle, itching to pull it open and go find him myself. If I do, he will be furious with me for putting myself, Cayce, or even potentially Stephen himself in danger. I squirm in my seat and stay put. It is getting harder to do nothing.

I glance at the timestamp on the tablet. Ten minutes have passed. There is no way it can take ten minutes to walk around this tiny house. A hard pop like a firecracker going off or a car backfiring suddenly echoes in the air. I go cold. A gunshot? Cayce or Stephen? I push open the car door. Raven stands on the sidewalk, pointing a gun at me.
Chapter Fourteen

"I WONDERED how long it would take you to find us," she says, smiling. She tips her head to one side. "Sooner than I thought." I don't respond. I can't. I am frozen in fear. "Get out!" she snaps. She grabs my shirt at the neck and pulls me from the car. My legs wobble and barely hold my weight.

"I'm here with the cops, Raven," I stammer. "You might as well give it up now and let me go."

She laughs, a harsh, unpleasant sound. "You mean that idiot Lester caught sneaking around the back of the house? Sounds like Lester just took care of him. He's as much as the techno geek as you. Laser trip lines all over the property. Your friend set off about five different alarms. Amazing what you can find at an army surplus store."

"How do you know that shot was for him, and not Lester?"

She drags me around to face the house. "That's why." Lester walks into view from around the house. He holds a gun down by his thigh. Raven calls out to Lester, "Well?"

"Yeah, he's dead," Lester says, hunching a shoulder.

I nearly collapse. Stephen dead? That can't be right. Tears sting my eyes. I try to reach out my mind for him, but Lester grabs my arm, breaking my focus. He shoves me forward. I stumble across gravel that crunches under my shoes. He pushes me again. "Might as well have a little family reunion."

They shove me up the steps and through the front door. The place is familiar from my vision, only I notice more stacked furniture and piled boxes than before. They take me to the room where Cayce is being held in the cage. He is huddled over, whimpering.

"Mama!" he yells when he sees me.

Without caring if I am shot in the back, I rush to Cayce and pulled him from the cage. I close him in a fierce hug.

"Okay, enough with the Hallmark movie, already," Raven snaps. She steps into the room and aims her gun at Cayce. I've never seen anything look so big or wicked as that gun. "You know how this works, Ellen. You tell us the password to the wallet, or I shoot the kid in front of you. Then we'll start pulling off your fingernails with pliers until you tell us. No one's coming for you. Your friend out back is dead. So you might as well tell me now, Ellen."

"Hillary," I say, shifting Cayce so he stands behind me. I face Raven. "My name's Hillary. I remembered everything."

"Wonderful. Don't care. You've got about ten seconds to remember to tell me what I want to know. I know that stupid farm yard song had something to do with it, I heard you humming it, the same way Derek always hummed the ABCs when spelling stuff. Now tell me."

My mouth is so dry I can barely talk. I wet my lips. If I tell her, we're dead. My son hides his face against my leg. I take a breath. "How about we make a deal? You kill Cayce, or hurt him, and you'll never see that money."

Raven's eyes darken. But she doesn't shoot. Lester strolls in, gun in one hand and a beer in the other. He leans against a stack of wooden crates. I glance at him and ask, "How did you find me, Lester? It was the Silk Road website, wasn't it?"

"Simple Trojan lurking at the login point. Anyone signing in with my credentials had it installed on their computer. You were broadcasting your location every time you turned on your computer"

"How much did you have to pay for the code? I know you weren't bright enough to write it yourself. Did Derek do it? Before you sold him out, I mean."

Raven raises her gun and fires directly over my head, just missing me. Heart pounding, I duck. Cayce gives a small cry.

"Stop stalling," she growls. "The password. Now."

Lester finishes his beer and tosses the can aside. He walks over and grabs Cayce. I try to shield Cayce, but it's no use. Lester pulls Cayce to his side and presses his gun pressed to Cayce's head.

"No!" I scream.

"Don't move!" Lester said. He cocks the hammer. "I'm going to count to three, and if you don't tell me the password..."

"Fine! I'll do it! But I can't just spout it off. I need something to write it down."

"Get her something," Lester snaps at Raven. She leaves the room and returns with a pad and pencil. For the moment, her gun is nowhere in sight. She hands me the pad and pencil. Hands shaking, I hum the melody to the barnyard song. I write down characters in upper and lowercase, a seemingly random string of numbers. I take as much time as I dare to drag out the process, erasing here and there and starting over, pretending to try and remember. And I mentally reach out to Cayce.

Case, can you hear me?

[Yeah, Mama. He means it. He's going to...]

I need you to focus. See those big wooden crates behind him? Are you strong enough to push those with your mind onto him? Can you do that and get out of the way?

[I don't know. It always makes me real tired and my head hurts when I do that stuff.]

I know, kiddo. But we don't have much choice. When the boxes hit him, run for the door as fast as you can. Go run down the street and hide. Don't worry about me, I'll run too. Can you do that?

[Yeah. It's gonna hurt my head.]

Just try, kiddo.

Suddenly, static sizzles in the room. The air smells of ozone. The hair on my arms stands up. Raven and Lester seem not to notice. The stack of crates creaks and tips, leaning toward Lester. My throat tightens. With horror, I see they are too far forward. They will land on Cayce, too. It is too late. I swallow a scream as the crates toppling, crashing and tearing. Dust chokes me. At the last minute, Cayce seems to fly forward as if pushed out of the way. The boxes land heavily on Lester, almost burying him. There is a sickening crack as he hits the floor. I see a fuzzy, dark image as his spirit rises from his body and fades away. Cayce tumbles to the floor in a crumpled ball that is far too still.

Raven screams and struggles to pull her gun from the waistband of her jeans. Her face contorts with a snarling grimace and her eyes glitter. It is disconcerting, because that expression is a mockery of the same smile Willow so often gave me when comforting me. Then it contorted in anger.

"You bitch! It was all supposed to go smooth. I had plans. We were moving operations. We got rid of the liabilities. No witnesses, but you had to screw it up. You had to leave before everyone drinks. You had to take the money, you scheming whore! I should have killed your little bastard when I had him the first time. Killed him and made you watch."

Raven pulls the gun and aims it. "You know, I never believed all that voodoo bullshit my sister and Randall spouted. But if you just did that, you saved me the trouble of doing it myself. He was an idiot, and getting to be a real drag. But you just killed your son." She turns and points the gun at Cayce.

My stomach knots. I am sick to the deepest level. I know now that Raven only ever wanted Randall and the community, and even me, to cover up Lester's drug trade. She and Lester have used our community, and I have helped them. I suspect she was using Randall's spiritual delusions and paranoia to control him. She was obsessed with the money. After killing over twenty people with poison, she will have no trouble pulling the trigger to kill Cayce and then me.

I close my eyes. The room explodes with noise. I dive to put myself between my son and the bullet. A harsh, smoky smell fills the air. I expect burning pain, but I only have a cramp in my leg. I wrap my arms around Cayce and look up. Raven stares down at her chest. A large red hole covers her shirt. She crumples into a small, ragged pile. Behind her, in the doorway, clutching his stomach, Stephen is on his knees.

"Stephen," I yell. Cayce's eyes flutter open as I settle him behind a sofa. I stumble over to Stephen. He collapses, his gun falling from his fingers, before I reach him. His shirt is red and I have never seen so much blood. His energy is fading fast. He gasps for breath.

"Gotta get...get Cayce out."

"Hang on. I'll get help. Where's your phone?" I remember it is in the car. "Cayce, come with me, I need to get Stephen's phone! Cayce!"

Cayce pokes his head out. He points at Raven. A phone is clipped to her belt. I crawl to her body, shudder, and press my shaking fingers to her neck to check for a pulse. Nothing. I grab the phone and throw the gun far away just in case. I dial nine-one-one and I walk over to do the same with Lester's gun. I cannot touch him.

Someone finally answers. I frantically relay the location and what I can of what has happened. I go back to Stephen and grip his hand. His skin is icy. Pulling off my shirt, I press it over what seems a seeping hole in his stomach. It's not enough. Blood covers both of us. His eyes close and his breathing is labored. He isn't going to make it.

"Stephen, just...hang on. Help's on the way."

Cayce crawls over to us, tears streaming down his face. He is far too pale and his eyes seem huge in his face. In a small voice, he asks, "Stephen, you hurt?"

Stephen pries open his eyes and manages a faint smile. "Hey, kid. Don't cry. Doesn't hurt that bad. Listen. Take care of your mom, Okay? And Hil...don't...don't blame...we did the right thing. You're amazing...sorry we didn't have more time."

His breathing slows. I hear a gurgle from his chest. Blood seeps from his mouth. I press my lips tight. But Cayce reaches out and places his hands under my shirt and directly over Stephen's gunshot wound.

"Cayce, no, don't..." I start to say, but a comforting presence behind me warms my back. An ethereal hand presses my shoulder. I turn. A shimmering, but familiar form kneels behind me and Cayce. It is the smiling form of Aunt Marzipan. Her ethereal light fills the air around Cayce. I watch mesmerized as the golden aura surrounding him filters into Stephen. I turn to the apparition behind me.

"It was you? You pushed Cayce out of the way, didn't you?"

She smiles, nods, and begins to fade. I think I hear a slight whisper, 'He's precious, more than you know. Take care of him.'

She is gone.

Stephen's gasping breath returns, stronger now. It grows steadily without that horrible gurgle. Cayce curls up against me. He is silent and shaking. In the distance, wailing sirens approach.
Chapter Fifteen

SIX MONTHS later Stephen and I take Cayce to the park to enjoy one of the first really good autumn days. Clouds skid overhead, making the sun play hide and seek. I huddle into my jacket, grateful for new warm clothes that fit. It is only our third date, for we have barely seen each other. The last few months have been busy. My ordeal has taken me across many state lines, with plane trips all over the country. Washington state authorities take my statement about events at the commune. Raven and Lester are found guilty of inciting the deaths, but as they are dead themselves, that is the end of it. Both Stephen and I have to testify in New Mexico about events at the abandoned house, and the cause of Lester and Raven's deaths. This waits until Stephen is out of the hospital and recovering. Stephen's Internal Affairs department rule Raven's death a justifiable shooting as she was attempting to kill me and Cayce. Lester's death from the falling crates leaves many unanswered questions. The forensics team cannot explain the crates toppling in just such a way so as to break Lester's neck, and they don't understand Cayce's escape. They suggest someone else was present in the room and acted, and press me heavily for answers. Only after lie detector tests and sworn statements do they finally concur that a freak accident killed Lester. Of course, Cayce has to tell everyone an angel in the form of Aunt Marzipan, a woman who is not his aunt and who committed suicide weeks before the event, saved him. Thankfully, almost everyone thinks he is cute and just spinning imaginative stories. He is withdrawn for a long time after events and only now has started to come out of his shell. With some chagrin, the police close the case in New Mexico.

And then there is the investigation over my part in Lester's meth business.

Stephen and a handful of psychologists, including Dr. Thornton, argue leniency for me since I have no previous record and suffer from an emotionally-induced mental episode. They fly in Willow as a character witness. She impresses the judge with her charm. He finally dismisses most of the charges, leaving me with a hundred hours of community service for hindering the law by running away from everything. It helps me that I have been instrumental in closing two major homicide cases in two other states, and Mom insists on a really good lawyer for me this time.

A little less clear is what to do with the Digicoins. The digital currency and payment system is decentralized and not attached to any country or economy. Jurisdiction over their value, and what should be done with unclaimed Digicoins, is entirely unknown. Even the value is in question, since there is no real value determined until you trade Digicoins for real money.

In the end, I do not mention that I have taken Lester's Digicoins. I only talk about the cash, which I turn over to the authorities. They let me keep my car purchased with the cash, though they keep the rest of it. The Silk Road website is taken down by international authorities not long after that, and so a lot of transactional data is lost. Believing the hard drive destruction also smashed the Digicoins, no further mention is made of them. If Stephen knows I have not been forthcoming about the Digicoins, he chooses not to mention it. In fairness, I gained a lot of them legitimately through three years of data processing. But when the price of a single Digicoin reaches fifteen hundred dollars, it prompts me to look up how much mine are worth.

The math leaves me gulping. Ten million dollars is the total. I am not too keen to tell anyone, not even my mother. I cash out most of it and open a bank account. I buy a house for my mother, Cayce and myself. As we watch Cayce run happily ahead to the slides in the park, Stephen glances at me.

"So I'm assuming the Digicoins you used were the ones you got through your legitimate work, not Lester's, right?" he asks.

"Are you going to turn me in if I say no?"

He shakes his head. "Not this time. But I do want to make it clear that from now on, you go straight. I like you a lot, and I hope we have a future together, but I have something of an intolerance to injustice of any kind. Comes with the job."

I take his hand. "That shouldn't be a problem. I prefer the boring, quiet life of the law abiding citizen. After Raven and Lester...I can't imagine why anyone would want to lead the life of crime. There's something to be said for the doldrums of civilized society."

"Speaking of everyday life..." He glances at me and smiles. "How's that going these days?"

"Well, Cayce's doing well at that small Montessori school. It's only five kids in the class, and he gets on well there. His therapy and adjustment lessons are going well. He still has some problems, stuff that most kids his age learn by just being in normal society, like stuff we do and don't talk about in public, but he's doing fine. Mom likes the new shift they gave her that lets her be home more often so she can be the grandmother who spoils the grandkid, but it means no more NICU shifts, and I think she kind of misses that. And my therapy is going along ok. It's really hard, sometimes, to talk about everything, especially what happened in high school. But it's getting better," I said, picking a blade of grass from the ground and chewing the stem, like I used to do a kid.

There are things I will have to learn to talk about with Stephen. Things I want to talk about, but still have trouble.

He seems to know this since he changes subjects. "How's school going for you?"

I grinned. "I'm loving it. Computer science, it's perfect. And my online business is starting to get some attention too. Especially since we're accepting Digicoins. I've got three freelancers working for me designing websites, and another guy is designing mobile apps. I'm hoping, once I get more expertise myself, I can start offering custom program services, where we write custom programs for people. And my spaceship game went up in the mobile markets last week. It's had a few downloads, nothing major yet, but it's making a little money."

Stephen grins. "I like the way your face lights up when you talk about something you're excited about. It's kind of endearing."

Getting up, I put my arm around him. We walk behind Cayce. "Hey, just what did your supervisor say about New Mexico? That is, if he ever said anything?"

Stephen grimaces. "We found a missing kid, brought down two wanted murderers and drug traffickers, and managed not to destroy anything valuable. A week of paid suspension and a lot of yelling covered it. It'll stay in my record, but I didn't lose my job over it. Now, the worst I have to deal with is the other guys at work making jokes about me dating that lady on Long Island Medium. They Photoshopped my face onto her body, bad hairdo and all, and posted the picture in the break room."

I ducked my head. "I'm really sorry about that, getting you in trouble I mean."

He shrugged. "It doesn't bother me. Neither does 'dating Long Island Medium.' I just tell them you pick my lottery numbers."

I laugh. He leans down and kisses me. We link hands and keep walking.

"So how's Willow taking everything?" he asked.

"Better than I thought, honestly," I said. "I mean Raven was her sister. But really, I think she always expected things to go this way in the end with Raven. She sort of made peace with Raven's eventual bad end a long time ago. Some people never go straight and all their families can do is accept and wait for the inevitable. I think she's more upset about Beatrice, I mean, Aunt Marzipan. That one was unexpected. I've been trying to convince her to move her store here, but I think she's happy where she is. We still talk almost every night, though. And then there was an...incident. In church."

Stephen glances at me, his eyes narrowing. "You've been holding out on me. Your mother said Brock had a nervous breakdown seeing you in church last week"

I frown. Brock Townsend, the boy who raped me. I never wanted to see him again, but he has nerve enough to show his face in a church. My mother and my therapist kept saying getting involved with a spiritual group might be the sort of healing I need from my experiences with the cult. Mom and I walked in and heads turned, but for the most part, we were part of the crowd. Then I saw Brock. His face turned white and he couldn't stop staring at us. Cayce looked at Brock and walked over to stand in front of him. Cayce stared into Brock's eyes. Suddenly, Brock burst into tears and ran into the men's room. He locked himself in. The fire department had to break him out and transport him to a hospital for evaluation. I explain all this to Stephen. His frown goes from average to really deep to confused and he asks "Did he think Cayce was his?"

"Timing isn't right. I asked Cayce about it, and he would only say the sad man had seen the scary part of himself and ran away. Whatever that means."

"You seriously think Cayce did anything to make Brock sorry for what he did?" Stephen asks. His tone is desert dry and skeptical. I am almost used to this from him.

"I don't know, and I don't think it matters. None of the boys who hurt me will ever do time for what they did. As long as they know what they did and have to face it...sometimes we can be our own worst punishers."

"Do you think Cayce is some sort of psychic messiah or something?" This question has been between us for some time. We have both ducked it. I look to where Cayce runs and chases a fallen leaf from one of the trees. He looks like any other kid. I know how deceiving looks can be. I think about Randall's plans for Cayce, for what might have happened, for what might still happen. I offer Stephen a smile that only twists a little inside me. "I don't need him to be. I only need him to be my son. What he becomes later is up to him."

The pulse in Stephen's jaw jumps the way it does when he clenches his back teeth. A line deepens between his eyebrows. "Stephen, some things just don't have a scientific answer. I know you've always wanted concrete answers for everything, but some things just take faith."

He looks ahead to where Cayce plays in a sandbox now, using a stick to battle invisible dragons. "I've seen an entire town blame a girl for being drugged and raped while cheering her attackers. I've seen that same girl used by opportunist cult leaders to get what they want. Science is so much easier, things that give us proof. Then I have you and Cayce talking about astral projections, angels saving you, a rapist seeing the error of his ways...it's a bit much for me." He stops and turns to look at me. "I still don't know what to make of what that doctor said to me when I woke up in the emergency room."

My mouth falls open. Stephen hasn't mentioned this before. I tighten my hand on his. "What did the doctor say?"

Stephen smiles and kisses the back of my hand. "From where the bullet lodged, it hit the spleen. I should have bled out before the paramedics arrived. The only thing I remember is seeing Cayce sitting next to me and putting his hands over the wound. His hands were so warm. I don't have any explanation for that. Then I woke up in the hospital with the doctor telling me he has no idea how I'm still alive."

"Do you believe in God? Any God? Or that a Power beyond our understanding could send messengers?"

He hesitates. His lips part with an answer, but Cayce calls out, "Mama! Stephen! I found a bird!" We hurry over to where Cayce kneels near a tree, cradling a dead baby bird in his hands.

"Cayce, put it down. You don't know what killed it." Stephen starts to take Cayce's hands.

Cayce closes his hands over the tiny creature and bows. Stephen sits back on his heels. With a smile, Cayce stands. He opens his hands. The baby bird flutters and then flies out of Cayce's touch. Sunshine breaks through the clouds, slanting down on us and illuminating Cayce. Gold rays. With a grin, Cayce skips over and pushes between us, leaning against our legs. I smile at the stunned expression on Stephen's face and lean my head on his shoulder.

He glances at me and lets out a breath. "Believing in God? Something tells me I'm about to find out."

The End
About the Author

Ashley Michel, 37, is the emerging author of "Fugue" (2014) and the upcoming "Girl in Gray." (2015)

She majored in anthropology at Louisiana State University, and then later returned for a Masters of Library and Information Science, also from LSU. She has had a series of early jobs ranging in everything from insurance to massage therapy, but finally found her way back into the library, where she worked as a student in college. After working in academic libraries for 12 years, she then turned to the public library system and is currently a Reference Librarian in the East Baton Rouge Parish Library System in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

During this time, she re-discovered her love of writing stories, having ventured into fanfiction during her college years, though she had been writing stories for her sisters since childhood. After some encouraging feedback from fellow fans, she decided to try it "for real," and signed up as a freelance ghostwriter online. After working several years writing for others, she penned her first novel "Fugue" for National Novel Writing Month. She anticipates many more novels in the years coming!
Other books by this author

Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by Ashley Michel

Coming in 2015

The Girl in Gray

The Upcoming New Mystery Series: Robicheaux Bayou Mysteries

Book One: The Loup Garou of Landry Swamp (2015)

Book Two: The Lights of Langlois Landing (2016)

Book Three: The Voodoo Queen of VigneauPlace (2016)

Book Four: "The Spirits of Catahoula Creek (2017)
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Preview for "The Girl in Gray"
Prologue

The old woman leaned back into her rocking chair and rested her crochet piece on her lap as she watched her grandchildren playing with toys near the hearth. Her oldest son's own young son was lining up tiny lead Civil War soldiers in rows, attempting, he said, to re-create the battle at Vicksburg, where he had relatives that had fought and fallen for the Confederates.

She gazed down at him and said "William, you have that wrong. The cavalry is supposed to be over there." She pointed to a section on the floor indicating where he should properly line up his little lead horses with their hand painted soldiers in gray on them. He looked up at her in surprise.

"How do you know that, Granma?" he asked, and grinned, "you were never in a battle."

The old woman smiled and looked back down at her crochet work, then said sadly "Perhaps it's time I told you all a story. It's a story about the War of Northern Aggression. It's a story about how I met Granpa. It's a story about that." She pointed at the rifle on its rack above the mantelpiece. The children were instantly alert. The gun had always been a source of curiosity for the grandchildren. They had asked many times about it, for it was finely made but never used. No one was allowed to take it down, not even to hunt. And the five notches on the stock were also a source of many theories amongst the children, the most popular being that their grandfather, who they knew to have been a Confederate soldier, had marked the notches on the gun to indicate how many people he had killed in battle.

"That's Granpa's gun, isn't it?" asked William.

"Oh no dear," said the old woman. "It's mine."

The look of surprise on her grandchildren's faces nearly made her chuckle, but she continued, "We need to go back to the old country, to the time when our family on my side came to America. That is the only way you will understand my story, and how that gun came to be hanging over my fireplace."

The children made themselves comfortable on the floor. They knew one of Granma's stories could go on for ages. The books she had written sitting on the shelves could attest for that. They also knew it was going to be enlightening.
